Tinley, the daughter of Chief Naresh of Paljor, dismounts her falcon. Her crossbow, her favored weapon while she competed against Indah and me in the trial tournament, is strapped to her back. Tinley was eliminated during the first trial, but I believe we parted on amiable terms. At least that is how I recall our time together.
The Galer surveys the woods for the frightened women and wards. Tinley still wears a sarong, and a high slit emphasizes her long, slim legs. A single strip of cloth is wound around her chest. The only change in her appearance is her bearskin cloak.
Tinley taps her talonlike nail against her bottom lip and considers me. “I saw the smoke trail while I was patrolling the border. You wouldn’t have anything to do with this disaster, would you, Kalinda?” I try not to take offense at her teasing, but her humor is too close to the mark. She evaluates my downturned mouth and dips her head sideways at Ashwin, her usual reluctant bow. “Your Majesty, gods’ grace to you and your kindred. When is your wedding?”
“We’re not getting married,” I say, ignoring Ashwin’s grimace.
“Are you planning another trial tournament?” Tinley demands. “Because I’m not competing. No disrespect, Your Majesty, but I’m content patrolling the skies. Marriage would only bind my wings.”
“We aren’t arranging another tournament,” Ashwin assures her. “As you can see, we’re in no state for such designs. We need your help.”
Tinley strokes her mahati falcon’s side. “I sent out a message for the nearest patrol vessel when I first smelled the smoke. They should arrive shortly.” Her milky eyes, like two moons, turn to the clouds. “And here they come.”
A huge shadow pushes through the overcast sky. The vessel, larger than those in the Lestarian Navy, floats on a tremendous wind and boasts three masts decorated with countless sails, a patchwork of varying shades of blue. The quilted sails are not confined to the top of the ship but also extend as wings. The stern is elongated, like a bird’s tail, and sports even more sails, akin to tail feathers. The Paljorians have mimicked their revered mahati falcons for the vessel’s design, with a bird figurehead fronting a sleek hull and high prow. Galers on deck direct gusts into the bulging sails, propelling the craft forward. More Galers maneuver airstreams under the hull, suspending the ship high above ground.
Winds disperse the smoke plumes and toss my hair. The airship flies over us, tucking its wings close to the hull, and lands in the clearing near the lake. Its crew lower four clamp-like feet to stabilize the rounded hull on the ground. A plank drops from the port side, in front of the wing, and a man disembarks.
Though his long, straight hair is white as a new star, his physique is strapping. His arms protrude beneath a loose tunic and the russet bearskin draped over his shoulders. His low-cut collar shows a sliver of his deeply tan chest. A short skirt hangs above his thighs, which rise and dip like valleys and mountains.
Ashwin greets the older man. “Chief Naresh, I recognize you from a portrait I saw years past. You haven’t aged a day.”
“You must be referring to the rendition in the history text. I had that portrait commissioned before you could walk, Prince Ashwin.” The chief’s eyes twinkle. His language drags a little and he drops his long vowels. Tinley’s accent is the same, but her father’s is more pronounced.
The chief’s light-brown eyes dart to me. “Kalinda Zacharias.” Beaming, he hauls me into a breath-stealing hug. Chief Naresh leans away, and his gaze roves over me as though seeing a long-lost friend. “You have your mother’s hair and your father’s sure-footed stature. Kishan was a great man, and Yasmin was the bravest sister warrior of her time. Their love was a bridge between bhutas and mankind. I mourned their passing.”
This demonstrative, complimentary man is not what I expected, considering his daughter is more frigid than a midwinter wind. His affection for my parents eases my envy that he knew them, while I will never have that privilege.
Chief Naresh greets Pons and Indah with more hearty embraces, then says, “Come aboard where it’s warmer.” He raises his voice to the women and girls in the woods. “All are welcome!”
Priestess Mita, well within hearing range, can judge for herself that the chief’s invitation is genuine, but she does not budge. The sisters and wards loiter too, wary of the mahati falcon ruffling its fiery feathers in the numbing cold.
“They’re afraid of bhutas,” I explain.
Chief Naresh winks at me and speaks louder. “Then they must decide which they fear more—bhutas or freezing to death.” With that ominous choice, he ascends the ship’s plank with great, hefty strides. Indah and Pons go after him.
Priestess Mita waves insistently at Ashwin. “Don’t go, Your Majesty. They’re Paljorians! They let their birds live with them, and their women betroth themselves to men when they’re just little children.”
“Our women aren’t locked away in a henhouse,” Tinley drawls. “We let them strut about the yard with any rooster they like.”
Color flares across Priestess Mita’s collarbone. “Your Majesty!”
Ashwin bats a finger at Tinley, requesting her forbearance. She growls through bared teeth and stalks aboard the ship. “I ask that you not use my formal title, Priestess,” Ashwin says. “From you, it’s a mockery.”
She pulls back in offense, and Ashwin marches up the plank.
I signal the girls in the forest to come forward. Sarita picks up a child and steps out, undeterred by the giant falcon peering at her with glassy eyes.
“Sarita!” the priestess calls. “Get back here!”
She remains on course. “I’m going to get warm and, hopefully, find something to eat.”
At the prospect of shelter and food, more wards dash after her for the airship. Healer Baka leads two little girls out, her head high. After a tense stare-off with the priestess, even Sister Hetal quits the woods. Their parting prompts an exodus. The rest of the wards and sisters rush for the airship, leaving the priestess behind.
Sarita starts up the plank. “Do you think Priestess Mita will realize she’s excessively pigheaded?”
“Gods as my witness, I don’t care.” I whisk ahead, climbing aboard in search of elusive warmth.
20
DEVEN
Our horse team stumbles up another dune, spraying sand in my eyes. We ascend the slippery rise halfway, and then the catapult mires in the sand and jerks to a halt. From the time we set out this morning, we have intermittently charged across the hot sand and spun our wheels. Like the gods, the desert is no respecter of man.
I urge the horse team up the dune while Yatin and Natesa push the catapult from behind. Our sleepless night slows our ascent, but we trudge onward.
“Come on, come on.” My half plea, half prayer encourages the horses to conquer the sand dune.