He throws several fire blasts in a row at Anjali, each weaker than the last. Nothing slows her. Brac’s hands are barely glowing.
“Deven, you aren’t going to like this,” he says and then grasps my face. A sudden hold comes over me, and the light inside me jerks. He pulls at my soul-fire, drawing it out like a loose thread. He lets me go, and the strength in my bones goes too. I drop to my side in the mud.
“What did you do?” Mother demands.
“I borrowed his soul-fire.” Brac’s hands glow bright again. The gods created all mankind with fire in their soul—and my brother has stolen mine.
He leans around the boulder and tosses a ribbon of flame into the air. I watch his fire—power he parched from me—careen toward Anjali. She redirects the stream of heat away with a gust and directs it at Rohan. The wing flyer catches on fire and free-falls. The smoking wing tip spirals near the overhang, reeling toward the valley below. Rohan leaps from his flyer at the ledge and rolls behind a rock. The wing flyer disappears and crashes below with a bang.
Anjali chases Rohan with another flurry. He lies on the ground and shields his head with his arms. I spring up to go to his aid, but rocks and dust bombard him and barrel onward to us, forcing me to hunch down again. Without warning, the howling winds and rain die to a startling halt.
Yatin peers over the top of his and Natesa’s boulder. “She’s leaving.”
I push myself up onto shaky legs. Anjali has veered her wind tunnel east. My heart pitches.
“She’s following Kali.” I stumble to the edge of the cliff. Rohan runs to my side. I pick up a rock the size of a melon. “Can you give this a boost?”
“Throw it,” he replies.
Anjali pulls farther away. I take aim and hurl the stone. Rohan flings his winds behind the rock, and it arcs across the sky. I lose sight of our weapon in the dark, and then Anjali’s twisting winds fail, and she plunges to the valley. A plume of dust mushrooms when she lands. Sudden quiet rushes in around us.
Rohan tilts his ear to the sky. “She’s breathing.”
“You can hear that?” Natesa asks doubtfully.
“I can hear her and another,” Rohan replies. “She had an accomplice driving the storm, an Aquifier. Their heartbeats sound like crickets in the night. The Aquifier is riding to her on a horse.”
“Can you repair the wing flyer?” I ask, pressing a hand to my chest. My heart feels withered and worn from Brac’s parching.
“The rain put out the fire before the damage spread,” answers Rohan. “I can fix the wing in half an hour with my patch kit.”
“You have ten minutes.” My tone leaves no quarter for discussion. “We have to leave before Anjali wakes.”
Rohan stands taller. “Yes, Captain.”
Skies above, I wish everyone would quit using that title.
My brother steps forward. “I’ll help Rohan.”
An inner cold heavies my core, like impenetrable hoarfrost. “Don’t ever parch my soul-fire again,” I grit out.
Brac’s mouth turns downward. “Deven . . .” He reaches for me, but I tug away. Brac’s offered hand falls at his side. “I’m sorry,” he says and then goes with Rohan.
My mother strokes my forearm. “Your brother didn’t mean—”
“Not now,” I say.
When Brac and I had disagreements as children, even if he was in the wrong, I would make amends with him to end our mother’s distress. Mother said I was born a peacemaker. Her belief in my capacity for goodness inspired me to join the Brotherhood for a time and later influenced my training as a soldier. I still prefer levelheaded diplomacy over posturing and strong-arming. But Brac did not borrow my toy sword without asking. He took a piece of my soul and sent it burning across the sky.
Mother brushes the front of my wet tunic, her touch laced with understanding, and leaves to salvage our supplies strewn across the hillside.
Facing the night sky where Kali disappeared, the stars shine down on me, full of wisdom. I didn’t kiss her good-bye. The last time we kissed was when I found her on the rajah’s balcony, lying in the desert rain, Tarek dead inside the open doors behind her. That was two moons ago. Has it been so long?
I hobble to the cliff to view Brac and Rohan’s progress repairing the wing flyer; they are nearly finished. I scrub mud off my face, irritated at myself. Anjali came upon us so fast. I chose the advantage of the hillside so we could see our enemies’ approach, but after Rohan and Opal arrived, I lost my vigilance. My error could have gotten us killed.
Rohan and Brac soar up on the wing flyer and land near camp.
“We’re ready to go,” says Rohan.
I eye the flying contraption and its repaired wing. I am not fond of boats, and I doubt navigating waves of wind will be any less unpleasant.
Brac assists Mother onto the flyer, and Natesa and Yatin squish on next under the opposite wing. Rohan stretches out in the center of the platform. The room left is hardly wide enough for me.
“Opal said you could carry four additional people,” I say, boarding the contraption. “How overloaded are we with five?” I almost say six, since Yatin’s size could easily count for two men.
“I can manage,” Rohan says and then lifts us with a gust. My stomach dips to my knees. We tip left, and the toes of my boots brush the ground. Rohan straightens us out, but I do not trust his capacity to carry us all the way to Iresh.
I do not look down, trying to avoid further aggravating my uneasy gut. “What if you find out midflight that you cannot manage?”
Rohan grins. “You don’t do well when you aren’t in command, do you, Captain Naik?”
“I try not to let that happen.”
On a laugh, Rohan pushes us higher, wings wobbling like a spin-top toy. I grip the bar in a stranglehold. Who thought flying was a good idea? People don’t have wings for a reason.
We reach a calmer altitude, and Rohan summons a gale that flings us forward. Air rushes at us, expanding my lungs. My turban flies off my head. The wind slicks back my hair over my ears. Brac hoots in pleasure. My mother smiles, her long dark hair streaming behind her. Natesa and Yatin beam at each other.
I swallow to keep my supper down. I wish I hadn’t eaten the last of the toasted nuts. With my gaze planted on the dim horizon, I promise never to grumble about boats again.
4
KALINDA
Hours later, after flying over the seemingly endless eastern rice fields and marshlands, the road twists south, but Opal stays her course southeast over an endless expanse of trees. We fly above the jungle while I watch the treetops rippling beneath us like emerald waves.
“I need to rest,” Opal says an hour or so later. “Be ready to descend.”
The wind lessens, and we dip. I grip the navigation bar as the greenery comes nearer. The emergent trees, tualang and kapok, rise above the rest of the canopy. We dip past one, still coasting downward.
“Um, Opal? Where are we going to land?”
“Ever see a myna perch in a tree?”
I groan. Oh no.