“We’re separating which fish are going to be dried out and which ones will be given to the elders for dinner,” Thao continued, noticing her gaze. “The fishermen are eager to stay. These are rich waters, so long as you brave the waves.”
“Does your concern have anything to do with that swarthy fellow with the sideburns, the one you’ve been way too friendly with the past few weeks?” Khine asked, narrowing his eyes.
Thao sighed. “It’s a bit too late for you to do the concerned-big-brother act.”
“Tell him I can’t afford a dowry.”
“If I need a dowry, I’ll ask Inzali. You’re useless.” She turned back to Tali. “Your room in the old mayor’s house will be ready soon. I don’t even know what he was thinking, moving you into that shack. You could catch a cold. Some doctor he would’ve made.”
“Tali likes the sound of the waves,” Khine countered.
“She won’t like it during hurricane season,” Thao snapped. “And anyway, Qu—Tali. You’re welcome to help us out here any time you’d like. I know Khine has been saying you should move around more and it must be tiresome to have no one but him for company. I’m not sure how you can stand it.”
“You know, even if I could afford a dowry, you’re not getting one,” Khine sniffed.
“If you don’t mind…” Tali began.
“We won’t,” Thao said, smiling. “And I’ll gossip about my brother as much as you want. You’ll want to know all the things he fell into as a little boy, or the time he used to talk to rocks.”
“I miss Inzali,” Khine said. “The mean one.”
“You’re just saying that because she’s an entire ocean away,” Thao huffed.
Tali turned her head just as the sound of laughter drew closer. Tahan was running across the street in the distance. He was followed by two other red-cheeked boys.
Somehow, she found herself drifting towards him, just far enough that she could see him careening around the shore.
“Maybe he can do this,” Tali said as Khine came up to join her.
“So can you,” he whispered.
She turned to look at him. “But I don’t want to presume. I’m not my father, Khine. I don’t know what awaits us. How long until we wake to assassins, or zealots ready to bring our heads to the highest bidder? How long will this peace last? Are we destined to be fugitives forever?”
“They think you’re dead,” Khine reminded her. “They think he might be, too. These fears may never come to pass.”
“It’s naive to believe so.”
Her boy darted down the causeway to join them. “Mother!” he exclaimed. “You’re here!”
“You seem to be enjoying yourself with your friends,” she said, running a hand through his damp hair.
“They said there’s a library in An Mozhi. They’ve never gone in, but I’d like to. Do you think Khine can take me someday, Mother? I’m getting better at Zirano. If we can open up trade with the empire someday—”
“Tahan!” the boys called.
He turned to the sound of his new name as if he had been born to it. Grinning, he dashed back down where he came from, already so different from what little she could recall of the boy he had been. Different, and yet the same. As if the process of breaking chains was just the beginning, and you can only let go when you turn around and let it all back in.
“Let it be, Tali,” Khine said, noting her silence. “Tomorrow’s worries.”
“What will he be tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. Happy?” He cleared his throat. “I know I’m just a dog of Shang Azi, but I can see that much. He is happy, Tali. Maybe he can be all his life.”
She saw the truth in his words as she watched her son disappear in the distance. And then she turned to him, to this man who dared love her even now that she had nothing left to give. A smile flitted across her face. “We’ll be dogs together,” she murmured, lacing her fingers through Khine’s. “Let’s go home, my dear.” In his presence, her fears were weightless.
He kissed her softly before brushing a stray strand of hair from her face with his thumb. “Mmm, and I doubt the boy will be back until dark. Maybe there’s time—”
“For you to show me how to cook that fish?”
He flashed her that roguish grin, the one she must have loved since she first met him. She would have. “I… had other things in mind.”
“I’m going to file that complaint now.”
“How about I cook and you just watch? You might burn the hut down.”
“I could practice my handwriting. I seem to recall that work can be found as a scribe, and I would like to find a way to write back to Rai. Queen Talyien is dead, but surely there are other things I can do for Jin-Sayeng. I won’t subsist on your charity forever, Khine.”
“It isn’t charity,” he said, growing serious. “But I know.”
She took a deep breath. “And then maybe I’ll open that package and start putting my journals together.”
“If you think you’re up for it. Don’t force yourself.”
“I’ll remember it all sooner or later,” she said. “I’d rather it be sooner. I will not allow myself to remain an invalid. The past will not dictate what I am today, or what I will be tomorrow. For as long as I have breath in me…”
She wasn’t her father. She was more. She had survived darkness, lived with it still. That had to count for something. To her son, she could be everything Yeshin never was.
They strode back in silence, hand in hand, the sea beating softly on the shore behind them.
AFTERWORD
Dear Reader,
When I first finished the whole trilogy, I had no idea that this series would ever get this far. When I wrote the ending, I didn’t know that Talyien would ever find her people—readers who would not just flip through the pages of her story but would grow to love her, too. To see so many laugh and cry and scream as they go along for the ride has been nothing short of amazing. We tell stories to reach into the void—not just to entertain, but to offer perspective, to comfort, maybe even find a place to belong. There is power in that, I think. Magic. It never ceases to amaze me.
