Deven swallows and nods. He goes out into the corridor to relay orders to Yatin.
The healer holds up the teapot. “More, Viraji?”
“No, thank you.” The healer pours herself a cup, and I remember the tonic formula tucked at my waistband. “But if I may ask, what do you know about white baneberry and snakeroot?”
The healer carries her teacup over to me. “They are very rare and highly poisonous herbs. Some used to believe they could ward off bhuta powers. Brickmakers ground them into powder and added the powder to their building clay for protection. Certain areas of the palace are rumored to have been constructed with the poison-infused bricks.”
“Do they truly repel bhuta powers?”
“Cannot say. In all my years of medicine, I have never seen them used against bhutas.” The healer takes my empty cup. “You should be well enough to attend tonight’s ceremony.”
“Thank you. My throat feels better.”
My mind, however, is not relieved. Healer Baka had somehow gotten her hands on these rare herbs, but I doubt that I will find them on the palace grounds, so then why did she give me the formula? Without the ingredients, I have no chance of concocting more. Healer Baka knew I would need my tonic to sustain me through the tournament. I wish that I could pen her a letter, but I am not allowed contact with those outside the palace.
Based on what this healer said, Healer Baka must have known she was feeding me toxins. But how could I have ingested poison for over a year and yet still live?
Unless . . . unless my tonic does more than lower my fevers.
Yatin appears at the doorway. “Ready, Viraji?”
“Yes.” I fasten on a smile and push my thoughts of poisons away. I have tonight’s ceremony to prepare for.
15
My guards stop shy of the high arched doorway leading to the throne room. I press a hand to my churning stomach. I am as unsettled as I was before the Claiming, only then I had Jaya by my side. I have never missed her more than I do now.
Deven maintains a proper distance but compensates for the gap between us with his soothing tone. “Approach the throne, and the rajah will receive you.”
My chin ticks up, and I step into the throne room. Stunning young women fill the long, grand hall, which is brightened by chandelier lamps. Cloth rustles as nearly a hundred veiled ranis and over two hundred courtesans turn on the red-and-gold satin floor cushions, where they are kneeling, to watch me enter. A center aisle separates the ranis from the courtesans. In addition to the numbers dyed on the back of their hands, the ranis are set apart from the courtesans by their loose hair and the veils hanging from their noses to their chins. Their veils are a public sign of devotion to their husband. Their lips are for his eyes only, the same as their other concealed body parts. Courtesans wear no veil, as they are not married. Their hair is tied in a single thick braid down their backs, and their revealing garments lack the refinement of the ranis’ attire.
Parisa and Eshana smile from their seats. Shyla is not here; she is with her newborn. Soon after I left the infirmary, word came that she had delivered a baby girl.
A dozen brethren stand off to the side, their ivory robes a calming force. A crimson carpet muffles my footsteps down the center aisle. Rajah Tarek waits at the other end in a high-backed gold throne set between two purple draperies swooping from ceiling to floor. He reclines to one side with his elbow on the armrest, casual in his stance, though his intense gaze is anything but. I cannot tear free of his stare.
The carpet ends at the base of the dais. Natesa kneels to my left, facing the rajah. She does not deign to give me a glance, but Lakia glares. The kindred occupies her own throne, set beside the rajah’s. A third throne stands empty to my right.
Rajah Tarek’s gleaming eyes range over me from head to toe. I grit my teeth. He raises a hand loaded with gem-encrusted rings. “Kneel,” he says to me.
I lower to the floor and rest my forehead against the cool marble. The court goes as silent as the moon. My quick breaths resound through my head, marking time.
Rajah Tarek speaks again. “After tireless searching, I have claimed my final viraji. Kalinda, arise.”
I stand, and one of the brethren brings over a pot of henna. He adds more dye to the faded line down my nose, reaffirming that I am a claimed bride.
“The brethren endorse this young woman,” says the brother. “We pray yours will be a happy union.”
“Your support is noted, Brother Shaan,” Tarek says.
Brother Shaan returns to his fellow brethren. I trail him out of the corner of my eye, having recognized his name; he is the brother Deven sent the beggar boy to for assistance.
The rajah gestures me forward. I scale the half dozen steps to the foot of his throne. He opens a velvet pouch and removes an ornate turquoise necklace. He holds up the jewelry for all to see. “For my final rani, I sought the help of the gods to find a young woman who resembled my first wife, Yasmin. I lost Yasmin when we were very young, but her short life changed mine forever. I scoured Tarachand for someone who could match her memory. A few came close, but none exhibited Yasmin’s brave spirit and selfless virtues more impressively than Kalinda.”
He fastens the necklace around my throat. The stones lie heavy and cold on my collarbone. “The gods teach us that life is a cycle. It is only appropriate that my final wife receive a token of my first wife, and so it is that Yasmin will live on through Kalinda.”
Rajah Tarek leads me by the elbow to sit in the unoccupied third throne. Angry tears pool in Lakia’s eyes. I face his court of ranis and courtesans, their stares almost as insufferable as his choking necklace. He has set me apart from his women. He may as well have placed a collar on me with a leash tying me to him.
Tarek’s hand floats down my hair. “The viraji is the champion of my choosing, but I am a benevolent man. I welcome any courtesan who believes she can best Kalinda to step forward. Let those who wish to duel for her rank cast their lot before us and the gods.”
The brethren file out of the throne room, and several women come forward. Natesa beats the others to the front of the line and hands me a square white envelope. At Tarek’s nod, I open the envelope and read the card within.
I, Natesa, hereby challenge the hundredth viraji to a rank duel.
“Viraji,” she says, bowing with a smirk.
“My newest courtesan,” Tarek says, his smile smoldering with charm. “Join me.”
Natesa crosses to his throne, and he pulls her into his lap. A servant brings the rajah a flask, and he drinks as he caresses Natesa’s hip. Lakia feigns cool detachment, but color builds in her cheeks, and her temples bounce from her clenching jaw.