The Rogue Queen (The Hundredth Queen #3)
Emily R. King
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The religion of the Tarachand Empire, the Parijana faith, is a fictional variation derived from Sumerian deities. However, the Parijana faith and the Tarachand Empire and other empires do not directly represent any specific historical time period, creed, or union. Any other religious or governmental similarities are coincidental and do not depict actual people or events.
1
KALINDA
The burial starts at daybreak, before the heat of the jungle evaporates the dew and suffocates the morning breeze. Our solemn group congregates in the stern of the riverboat and watches Deven and Yatin finish tying heavy stones to the body’s ankles and wrists. Indah has already washed the deceased in almond oil, a ritual in her homeland, the Southern Isles. Pons, her beloved guard, helped her wrap the departed with white bedsheets.
Natesa slips her arm around my waist. I hold on to her, shifting my weight off my sore leg. Prince Ashwin stands to the side, his head down, but I can still see his red eyes and nose.
Deven straightens slowly, as though every part of him aches. I recognize that feeling, that sinking heaviness like quicksand. Everyone aboard moves with the same cumbersome slowness, as though we are all tied down by millstones.
The rush of the River Ninsar fills the silence. If only life could be as constant as a river. Although I believe death is not the end and our spirits live on, I am never fully prepared for life to dry up.
Deven bows his head and offers our traditional Prayer of Rest. “Gods, bless Brother Shaan’s soul so that he may find the gate that leads to peace and everlasting light.”
Yesterday afternoon, I found Brother Shaan slumped over in his chair outside the wheelhouse. For the past fortnight, since we fled the city of Iresh, he prayed diligently for the gods to preserve us in this dire time. Indah said his heart merely failed, as aged hearts do. But I think his fear put him in an early grave.
Deven finishes by adding his thoughts. “Brother Shaan was a dedicated, loyal, and loving member of the Brotherhood. He exemplified the five godly virtues in every way and served Anu with his whole heart.” His ragged voice catches. “He will be missed.”
Yatin, his brother-in-arms, squeezes Deven’s shoulder. The soldiers slide the body to the edge of the skiff. Pons helps them push the remains overboard, and the water splashes in finality.
Tears sting my eyes. The body floats for a heart-wrenching beat, and then the stones drag Brother Shaan below the surface of the murky river.
“Enki,” Indah says, praying to the water-goddess. “Send your sea dragons to ferry Brother Shaan’s soul to the Beyond and wash away any memory of pain or anguish from this mortal life.”
Her burial prayer is unusual to us Tarachandians, who worship the sky-god Anu. Indah’s people believe sacred creatures of the deep, sea dragons, ferry their souls to the Beyond or the Void when they die. In this moment, when we cannot stop to dig a grave for Brother Shaan, as is our custom, her words are a much-needed comfort.
Pons is the first to leave, going to oversee our navigators, the pole pushers. I should rest my injured leg, but I linger near Deven. The river leads us along, and the place where Brother Shaan sank drifts away in our shallow wake. A mangrove forest crowds the riverbanks, thriving in the brackish wetlands between the rain forest and the Sea of Souls. The tree roots, partially submerged in the muddy waters, ascend from the surface like knobby stilts. We are nearly to the river delta. Brother Shaan was so close to viewing the sea . . .
Yatin steps to Natesa’s other side. “Are you all right, little lotus?”
She runs her hand down his chest. “Yes.” Her burly soldier with a thick beard came aboard the skiff very ill. Indah, the most experienced Aquifier aboard, cured Yatin’s ailment, and Natesa has finished nursing him back to health. Yatin slimmed down while he was unwell, though he is still the biggest man on board. We were so concerned about his recovery and my tournament injuries, we neglected to care for Brother Shaan.
We all bear the weight of that guilt.
Natesa and Yatin take the walkway around the side of the boat. Ashwin has left, having snuck off when no one was watching. He and I have not spoken since Iresh. I spend my time with Deven—and Ashwin avoids us. This was the closest the three of us have been in days.
Indah comes to my side. “Kalinda, it’s time.”
Given the solemnness of the morning, I consider canceling our session, but Indah’s healing powers are the only reason I can stand right now.
Deven has yet to look away from the river. I consoled him the best I could last night, but Brother Shaan was his mentor. Some losses leave behind holes that cannot be filled.
Accepting Indah’s arm, we let Deven mourn in peace.
Lying on a cot in the wheelhouse, I feel Indah’s powers flow over me like tepid streams of water. She lets go of my temples, her expression tight. My hour-long session has not gone as expected.
She cleans her hands in the washbasin. The fresh scents from her healing waters, coconut and white sandalwood, waft off my skin.
“Well?” I ask.
“The bone in your leg has knit back together, and the sword wound on your side has closed to a faint scar.”
Both injuries were sustained during my duel in the trial tournament, but they are not what concerns us. Before our escape from Iresh, the Voider, a corporeal demon set free from his prison in the evernight, breathed his poisonous fire down my throat. Despite Indah’s efforts to cleanse me, his powers still slink icily through my veins. Not even a pain blocker, Indah’s rare ability to suppress hurt for a short time, allays the cold.
I close my eyes and search inside myself for the single perfect star in my vision. The ever-burning light is the source of my Burner powers—my soul-fire. No mortal or bhuta exists without this inner radiance. I locate the star but its vivid light is hazy. “I see a greenness behind my eyelids.”
“That’s from the demon’s powers.”
“Can you get rid of them?”
“I don’t know how,” Indah replies, helping me sit up. “In a sense, your soul is frostbitten. If the injured parts were an extremity, I would recommend amputation, but as the damage is internal . . .”
“You cannot amputate my soul.” I finish with a strained laugh, though I find nothing humorous about my memory of writhing on the ground in agony, tormented by the slow, torturous burn of the demon’s cold-fire. The initial anguish has abated, but it left dark stains inside me, like tarnished silver. The Voider’s powers would have destroyed me if I were not one quarter demon. All Burners descend from Enlil, a bastard son of the land-goddess Ki and the demon Kur. I suppose I should appreciate my ancestry. But I am not grateful. Not at all.