She puffs on her pipe and answers, pushing out smoke. “I’ve always wanted to see the sultanate.”
Deven glowers at each of us in turn. I step to his side, tug on his arm, and lure him out of the circle of firelight. He stares down at his dusty boots, distant and tight-lipped.
“This is our best chance at defeating Hastin,” I say.
“I understand . . . I just . . .” Deven raises his beseeching gaze to me. “Let’s be done with this, Kali. Leave the prince to fare on his own. This is his war and his empire. He’ll find a way to defeat Hastin without us.”
“What if he doesn’t? What happens then?” The weight of my throne is tethered to my ankles, weighing me down. Prince Ashwin must claim his throne in order to sever me from mine. “Once the prince steps into power, we’ll be free.”
“What if he’s unfit to rule? He is Rajah Tarek’s son.”
“Not every son is destined to become his father.”
Deven drops his pleading gaze and glowers at his boots. His distrust of the prince is unlike him. He believed serving the rajah was his fate, but that changed when we planned to run away . . . the act that led to his accusation of treason.
Gods, does Deven blame me for Tarek stripping away his military command? I cannot handle yet another toppled fate on my conscience.
Deven’s gentle voice breaks our silence. “I’m worried for your safety.”
I step closer and run my fingers up his neck. I feather the silky locks beneath his turban, trying to remember the last time we kissed. “We’re so close to freedom.” My entreaty sounds like a desperate prayer, but my optimism swells within him through his softening mouth and loosening shoulders.
“All right,” he says finally.
I squeeze Deven nearer in thanks, and his arms come around me. I inhale his calming sandalwood scent, masked slightly by the campfire smoke, and soak in his sweet warmth. As I burrow into his cozy arms, the frown line between his brows eases and his dark eyes soften. For an idyllic moment, the strain between us lifts away.
The brother and sister Galers rejoin us by the fire. “We, ah, couldn’t help but overhear you’ve made a decision,” Rohan says.
Deven lets me go and threads his fingers through mine. We step back into the firelight.
“We’re going to meet the prince,” I say.
“How about we go right now?” Opal suggests.
“Why?” Natesa challenges. “Will you be paid upon our delivery?”
“We aren’t being paid,” Rohan says. “The rebels are on their way.”
Deven drops my hand and stalks to the cliff’s edge. A storm gathers in the distance.
Brac glares at the Galers. “You were followed?”
“We thought we lost them,” says Rohan, ducking his head in chagrin.
My skin tingles with the first ominous stirrings of wind blowing through camp. No one need give the command; we all rush to pack up at once.
“Rohan and I can each carry up to four additional people on our flyers,” Opal says.
Stronger drafts battle us, building one powerful strand at a time. Across the valley, a wind tunnel careens our way, throwing a curtain of dirt and heaving silver lightning bolts. Thunderclaps roll across the grassland valley. The camels squawk in alarm and kneel, hunkering down for the storm.
I walk toward the weather, nearer to the cliff side. Flashes of lightning emphasize the silhouette of a young woman suspended inside a giant wind tunnel. Anjali, the warlord’s Galer daughter.
“Opal,” Deven barks, “take Kali and go.”
I whirl on him. “I’m staying. Anjali has come for me.” I betrayed her father when I took the Zhaleh and ran. I must be the one to face her.
“Kali,” he says, uttering my name with commendable calm, “you have to think like a rani. Protecting yourself is preserving the empire.”
Must the empire come first, before me, before him, before us? Duty would say yes, the empire should be my priority.
“What about you?” I grip his forearm, the force of the whirlwind shoving us back a pace.
“We’ll hold them off and meet you in Janardan.” Deven drops my pack over my shoulder, the Zhaleh within. “Brother Shaan said we could trust these Galers, but be careful.”
Panic takes hold of me. I fist his tunic and drag him close. “Promise you’ll meet me in Janardan?”
“I swear it.” Deven cups my chin, his touch tainted by hand-shaking alarm. Part of me is relieved that he is not composed either. But if Deven is afraid, then we have much to fear. He rubs his thumb across my cheek and steps into the punishing wind.
The camels are frightened by the violence of the sky and scatter. Deven braces behind a boulder with Mathura, and Natesa does the same with Yatin. Brac crouches low to the ground, closer to the storm.
I run for Opal’s wing flyer into the wind’s dusty grip. Opal creates a peaceful air bubble around her like the eye of a hurricane. I throw myself into her safe haven and draw in mouthfuls of clean air.
“Get in and hold on to the navigation bar,” she says.
I grip the bamboo bar, and another wider beam braces my hips. I lie suspended over the ground on a platform. Opal climbs on beside me. A gale catches the canvas wings and tries to rip them off like leaves from a tree, but she holds the wing flyer steady and lifts us into the sky.
A greater squall hurls us back—Anjali is nearly here. Opal fights to level us, one wing precariously close to crashing into the ground. Below, Rohan throws a draft and straightens our lowered wing. Another well-timed gust lifts us higher into the night. I close my eyes, which are now streaming with tears. This would be exhilarating if it was not so terrifying.
Hail pelts us. Beneath Anjali’s wind tunnel, a young woman rides a horse with her arms raised to the storm. Indira, an Aquifier, is conducting the thunderheads. Two bhutas against two bhutas is a fair match, but my friends have a better chance of winning if Opal and I stay.
“Turn back!” I shout to her. “They need our help.”
“I have my orders!”
Her almighty winds usher us east, away from Tarachand. Away from our friends and family. Away from Deven.
3
DEVEN
Opal’s wing flyer banks east, out of range from the deafening winds.
Thank the gods. Kali got away.
The driving rains drench me. Anjali hovers before us, the wind tunnel of hailstones whipping around her. While Rohan runs for the second wing flyer, Brac sends a heatwave at her from behind his boulder. The rainy gales extinguish his fire to smoke. Anjali’s relentless wind pushes aside my brother’s safe cover. He sprints to Mother and me and ducks beside us. Anjali pummels our boulder with gust after gust. I crouch over Mother, our heads bowed, while the hail thrashes against our backs. I have been trained for battle, but my sword is useless here. I have no way of defending my family against these higher powers.
Something darkens my side vision—Rohan is airborne in his wing flyer. Anjali harnesses her ripping winds and thrusts them full force at him. He twirls, trapped inside the vortex.
“Help him,” I command Brac.