“But our wing flyer was taken,” I say, planting my heels. “And Indah sent for aid. The Lestarians will come with rations. We should wait here for them together.”
Healer Baka wraps one arm around me. “Priestess Mita wants you and your companions to start down the mountain. We’ll send the Lestarians for you after they arrive.”
I jerk from her hold. “The sisters and wards should know the truth. Bhutas are good. Don’t send us away or they’ll always fear my kind.”
Priestess Mita speaks from behind us. “They should fear you.” Healer Baka and I whirl around. The priestess’s glare ties my thoughts into a jumble of apologies, rendering me speechless. “You’re no sister warrior, and you’re not my kindred. Leave this place and take the Lestarian abominations with you.”
I am unsurprised that she would cast aside bhutas, but her disrespect for Ashwin unknots my tongue. “What of the prince? He’s your ruler.”
“My ruler is Rajah Tarek,” Priestess Mita corrects. “He leads the empire, not the prince.”
I reel on Baka “You told her?”
She extends an apologetic grimace. “As you said, they deserve to know the truth.”
“Anu sent Rajah Tarek back to save us,” Priestess Mita rails on. “He will preserve our sacred rites and finish exterminating your kind.”
Her gullibility floors me. “The gods never send souls back. They send them forward, to their next life. The rajah isn’t Tarek; he’s a demon in disguise.”
She screws her lips up like I am a piece of filth on her tongue. “You have no place to brand anyone a demon, slag.”
Baka gasps at the priestess’s use of the derogatory term for a Burner. I am flabbergasted they even know it.
Priestess Mita lifts her voice louder, unashamed of her contempt. “Go from here before the gods strike you down for the ruin you have brought upon these faithful sisters and wards.”
I tense my body to ward off my shaking. “These wards should know who they’re following. Rajah Tarek is a—”
“Go!” bellows the priestess. “Go and take your lies and corruption with you!”
Healer Baka speaks. “Mita—”
“Hush, Baka!” The priestess directs the full force of her animosity at her instead. “Either you side with us or you leave.”
The healer deflates. “I’m sorry, Kali. The wards need me.”
I need you too. I bite off the admission and seek a softening of heart from the sisters behind them. But they are united in their dismissal.
Sarita steps forward, little ones at her side. “Kalinda, take me with you.”
“You’re needed here,” I rasp, my emotions clogging my throat. The girls with Sarita stare up at me. I bend down to speak to them. Despite the priestess’s claim that I am demonic, they abide my presence. “Stay with Sarita and Healer Baka. They’ll keep you safe.” After I muster an encouraging smile for Sarita, I trudge across the snow to Ashwin. “We’ve been asked to leave, but they cannot make us.”
“No more contention,” Ashwin replies, rubbing at a headache. “We’ll go.”
He starts for the road, and Pons and Indah follow. I lock in a shout. Why is Ashwin listening to the sisters? He’s their rightful leader! I squeeze my fists at my sides and trail him down the road. Pons wraps his arm around Indah, and she leans against him. I cannot tell if she is sick again or simply exhausted from our horrible night. Whatever the case may be, she needs to rest. She should not be trekking down a snowy mountain.
My anger pushes like a blade into my gut. I stomp up to Ashwin. “Are you giving in?”
“Does it appear that way?”
“You’re feeling sorry for yourself. You should be thinking of our people.”
He addresses me, his walk swift. “A ruler doesn’t force himself upon his people. He cannot demand that they love or respect him. Besides, the priestess is right to send us away. We invited rebel deceivers here and they destroyed the temple.”
“So that’s it? You’re going to let them think the demon masquerading as your father is a better leader than you?”
Ashwin comes to an abrupt halt. “Who are you angry at, Kalinda? The priestess for sending you away? Me for not caring? Yourself for burning down your childhood home—”
I throw a small flame into the air between us, and he jumps back. “You’re Tarek’s son with or without me. Accept your fate and claim your throne. Stop pitying yourself.”
“I am my father’s son, but that doesn’t entitle you to speak to me so.”
“You’ve never been the exact image of your father until just now.”
His gaze flattens to a wall. “And you’re his murderess.”
Indah wedges in between us. “Stop it. You’re like dragons, snapping at each other’s gullets.” She clutches her stomach, and my temper dissolves to concern. Indah covers her mouth. Heaving into her hand, she runs for a shrub alongside the road.
Pons strides over to her. I fire a glare at Ashwin for letting the priestess bully us into leaving. Indah’s condition is his fault. She finishes retching and wipes her mouth on her sleeve.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re ill?” Ashwin asks.
“I’m not ill. I’m . . . I’m with child,” Indah replies. Ashwin and I stare openly. “Pons and I have known for a while. I’m more than five moons along.”
Her explanation adds to my amazement. She was with child when she traveled to Iresh to fight in the trial tournament. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“My father will be angry,” she whispers.
Pons tugs her in close. “Perhaps at first,” he says, “but he’ll praise Enki once he’s a grandfather. He loves you, and he will love our child.”
