“Why do you need me?” I ask, holding to my defiance. “You have a yard full of soldiers out there.”
“Kalinda trusts you.” Prince Ashwin studies me, trying to understand what Kali could possibly see in a battered soldier. “Sultan Kuval has overextended his authority. I have tried to dismantle these encampments, but Kuval knows he maintains control so long as he detains my people and soldiers. He says he will provide aid once the trial tournament is through, regardless of the outcome, but the quickest way for him to cow me is to extort his hospitality.”
“You don’t think he’ll honor his word?”
“I won’t know until the trial tournament is through. By then it will be too late. No matter the outcome, my men must be ready to march on Vanhi. As it stands, I have an army but no commander. You have three days to ready them.”
I bark a hollow laugh. Three days to redeem myself? I have no command over these men. “Even if I could regain the men’s trust, I don’t trust you.”
“I don’t need you to trust me. I need you to obey.” His hard voice shrinks my scowl. I was a soldier too long to defy my ruler without suffering regret. “My coming here to visit you wasn’t simple. Opal and Rohan are diverting all sound and standing watch, and I had to bribe the healer not to tell anyone I came. I won’t have the opportunity to visit you again. I need you to rally the men. Prepare them for every possible outcome, and I will promote you to general.”
I exhale a tight breath, aghast at the ease with which he negotiates. This is what the prince does. He bribes people with promises he does not intend to honor. How much control can he truly have when he is surviving off the generosity of the sultan? “You cannot remove Hastin from the Turquoise Palace without help from a bhuta army.”
“I am aware.”
His neutral tone riles me more. “Then what are you going to do about it? You want me to earn the allegiance of your men. Don’t you think that at some point you should earn their respect on your own merits, without Kali or me?”
Princes Ashwin chuckles. “I admire your straightforwardness, Captain Naik. I know you don’t like me yet, so do this for Kalinda. We both know she’s the true face of the change coming to Tarachand.”
The prince professes to have good intentions for Kali, but I cannot muster the trust needed to fall in line behind him. He has the power to save the empire—or be the ruin of us all. Kali is directly tied to his actions. If Prince Ashwin falls, she will go down with him. Like Rajah Tarek, a noble’s rule ends in death. Kali is tied not merely to her throne but to this boy prince who could get her killed, either in the tournament or from his inexperience as a ruler.
My voice toughens. “Exonerate me, and I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you,” Prince Ashwin replies. “Naturally, this cannot go beyond us. Please don’t tell your men about your orders.”
Winning over the loyalty of the men in three days will be beyond difficult—it will be nearly impossible, especially without telling them I am acting under the prince’s orders. But I cannot risk someone snitching on me to the vizier. “You have my word.”
“Again, I thank you.” The prince stands and tugs down his tunic, a disquieting movement I saw Rajah Tarek perform countless times.
My angry voice strikes out at him. “You can keep your thanks and tell me this—did you order me lashed?”
Prince Ashwin pushes back with a stern frown. “Does it matter if I did?”
“It matters to Kali.”
Redness crawls up his throat. My actions are insubordinate. Skies, I could be lashed again for my belligerence. But to my amazement, the prince’s expression tempers with sympathy. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. It was not done on my command.”
His regret humbles me to a place of reflection. Good Anu, I think I believe him. “Then who gave the order?”
“I don’t know.” His face sharpens with aggression. “But I promise when I discover who it was, they will pay.”
The prince slips out, and the glowing lantern he left does little to cast away the shadows of my uncertainty.
15
KALINDA
Darkness smothers me. The air is thinner and enclosed inside the ruins. I lie on my back and stare into nothing. I cannot see my hand in front of my face.
My hand.
I push my powers into my fingers. They cast a pale glow, uncovering walls strangled by vines and an uneven rocky floor buckled with tree roots. After getting up, I wrench a dry root free. I cup the top of the wood and shove my powers into it. A small flame sparks. I blow on the flame, and my breath caresses the new embers into a blaze.
The torchlight brightens the caved-in entry. The rock pile is too high and packed thick, well within the doorframe. I have to find another way out.
Extending the torch in front of me, I hazard my way into the ruins. The floor slopes, leading me into the trenches. Every few steps I pause and listen for sounds above my thumping heart. Water drips nearby, but the rowdy jungle noises are absent. The corridor breaks off into dark doorways. I choose the path in front of me over and over again, maintaining a line. I lose track of time, but at least an hour, maybe two, passes before I enter a large room.
Torchlight opens up the area, which has not seen sunlight in a long while. Moss blankets the floor, and fungus sprouts from rotten branches. The ceiling is so high I cannot see it beyond the circle of light.
The hairs on my bare arms bristle as I cross the cold room to a wall mural. The land-goddess stares out at me. A gigantic dragon cobra swathes her strong shoulders. Ki is magnificent, nearly the whole height of the great chamber.
The mural continues, transitioning from thriving jungle foliage to a scene at a mountaintop. Jagged peaks with snowy tips and gray rock fill my sight. The depiction of the Alpanas—home—chokes me with longing. On the top of the summit, perched like a bird of prey, is a blue-black snakelike monster. Below it, legions of warriors shoot arrows at the beast. The great serpent blows fire into their ranks, burning them to ashy silhouettes. The mural is lifelike, and as an artist I admire the painted detail. I close in on the sinister serpent, the First-Ever Dragon. The demon Kur is rarely depicted in portraits, but I remember once seeing a sketch of his blue-black scaly form.
Deep breathing rings out behind me.
I spin around. “Who’s there?”
The echo of my voice answers, and then silence, broken only by my drumming pulse.