I write for so many reasons, but many times to ease loneliness, to make sense of a broken world that often dares to ask too much from us. I started this series on a whim; that this world and characters have become a refuge, a place for others to share their own stories and bare their hearts, fills me with a deep sense of gratitude.
So understand, truly, how much this means to me. Thank you for sitting next to the fire and listening to this storyteller. I am honoured to have shared this journey with you.
Sincerely,
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I think the same could be said of books. A whole team helped get this series out into the world. The care, dedication, integrity, and passion that went into every stage of the process blows my mind away. It is one thing to work in a business selling books and another to believe in the power of stories. To the Orbit/Hachette team, for those on the frontlines and behind the scenes: Tim Holman, Alex Lencicki, Ellen Wright, Paola Crespo, Angela Man, Nazia Khatun, Nadia Saward, Bryn A. McDonald, Maya Frank-Levine, Laura Jorstad, Isa G. Jacinto, Lauren Panepinto, Laura Fitzgerald, Dominique Delmas, James Long, and everyone else whose work and support made this possible… I wrote a story, and you amplified my voice. Thank you for that.
My gratitude also goes out especially to Simon Goinard and Catherine Ho, both of whose work made Queen Talyien spring to life. Simon’s impeccable art captured her essence, and the power and emotion in Catherine’s voice truly made the audiobook a remarkable experience. You are both artists at the top of your game, and I remain in awe of your breathtaking talent and skill.
To the myriad of bloggers, reviewers, readers, and fellow writers and colleagues who make this community so wonderful… you’re all fantastic. Thank you for all you do.
And finally… I want to thank the first few readers of this las
t and, to me, the most meaningful installment of the Chronicles of the Bitch Queen. It’s scary to write something so terribly raw and straight from your heart, offer it up to people, and hope they don’t tear it apart. They did so much more than that… They got it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime book, and I’m so glad I could share it with you first:
To Hannah Bowman… you’ve been like a midwife to me birthing this series out to the traditionally published world, telling me to breathe, letting me squeeze your hand (sometimes really, really tight). Thank you. To know you have my back in this strange and wonderful career means everything.
To Hillary Sames, your editorial notes provided such fantastic insights. The best feedback doesn’t just tell you what you could improve on, but also talks about what works, and seeing your notes on what made you laugh or cry just about made writing this book worth it. I’m so, so grateful for your support.
To Bradley Englert, you have been Queen Talyien’s champion from the very beginning, and you have no idea how truly honoured I am to have worked with you on this series from start to finish. I love that you tell me to slow down and indulge in characters, emotions, relationships, and atmosphere even when we’re fixing action or pacing; I loved realizing you valued the same things in stories as I did. I can vividly recount every instance your feedback or suggestions pushed me to make the story fly. Your editorial guidance has kicked my craft up a notch, and I will carry everything I learned here for the rest of my life. Thank you for breaking a pattern I thought I had figured out. Thank you for taking a chance on me.
And lastly, to Mikhail Villoso, who for twenty years and counting never once said, “You can’t”… here we are. We were two young fools who somehow made their dreams come true, and I’m still eager for more. You know this already, but I love you.
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meet the author
Photo Credit: Mikhail Villoso
K. S. VILLOSO began writing while growing up in the slums of Manila amongst tales of bloodthirsty ghouls, ethereal spirits, and mysteries under the shadows of the banyan trees—a world where fantasy meets the soiled reality of everyday. She immigrated to Canada in her teens and was briefly distracted working with civil and municipal infrastructure. When she isn’t writing, she is off dragging her husband, dogs, kids, and anyone insane enough to say “Sure, let’s go hiking—what could go wrong?” through the Canadian wilderness. She lives in Anmore, BC.
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if you enjoyed
THE DRAGON OF JIN-SAYENG
look out for
THE JASMINE THRONE
Book One of The Burning Kingdoms
by
Tasha Suri
Tasha Suri’s The Jasmine Throne begins the powerful Burning Kingdoms trilogy, in which two women—a long-imprisoned princess and a maidservant in possession of forbidden magic—come together to rewrite the fate of an empire.
Exiled by her despotic brother when he claimed their father’s kingdom, Malini spends her days trapped in the Hirana: an ancient, cliffside temple that was once the source of the magical deathless waters, but is now little more than a decaying ruin.
A servant in the regent’s household, Priya makes the treacherous climb to the Hirana every night to clean Malini’s chambers. She is happy to play the role of a drudge so long as it keeps anyone from discovering her ties to the temple and the dark secret of her past.
But when Malini bears witness to Priya’s true nature, their destinies become irrevocably tangled. One is a vengeful princess seeking to steal a throne. The other is a powerful priestess seeking to find her family. Together, they will set an empire ablaze.
PROLOGUE
In the court of the imperial mahal, the pyre was being built.