Ashwin fidgets with his gold cuff. Our gazes meet, and once again, I can envision his dream for us. The dream I stomped all over. His dejection is still too fresh, too visible. I have to look away.
A sudden northern wind arises, twirling down the road the way we came. Pons tilts his ear to the sky, and his eyes progressively widen.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Come along.” He leads Indah back the direction we came.
Ashwin and I hustle after them, following the smoke spiraling into the sky, around the bend in the road to Samiya. A mahati falcon, feathers rich red with orange undertones and yellow tips, circles the site of the fire. Its master rides the giant bird on a woven saddle. Her silvery hair flies behind her, striking as lightning against her sepia skin. The falcon screeches as it dives. The sisters and wards scatter and hide in the unburned section of forest. The great bird, its body large as a wagon and its wingspan three wagons wide, lands near the ice-covered lake.
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.
Overlooking the landscape, I squint at the sunburnt dunes rolling into the distance. Our troops trek up and down them like organized lines of red ants. I collect my breath and guide our horses and wagon over the ridge to descend the other side.
Sweat trickles into my eyes. I swipe the stream away with my arm, also slick from perspiration, and smear grit across my brow. Soldiers trudge alongside us, their headscarves shielding their mouths and noses from the sun and sand. I pinned my headscarf across the lower half of my face, as did Yatin and Natesa. She was elated to discard the turban this morning and pick up a headscarf in the last village before the desert. There, we united with a legion of imperial soldiers waiting to join our march on Vanhi.
With them, our ranks have swelled to ten thousand men, maybe a few hundred more. Our growing numbers have allayed some of my anxiousness about being discovered, but I am still on edge. The soldier Yatin dispatched with his haladie was reported missing. A gossipy water server alluded to suspicions that the man deserted. But Manas may not be so quick to dismiss his disappearance.
My unit rallies and starts the climb over the next sand dune. On a parallel rise, another wagon becomes stuck. I spot Manas on his horse coaching a team of men to dislodge the wagon. Eager to get ahead of them, I yank harder on the harness. My arms quiver from urging on the horses, but soon we exceed the elevation of the other wagon.
Nearer to the steep ridge, our wheels sink into the sand. The wagon slides sideways down the incline and the top-heavy catapult tips. The horses stumble backward with the heavy wagon, snorting and braying. I dig my heels and skid with them.
Shouts ring out, and soldiers rush over to stabilize us. Hands and backs wedge against the leaning side. Yatin props himself under the shadow of the tilting artillery. Natesa relieves me of the reins so I can join him. My feet slip, but more soldiers help to steady the catapult.
Frozen at an angle, the wagon continues to drift. The men at the back push up and stop the wagon’s descent, but it is still tipping. The catapult will land on them and take out the soldiers in its path downhill.
“We need weight!” I say. “Yatin, jump on the high side!”
He goes around the wagon and climbs onto the catapult. His weight lowers the raised wheels some. Another three men leap on, and the wagon drops onto the sand. The men jump off, and our unit finishes hauling the catapult up and over the dune.
Down in the trench, Yatin, Natesa, and I collapse against the wagon, breathless and sun worn. The same commander that assigned us to man the catapult trots up on his horse.
“Well done, soldiers.”
I wipe my clammy brow with my headscarf, cleaning the grit from my eyes. “Just doing our duty, sir.”
He calls for a water server. Natesa pets the horses, her gaze downcast. She cannot drink without removing her headscarf, so she waves the server off. I down half my cup.
“May I keep this?” I ask the commander. We usually return our cups for reuse, but I want to reserve the rest of my drink for Natesa.
“You’ve earned it,” the commander says, then looks to an officer riding to us.
Gods, almighty. Manas.
Natesa maneuvers around the horses, tending to their bridles. Yatin hovers at the fringe of my vision, his broad shoulders bunching. I let the brim of my headscarf fall to my eyebrows, the cloth still pinned across my lower face.
“Commander,” Manas says by way of greeting, “well done saving the catapult.”
“This is the soldier you should thank.” The commander motions at me.
I bow. Manas’s stare bores into me with the severity of the afternoon sun.
“You’ve crossed this desert before,” Manas remarks. I nod, my head still lowered to conceal my eyes. “What’s your name?”
I need a name. Any name. I blurt out the first one my mind latches on to. “Chitt.”
“We’re missing an officer, Chitt. You seem to be the vigilant sort. Did you see an officer depart from the troops yesterday?”
The soldier was an officer. Gods alive. No wonder Manas put out a report for him. I coarsen my voice so he will not recognize it. “No, sir.”
His horse paws at the sand, digging trenches that I feel in my chest. Soldiers continue to advance past, many slowing to get around us.
“I could use another man to replace the missing officer,” Manas says. “I admire your dedication, Chitt. I’m promoting you to captain. Come with me.”
I mangle a guffaw, cramming it inside me. Manas is promoting me to captain. I was his captain and commander. For him to advance me—or in all actuality, demote me—scalds. Regardless of his arrogance, at any moment he will discover who I am. Natesa and Yatin need time to vanish into the troops.
The Rogue Queen (The Hundredth Queen Series Book 3) Page 18