“You’re the viraji.” The bhuta throws back his head and laughs.
I admit that I am not much to look at even when I am dry, but his mocking goes too far. I release the slingshot. The bhuta lowers his head at the snap, and my mark goes high, hitting him in the forehead. A gash opens. But before blood swells in the cut, he seizes my throat with both hands.
“You have fire in your blood. It would be a terrible waste to kill you.”
His skin buzzes with heat, adding to my rising fever. “I saw what you did to the coachman,” I say. “You’re a demon.”
“You call me a demon when it’s you who has been chosen to wed one.” He throttles me, sealing off my lungs.
My skin flares. I claw at his wrists for freedom and kick him in the shin, but he does not relent.
“I admire your spirit,” he says. “Remember that I spared your life when we meet again.”
He releases me with a shove. I stumble back and drop to all fours. Gasping, I look up at the empty doorway and hear the beat of retreating hooves. I crawl to Natesa’s side. Her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath. Where there was once a door is now a singed gap in the carriage wall. Tonic and shards of glass are scattered around us. I follow the glittery path of destruction to charred spots on the floorboards.
My mind replays the attack. Once. Twice.
Dismay lashes at my cringing heart. I cannot deny what I see. The bhuta did not touch that area on the floor. I placed my hands there when I fell.
Those are not his burn marks. They are mine.
9
I extend my hands away from my body, away from everything. My fingertips radiate heat, as if an oil lamp has replaced my thin flesh. I cannot breathe fast enough to slow my whirling head. Of all the fevers I have had before, I have never had one like this.
I flap my hands to cool them off and rap one against the bench seat. The velvet melts, curling into a scorched hole. I go rigid, fearful of touching anything else and burning the carriage down.
How am I doing this? How do I make it stop?
Black spots discolor my vision. I shut my eyes, and the lights behind my lids blaze. Weakness drills down to my bones. I sway toward a feverish faint, dizziness spreading. I have to stop my fever from rising.
The last few tonic vials lie on the floor. I uncork one, handling it as little as possible, and down a revolting sip. That should be enough to extinguish my fever, yet I draw another mouthful to speed up my reaction time to the treatment.
Pounding hooves ring out in the distance. My darkened vision gradually clears, and the fires behind my eyelids dim to their usual mellow lights. I test the heat of my fingers by touching the wall—no singeing or smoke. I bow my head. Good gods, what was that?
I shove my last three vials into my satchel and arm myself. Slingshot drawn, I defend the burned doorway. My hands quiver. Thundering hooves make the carriage shudder, and then the captain appears on horseback. I lower the slingshot and slouch against the wall.
Deven first assesses me for injuries and then Natesa. “Is she dead?”
“Unconscious.”
“Where’s the bhuta?”
“He killed Jeevan and ran off when he heard you coming.”
Deven’s eyes pang with hurt when he hears of his fallen comrade, and then, still in his saddle, he evaluates the inside of the carriage. Blood wets the shoulder of his jacket. “And the shattered glass?” he says.
Healer Baka’s warning to guard my condition slows my reply. “The bhuta dropped some vials, and they broke.” Deven watches me, his gaze doubtful. Two more riders gallop into view—Manas and Yatin. “Where are the others?” I say.
Deven’s face sets in a hard mask. “Swept away by the landslide.”
Sorrow lances through me. Bel and Ehan are not coming.
Deven turns to Yatin. “Natesa will ride with you. Manas, take care of the carriage. Quickly. They could return.”
Manas swings down off his horse and lifts his khanda. “We must stay and fight!”
“We must think of the viraji’s safety,” says Deven.
Manas glares, his face a mottled red. “But, Captain—”
“Release the horses. That is an order.”
Spittle builds at the corner of Manas’s mouth. He rubs it dry with a hard shove of his forearm and tromps to the carriage.
Deven extends his hand to me. “We have to go.”
I swing my satchel over my shoulder and accept his hand. His firm grip lifts me into the saddle in front of him. The hem of my petticoat rides up to my knees, and my backside presses against his hips. The light scent of sandalwood fills me, and a flush rises up my face. The narrow saddle leaves no room for respectability.
Yatin gathers Natesa in his arms. She rouses, awake but drowsy. He helps her onto his horse with him. She sags against Yatin’s broad chest, a button-eyed doll in a giant’s lap.
Manas releases the horse team, slapping the white mares on the rump. They take off uphill. I am sorry to see them go, but since Natesa and I do not ride, it is impractical to bring them along. The carriage is of no use either.
Deven gathers the reins and urges our great horse into a run. The forward motion drives me back into his chest. His strength surrounds me, and I give my weight over to him. He lowers his arms so that they hug my hips, and our bodies meld with the rhythm of the horse.
We avoid the trail, traversing rocky ground through thick trees. I scan the misty woodland, the tale of the First Bhutas on my mind. Three hundred years ago, the demon Kur bestowed upon four mortals his most potent powers, the elements that make up our world. Half-human and half-demon, these bhutas were formidable but not immortal. They passed their powers on to their offspring to wield as weapons against mankind. Burning is the worst bhuta power I know of, though the other three are heinous too.
We ride out the gloomy day without seeing our attackers. I assume that nightfall will compel us to stop, but Deven pauses only long enough to light torches. We press on through the darkness, pushing the horses and the bounds of our endurance.
Deven’s arms cage me in. I incline my head against his shoulder to rest, but whenever I close my eyes, I see Jeevan disintegrate to dust.
Sunup births a periwinkle sky without a single cloud. Deven maintains our relentless pace, stretching my tired legs into brittle ropes. I sneak a sip of my tonic when we stop briefly to water the horses, and we continue on. The horses’ strides eat up the hours, and daylight dwindles into dusky, bruised heavens.
I am about to keel over when the trees break to a rolling highland dotted with fleecy sheep. The Alpanas’ snowy razor peaks are so far off that they could be a dream from my past life.
Deven dismounts his horse to speak to an elderly shepherd tending his flock. They both glance at me. I shift in the saddle, wondering what is being said. They part, and the shepherd plods away on his mule, his staff bobbing along until it vanishes over a grassy incline.