The fragrance of the gardens drifted in through the high windows—sweet roses, and even sweeter imperial needle-flower, pale and fragile, growing in such thick profusion that it poured in through the lattice, its white petals unfurled against the sandstone walls. The priests flung petals on the pyre, murmuring prayers as the servants carried in wood and arranged it carefully, applying camphor and ghee, scattering drops of perfumed oil.
On his throne, Emperor Chandra murmured along with his priests. In his hands, he held a string of prayer stones, each an acorn seeded with the name of a mother of flame: Divyanshi, Ahamara, Nanvishi, Suhana, Meenakshi. As he recited, his courtiers—the kings of Parijatdvipa’s city-states, their princely sons, their bravest warriors—recited along with him. Only the king of Alor and his brood of nameless sons were notably, pointedly, silent.
Emperor Chandra’s sister was brought into the court.
Her ladies-in-waiting stood on either side of her. To her left, a nameless princess of Alor, commonly referred to only as Alori; to her right, a high-blooded lady, Narina, daughter of a notable mathematician from Srugna and a highborn Parijati mother. The ladies-in-waiting wore red, bloody and bridal. In their hair, they wore crowns of kindling, bound with thread to mimic stars. As they entered the room, the watching men bowed, pressing their faces to the floor, their palms flat on the marble. The women had been dressed with reverence, marked with blessed water, prayed over for a day and a night until dawn had touched the sky. They were as holy as women could be.
Chandra did not bow his head. He watched his sister.
She wore no crown. Her hair was loose—tangled, trailing across her shoulders. He had sent maids to prepare her, but she had denied them all, gnashing her teeth and weeping. He had sent her a sari of crimson, embroidered in the finest Dwarali gold, scented with needle-flower and perfume. She had refused it, choosing instead to wear palest mourning white. He had ordered the cooks to lace her food with opium, but she had refused to eat. She had not been blessed. She stood in the court, her head unadorned and her hair wild, like a living curse.
His sister was a fool and a petulant child. They would not be here, he reminded himself, if she had not proven herself thoroughly unwomanly. If she had not tried to ruin it all.
The head priest kissed the nameless princess upon the forehead. He did the same to Lady Narina. When he reached for Chandra’s sister, she flinched, turning her cheek.
The priest stepped back. His gaze—and his voice—was tranquil.
“You may rise,” he said. “Rise, and become mothers of flame.”
His sister took her ladies’ hands. She clasped them tight. They stood, the three of them, for a long moment, simply holding one another. Then his sister released them.
The ladies walked to the pyre and rose to its zenith. They kneeled.
His sister remained where she was. She stood with her head raised. A breeze blew needle-flower into her hair—white upon deepest black.
“Princess Malini,” said the head priest. “You may rise.”
She shook her head wordlessly.
Rise, Chandra thought. I have been more merciful than you deserve, and we both know it.
Rise, sister.
“It is your choice,” the priest said. “We will not compel you. Will you forsake immortality, or will you rise?”
The offer was a straightforward one. But she did not move. She shook her head once more. She was weeping, silently, her face otherwise devoid of feeling.
The priest nodded.
“Then we begin,” he said.
Chandra stood. The prayer stones clinked as he released them.
Of course it had come to this.
He stepped down from his throne. He crossed the court, before a sea of bowing men. He took his sister by the shoulders, ever so gentle.
“Do not be afraid,” he told her. “You are proving your purity. You are saving your name. Your honor. Now. Rise.”
One of the priests had lit a torch. The scent of burning and camphor
filled the court. The priests began to sing, a low song that filled the air, swelled within it. They would not wait for his sister.
But there was still time. The pyre had not yet been lit.
As his sister shook her head once more, he grasped her by the skull, raising her face up.
He did not hold her tight. He did not harm her. He was not a monster.
“Remember,” he said, voice low, nearly drowned out by the sonorous song, “that you have brought this upon yourself. Remember that you have betrayed your family and denied your name. If you do not rise… sister, remember that you have chosen to ruin yourself, and I have done all in my power to help you. Remember that.”
The priest touched his torch to the pyre. The wood, slowly, began to burn.
Firelight reflected in her eyes. She looked at him with a face like a mirror: blank of feeling, reflecting nothing back at him but their shared dark eyes and serious brows. Their shared blood and shared bone.
“My brother,” she said. “I will not forget.”
1
PRIYA
Someone important must have been killed in the night.
Priya was sure of it the minute she heard the thud of hooves on the road behind her. She stepped to the roadside as a group of guards clad in Parijati white and gold raced past her on their horses, their sabers clinking against their embossed belts. She drew her pallu over her face—partly because they would expect such a gesture of respect from a common woman, and partly to avoid the risk that one of them would recognize her—and watched them through the gap between her fingers and the cloth.
When they were out of sight, she didn’t run. But she did start walking very, very fast. The sky was already transforming from milky gray to the pearly blue of dawn, and she still had a long way to go.
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