Manas smirks down at me. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, Deven.” I close my mouth, unwilling to grant him the satisfaction of agreeing. “Bring them.”
The soldiers tether our bindings to the commander’s horse and shove Yatin and me after their general. We slog up and down sand dunes, grime blowing in our eyes and mouths. I stumble to my knees, and the horse drags me until I find my footing again.
Ahead, far past the furthermost soldier and wagon, a haze distorts the sweltering horizon. The smoggy film marks the beginning of a mirage, the gods’ presumed doorway to paradise. But not even the illusion of a fictional haven can close the pit in my stomach.
As we near the front of the troops, the air holds a leaden tang that bleeds on my tongue. The heaviness accompanies, or originates from, Udug. I can feel him near. His presence sticks to me like cobwebs, snagging on everything and itching my skin. We gain on a large unit of soldiers hoisting an elaborate litter. The draperies are closed, sealing its rider in the dark, but pungent bitterness pours from it, tangible as smoke.
Manas calls for a covered wagon to halt and opens the rear door. Opal shelters her eyes from the sunlight. Dried blood covers her bound wrists. Manas could have restrained her with snakeroot or fed her neutralizing tonic to dim her powers, but cutting her is crueler. Her shoulder is wrapped with a bandage, and burn marks the size of fingerprints dot her arms. Yatin and I are impelled inside with her. Manas slams the door and casts us into darkness.
“Opal, are you all right?” I ask.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” she whispers. “Tell me it isn’t true.”
My eyes adapt to the dimness and distinguish her slight shape. She is shorter than Kali but nearly as thin. “I’m sorry,” I say. A whimper ruptures from her lips. The wagon starts to rock, bouncing us around. “We came looking for you and Brac.”
“We were separated when the wing flyer crashed. I haven’t seen him since.”
This should be good news. Brac was probably never with the army. Rohan never heard him nearby, and we did not discover a second prison wagon. Then where is he?
“I almost got away.” Opal sniffles. “But the demon rajah struck me with his blue fire.” That explains the bandage on her shoulder. “Manas recognized me and put me in here with other bhuta captives. The demon rajah . . . he . . . he fed off the others’ soul-fire. I’m the only one left.”
Yatin shifts uneasily. We are both grateful Opal survived, but why her? “The demon rajah told Rohan you’ve been of use to him,” I start, selecting my words carefully.
“He invites me to supper every night and asks me questions.”
“What about?” Yatin inquires.
“He asked me about Vanhi. I didn’t know the answers, so he . . . he burned me. I made things up, but when I couldn’t tell him about the rebels, his frustration grew.” Tears clog Opal’s voice. “I would have said anything to save Rohan.”
Yatin slides closer to her, and she rests against him, crying.
Thank Anu that Natesa got away. We have a friend outside the wagon who knows we are here, but Udug is out there too. And he has no incentive to let mortals such as Yatin and me live.
Little quills of gooseflesh bristle up my arms. He feeds off bhuta soul-fire . . .
Udug is growing more powerful. Try as I might, I cannot strategize our next move. When battling an opponent bigger or stronger than I am, I was trained to go for his feet, knock him down, and disarm him. Udug set his footing on unstable ground—his borrowed identity—but no one will believe me over him. Even if I could knock him off his imposter throne, I cannot disarm him of his powers. Never have I fought an enemy more entrenched in the dark.
The wagon rocks headlong across the desert, bringing us closer to Vanhi. Closer to the start of the war.
21
KALINDA
The airship’s hull provides ample room for all the sisters and wards. Ashwin, Indah, and Pons stay on deck while I help the little ones descend the ladder to below.
Straw carpets the floor, and several yaks penned in the corner account for the stench of manure. I overhear a crewman say the airship was en route to deliver the herd to the clan in the arctic tundra but switched course when they received Tinley’s urgent message about the fire.
We rest on bales of grass and escape the freezing temperature huddled beneath wool blankets the crew passes out. I try to repress my shivering, but the blanket merely insulates my cold. The wards, however, are resilient. One of them begins a game of Fly-Fly Crane, and soon a group of them are darting between the bales with their arms spread like wings.
The sisters let them play, the semblance of normality welcome. After some time, Priestess Mita wanders down the ladder, each of her steps more unenthusiastic than the last. Even after the Paljorians pass out dried apricots, she maintains her scowl.
Sarita shares the bale beside mine with two girls, all chewing fruit. Their soul-fires glow dimly. Need flares at the back of my throat.
I could take a little. Just enough to muffle the cold screaming inside me. If they could feel my deadening heart, they would offer up their light.
I slide my hand under the blanket, reaching for the closest girl’s arm.
“Hungry?” Sarita holds out the dried fruit for me.
“No, thank you.” I jam my quaking fingers between my thighs. I nearly stole soul-fire to stoke my own. This is wrong, yet the craving burns so strongly my eyes sting. I curl into myself. It’s so cold.
Sarita rests her hand on my arm. “Kalinda, are you all right?”
Parch her. Take her light—
I twitch away and rise. “I cannot stand the priestess’s ingratitude any longer.”
A partial truth. Priestess Mita has not given thanks to our hosts, but her disrespect is also an excuse to leave. Shedding the blanket, I climb the ladder to the open deck. The tidy area is stained mahogany and coated with a glossy veneer, and rigging and rope ladders are strung all over. Chilly air encases me like a snowy tomb. I hug myself to find my elusive inner warmth.
Tinley crosses the deck to me. “There you are. My father and Prince Ashwin are waiting for you.” She drapes a bearskin over my shoulders and directs me to the chief’s private quarters.
I draw the pelt closer. “Are you coming in?”
“I need to see to my falcon, Chare.” Tinley points at the mahati she left near the woods. Her prior falcon, Bya, died during our trial tournament. Tinley was devastated. Mahati falcons imprint on their handlers as hatchlings. The pair became more than master and bird; they were best friends.
“How did you find and train Chare so quickly?”
“A trader was selling her for her feathers. She fell into a depression after her handler died. She wouldn’t let me ride her at first. Now all she wants to do is soar.”
Chare squawks at the airship.