The hallways are fragrant with the scent of mango rice, a local breakfast dish. My stomach grumbles in hunger. I will eat after I finish this. The guards stop before the grand entrance to the throne room. Sultan Kuval is speaking to the full hall. I march inside without an invitation. My powers remain with me as I pass through the threshold. Unlike the war room, the throne room is not lined with toxic plants. When I am halfway down the main aisle, the sultan pauses midsentence. Ashwin is seated opposite him on the dais. He sees me, and relief shoos the worry from his expression.
My competitors are lined up along the west wall with their “something deadly” from the Morass. Tinley holds a basketful of poisonous white currants. I cannot fathom how Indah managed it, but she blindfolded and tied down a crocodile longer than a fishing boat, at least sixteen hands long. Behind Citra, fettered to a stone pillar, a full-grown tiger prowls the length of its short chain. The striped cat growls when I pass. I avoid Citra’s hot glare and put on a smile just for her. She did not think she would see me again.
I reach the dais and sling the dragon cobra off my back. The decapitated viper lands near the sultan’s feet. Its unique black diamond markings are easily identifiable. Several people gasp. The sultan regards me coolly.
“My ‘something deadly,’ Your Majesty.”
“You’re late. You may leave my throne room.”
I lower my voice so only he, Ashwin, and I can hear. “I missed the deadline by no fault of my own. I was sabotaged.”
Ashwin’s posture snaps straight, but Sultan Kuval reveals no surprise. His lack of response fires my temper.
“You knew Citra planned to trap me in the temple ruins.”
Sultan Kuval’s voice lowers to a threatening rumble. “Have a care, young Kindred. You tread on treasonous ground.”
“You don’t want me in the tournament, so you ordered Citra to stop me.”
“I’ll have you imprisoned if you dare slander me further.”
“The truth is not slander,” I say louder, fury boiling through me.
“You’re disqualified from the tournament,” he shouts, his face red against his white mustache. “Leave before you humiliate yourself even more.”
I stand my ground, pressing my feet into the floor. “I’ve come too far to leave now.” The sultan gapes, and murmurs ripple behind me. “You can cheat . . . you can send your bhutas after me . . . you can try whatever you will to encourage me to quit . . . but I will not concede!”
Shocked whispers fire off around me.
“Her hands and feet.”
My fingers and feet burn brightly with my powers. Smoke rises around my sandals, and I can feel the hard stone beneath me. I rein in my soul-fire. My hands and feet return to their normal appearance, and the smoke disperses, but I am too late.
The sultan reels on Ashwin. “She’s a Burner?”
Ashwin’s face turns pasty.
Gasps rise to shouts of alarm. I draw back a step. I burned my sandals off my feet and seared footprints into the floor before the sultan’s dais. Dread knocks me to my knees. I’ve defaced his throne room.
The outcries continue. People scatter away from me as though I am fire, wild and destructive. Ashwin rubs his forehead with stunned dismay.
I look to him for understanding. “I . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Detain her!” commands Sultan Kuval.
Guards wrench my arms behind me and bind my hands with snakeroot. My powers shrink to a dim, useless light. I am so washed from weariness and mortification I do not protest. They lug me down the center aisle amid the audience’s fearful cringes.
From the door, I glance back at the dragon cobra lying dead at the sultan’s feet and wonder what the snake did wrong besides being exactly as the gods intended.
16
DEVEN
A bright stream of light falls across my face, waking me. Two bhuta guards step into my cell. “Vizier Gyan wants to speak to you,” one says.
“Why?”
He kicks the leg of my cot. “Just get up.”
Meathead.
I rise slowly, allowing my body time to adjust. The Aquifier came once more last night and healed the last of my scars; even the arrow wound is gone. But the memory of the pain lingers.
Shielding my vision, I step out into the sun. The guards lead me to the quad where the other prisoners are gathered. I spot Yatin, his head higher than the sea of men like the peak of a wave. Worry puckers his brow. Not a comforting sign.
Vizier Gyan waits near the pole where I was lashed. The guards leave me there, facing the glares and confused frowns of my fellow soldiers.
The vizier holds out a letter. “I received a message from Prince Ashwin. He requested that I read it to you all. It says: ‘I have made a gross error. I was made to believe Captain Deven Naik betrayed his post of command. In truth, there is no more loyal, dedicated soldier in all the empire. So it is with the utmost remorse that I offer my apologies to the captain and exonerate him of all incriminations.’” The vizier folds the letter shut. “Captain Naik’s title is reinstated. He’ll join you in the general population.”
Several men murmur about the announcement to one another.
Vizier Gyan leans into my side and grumbles in my ear. “I don’t know why the boy prince changed his mind, but I will be watching you. Step out of line once, and I’ll lock you up and bury the key.” He tugs down his long sleeves and clips out of the quad.
Yatin pushes his way to me. “Good to see you, Captain.”
“Same to you.” I smile a little, disbelief filling me up. The prince kept his word. I have been exonerated.
An older soldier with a square chest and rangy legs comes up to us and bows. “Captain Naik, I’m Lieutenant Eko. I served as Prince Ashwin’s temple guard and accompanied the prince and Brother Shaan here to Iresh. The bedroll added to Manas’s and my tent must be for you.”
I school my annoyance. Of course I’m bunking with Manas.
“I’m in the same tent,” Yatin says quietly, setting aside some of my annoyance. “We’ll show you the way.”
I follow Yatin and Eko to the final tent in the outer row, near the south wall. Eko throws back the flap, and I duck inside. The interior is sparse, with one bedroll and blanket each for six men. Condensation drips down the walls from the damp air, and noisy mosquitoes dart about.
Yatin swats one away from his bushy beard. “Your bedroll is near mine. Manas and Eko are across the tent from us.”
Eko scratches an insect bite on his arm. “The latrine is near the eastern outer wall, but it’s nearly full, and the guards aren’t motivated to dig another. Don’t be late to the dining tent, or you won’t be served meals. And stay away from the water barrels near the gate. That drinking water belongs to the guards.”
Manas appears at the open tent flap. “I don’t care what they say about you, Deven. You’re still a traitor.”
A sudden coldness hits my core. I remember when he was a twelve-year-old boy with knobby knees and a squeaky voice. He is still smaller in size than me, but the start of a beard buds along his chin, like a lamb sprouting his first woolly coat. My friendship with Manas is over, but I will take indifference over his blatant hatred.
“I’m willing to settle this in the sparring ring,” I say. Sparring is a customary practice for two men needing to sort out their differences. Manas and I may need more than the typical three rounds.
“The kindred isn’t here to save you this time,” Manas replies, sneering.