Our wing flyer stays low, gliding over the river alongside a battalion of flitting bugs. Huddled between a tremendous cliff and the River Ninsar, Iresh molds into the lush foliage.
We soar over riverboats that bob along the merchant-lined waterfront. Opal draws a wind beneath us, and we climb steeply. My stomach drops and then floats back up when we level off. I gaze down at circular bamboo huts with domed roofs. Vines buckle the narrow roadways and scale walls, the jungle veins connecting everything and everyone.
Opal flies us higher, trailing a wide, zigzagging stairway etched into the side of a craggy cliff looming over the riverside city. We crest the top, and a tremendous gold-leaf domed palace with low, flat columned outer buildings spans the breadth of the plateau. Living, breathing vines cover the Beryl Palace’s mossy walls. A waterfall engraves a raging path from the center of the palace grounds down the cliff and lays root in the river. Even here the Morass encroaches on man, but the Beryl Palace maintains firm hold against the jungle, a pillar of fortitude for the city at its feet.
The wing flyer glides to an open strip of grassland in a garden within the palace grounds. Opal reins in her winds. We land effortlessly, and she hops off the flyer. I slip down and stretch, my arms and back aching with fatigue.
Soldiers file out from the covered patios stretching alongside the grass. They line a stone path leading to a palace entry and stare straight ahead. Opal stays by the wing flyer. I hover near her, my hand tight on the turquoise hilt of my sheathed dagger. I eye the guards, absorbing every detail of their loose, buttonless tunics and skirted legs, along with the machetes at their hips and the khandas strapped to their backs. The guards in the Turquoise Palace wore stiff, high-buttoned collared jackets and long trousers. This is the first time I have seen men sporting skirts. The bagginess of their apparel must be cooler in this muggy heat.
An elegant young woman in a lime-green sari sweeps down the pathway. “You made good time. Where’s Rohan?”
“We were separated in a rebel attack,” Opal replies. “He and the remainder of the kindred’s party will join us later.”
“You must be Kindred Kalinda,” the young woman says. “I’m Princess Citra, Sultan Kuval’s eldest daughter.” She speaks the same language everyone on the continent does, but her s sounds like a z.
The princess examines me up and down with a summary frown. I am not known for my beauty. I am too thin, too tall. I wear no eye kohl or rouge staining my lips and cheeks. No makeup colors Princess Citra’s face either, yet her eyes shine like the River Ninsar, dark pools reflecting the green of the jungle. Her blackish hair hangs straight down her back, the top strands braided and twisted up in a crown. Her silky yellow-brown skin hints of floral perfume, but she is no delicate bloom. A machete hangs at her waist, and judging from her trim figure, firm stance, and sandaled feet fastened to the land, she is skilled with her blade.
Princess Citra meets my survey of her with a self-assured smirk. “Prince Ashwin requests your company straightaway.” Something possessive, even predatory, takes hold of her when she mentions the prince.
I slide a questioning glance at Opal—is the princess always this intense?—and she motions for me to follow her.
The princess leads us down the path and through a high-arched doorway into the Beryl Palace. Torches light the vacant halls. Ceramic pots with bushy plants bring the verdure of the jungle indoors. Emerald banners hang from ceiling to floor. Each corridor has a gold-framed portrait of the land-goddess Ki wearing a huge black snake draped over her shoulders—a dragon cobra—the sultanate of Janardan’s imperial symbol.
My soul-fire flickers as we navigate the corridors, shrinking and growing every so often. I would think it odd if I was not so tired. I must stoke my inner fire with food and rest. I will not be found defenseless on foreign soil.
I maintain cautious awareness of the Janardanian soldiers. Some wear a yellow cloth band tied around their upper arm, embroidered with one godly symbol: sky, land, or water. No fire symbol, so far. They must be the sultan’s bhuta guards.
“Why don’t you wear a yellow armband?” I whisper to Opal, depending on her sensitive ears to hear me.
After a glance at Princess Citra’s back, she answers. “Bhuta refugees have two choices: sign the peace treaty and agree not to use their powers or swear fealty to Sultan Kuval and join his army. Rohan opted for the latter. The sultan doesn’t retain women in his army, so I signed the treaty. I’ve been given special permission to use my powers so long as I serve as a personal servant to the prince.”
“And who are they?” I ask of the white-clad guards with shaved heads alongside the princess. They are plain faced and fit, with toned torsos and arms.
“Eunuchs. They protect the sultan’s queens, courtesans, and children.”
How strange this place is from home. Not only did Tarek not employ eunuchs to guard his women, his courtesans were forced to entertain his men of court. I grimace at the memory of Tarek’s ill-treatment of Natesa and Mathura.
Princess Citra stops before a curved doorway. Stationed on either side of the entry are guards dressed in baggy dark-green uniforms. My longing intensifies to a piercing ache. The Janardanian guards’ postures and strict demeanors remind me of Deven.
“Your chamber is down the hall,” the princess says and then ushers Opal and me through the door.
Brother Shaan rises from a chair near an empty hearth. A smile rips across my face. He devoted his life to the Parijana faith—and to protecting me, the daughter of Rajah Tarek’s first-ever rani.
I hurry to Brother Shaan, and he wraps me in his arms. “My child,” he says, “you’re safe.”
“Anjali attacked us.” I draw away. The wrinkles on his weathered face are permanently creased into a state of concern. “I left ahead of Deven and the others.”
He grasps my cold hands in his warm ones. “You did what was right.”
Princess Citra taps her nails against her leg, her voice short. “Prince Ashwin asked to see Kindred Kalinda as soon as she arrived.”
“His Majesty is in his study,” says Brother Shaan. “I’ll look after the kindred from here. Good night, Princess.”
She bottles her breath, then exhales sharply and marches out.
“Where’s the book?” Brother Shaan asks. I lift the flap of my pack, and he peeks in at the Zhaleh. “And the oil vessel?”