He strolls to a knoll. “They crashed here. We couldn’t circle back because the archers started shooting.” His voice cracks, as is common for boys his age, and he clears his croaky throat. “Opal was lying right here, last I saw her.”
Arrows stick out of the ground. I inspect the flattened grass and find splinters of the wreckage. The troops must have disassembled the wing flyer and hauled the parts along as firewood. At least we know Opal and Brac did not fly away from here.
“What’s nearby?” I ask Yatin, the experienced navigator in our group.
He studies the position of the sun. “The closest village is due south, a day or so on foot.”
The army is trekking northwest into Tarachand. The border is not too far ahead. South would be Brac and Opal’s wisest direction. Yatin and I would select that route, but we searched the end of the clearing and found no tracks heading to the village. Any other tracks they left were beaten into obscurity by the hundreds of men who came through.
“There’s another possibility,” Yatin says lowly.
Rohan kicks at the end of an arrow protruding from the ground. Neither of us wants to consider that our siblings were taken. I would like to think Brac would not have been captured without setting this field alight to stand as a memorial to his indignation, but circumstances could have stopped him.
“It’s likely they’ve been captured.” I put off the prospect that anything worse has happened. We will explore one possibility at a time. “The rest of you stay here and guard the wing flyer. I should return the day after tomorrow, in time for us to fly to the meeting point.”
“I’m going with you.” Rohan holds his thin body tense, anticipating my refusal, but I respect his grit. “You’ll need me to listen for my sister.”
“We should all stay together,” Natesa says, pinning me with a fierce stare to wither me into compliance. She forgets I grew up in the palace surrounded by sister warriors. They could sober a drunkard with a single glare.
Yatin stays locked in worry. He is a friend to Brac and me, but he came along only after Natesa committed to the task. I should not have agreed to let them join us.
“We cannot take the wing flyer or they’ll see us,” I explain to dissuade her. “My guess is the main body of troops are a day, maybe a day and a half, away. We’ll have to run through the night to catch up to them.”
Natesa stretches her arms over her head. “I won’t let you slow me down.”
She’s as stubborn as a ratel with a viper in its teeth. I look to Yatin to make her see reason.
“We’ll keep up, General,” he says.
I hate that title of command and what it meant to my father. If he were here, he would order Yatin, Natesa, and Rohan to follow him with no thought for their safety. I will not force them either way. “Your choice, but if you come along, I’m not your commander.”
“Understood,” Rohan replies, mustering a brave front. Still, his disappointment in not finding his sister drags his mouth down.
I asked him along. I put it in his head that we could find Opal and Brac, so I distract him from his concerns by asking him to help me drag the wing flyer into the trees for cover. Yatin and I also drop our swords there. Their size and weight will slow our pace. Yatin sulks back into the field, brooding about leaving his khanda behind.
Natesa offers him her haladie, a double-sided knife. “I still have daggers.”
“Thank you, little lotus.” Yatin bends his huge frame over her and kisses her nose.
Kali kissed my nose just two days ago. The memory pulverizes me. She made her choice, and it wasn’t me. I may need to get used to this feeling.
Our group takes turns whittling down our packs to necessities. Rohan is the smallest of us, even slighter than Natesa. As Yatin helps him tighten his straps, I slip goods from Rohan’s pack into mine and then regard the path left by the army. The flatland lies open ahead, beckoning us homeward.
I set off at a jog, and three sets of footfalls follow. My friends match my assertive pace, and we trek onward to our beloved empire of unforgiving deserts and unreachable mountains.
9
KALINDA
Freezing weather has come early to the Alpana Mountains. We fly in a steep climb over the powdery hills, the higher peaks obscured by soupy clouds. Snowflakes pinwheel around us. The white flecks land on Ashwin’s dark eyebrows and pale cheeks. We huddle together on the passenger plank, our teeth chattering out of sync with our shivering.
Pons guides us up, up, up, into thinner air. Indah burrows under a wool blanket, her eyes shut; she’s awake but barely tolerating our ascent. Our two-day flight has felt endless. I have never known a wintry depth this dreary. I cannot distinguish where the poisonous cold inside me ends and the bracing weather starts. Each pull of air drives icy spikes into my chest. A growing numbness dulls my focus and drags my eyelids closed.
“She must stay awake,” Indah calls to Ashwin over the wind. “Warm her!”
Ashwin wraps his arm around me, and I curl into his side. His body heat combats my chills and helps me withstand the pressing cold.
He lays his cheek against mine, and his voice rouses my senses. “You smell like moonlight.”
I lift my chin, and our noses bump. His soul-fire glows deep in his eyes, a well of captivating warmth.
Pull away. Don’t be enticed—
His lips graze my cheek. Heat blazes through me, starting as a spark and igniting to a blessed burn. The ice inside me melts, dripping away. I’m so close to feeling whole again . . . I press against him more snugly and slide my hands around his bare back, the bitter winds a distant force. His lips grasp at mine and bore past the last of my restraint. My return kiss writhes with need as Ashwin’s soul-fire blinds all else.
The wing flyer banks sharply, wrenching us apart, and I see the beacon atop the temple’s north tower. Home. The last time I saw this light, Deven led me into the forest to show me what I thought would be my final glimpse of Samiya.
The reminder of Deven sobers me. I pull away from Ashwin, sick to my stomach. I do not know how to stop wanting or needing him. Even now, while shivering once again, I crave a reprieve. But I have to fight the cold, if only to outlast the war.
Our wing flyer soars over the stone temple that clings to the great cliff. The courtyard is empty and the meditation pond frozen over, but the sparring circle has been cleared away of snow and ice for training. My last skill trial here was the first time I spilled blood. More memories of my childhood bombard me: the outer gate that locked us temple wards in and the rest of the world out; the meditation pond that I soaked my feet in on a warm summer’s day; the chip in the temple wall I fired stones at with my slingshot.