The Warrior Queen (The Hundredth Queen Book 4)

by Emily R. King

  Natesa glances in the vanity mirror glass. “You should see Princess Gemi’s bridal sari. Asha outdid herself on the bodice. I may ask her to embroider mine.”

  “Princess Gemi is lovely, but she isn’t you.” I replay my words and quickly cover my mouth. “Please don’t repeat that to the viraji.”

  The formal term of endearment crowds my throat. I disliked the title when it was mine. It feels odd conferring it upon another.

  “Repeat what?” Natesa answers, eyes twinkling. She picks up a comb and brushes my hair. “Don’t worry, Kali. Everyone knows you’re glad for them.”

  “I am,” I say firmly.

  Though Ashwin proposed marriage to me, I care for him as my cousin and friend. I support his decision to take the Southern Isles’ princess as his first wife. Gemi has a unique zest for life and a free spirit. The empire is in dire need of a leader with her forward-thinking views.

  A crash outside draws Natesa to the balcony. She clucks her tongue and motions me to join her. Servants douse a grass fire in the garden below. A pair of girls flee into the trees.

  “You didn’t make it to the dining hall in time,” says Natesa.

  I rub at a mounting headache. “I had no idea two girls could be so much trouble.”

  Servants extinguish the fire and resume their work. Past the palace wall, Vanhi has woken. Men crowd the roads with their burros and carts, headed to the marketplace that is shaded by a mosaic of lean-tos. Women hang laundry on the lines strung between the huts and milk goats. Children play in the side-winding river while their older siblings collect water in baskets. Life is on the move, ready for a new day. I could fall into bed until noon.

  I scoop up my clothes and duck behind the dressing screen. Natesa prepleated the sari, but I fumble with the pins.

  “Kalinda?” Her voice comes at me tentatively. “Would you like help?”

  “No.”

  A former rani who lost two fingers during her rank tournament taught me how to carry out everyday activities such as dressing and dining. By necessity, my left hand has become dominant and does well with the assistance of my prosthesis.

  While pulling my sari over my shoulder, I drop a pin. Gods almighty.

  Natesa hovers nearby, waiting for me to give in.

  I select another pin and try again.

  2

  KALINDA

  My trainees—Basma, age nine, and her seven-year-old sister, Giza—gaze up at me with their hands clasped in front of their bellies. Dirt dusts their sandaled feet and legs. Historically, the Vanhi amphitheater housed rank duels between sister warriors. Basma and Giza are sisters but are far from skilled fighters.

  “Who threw the heatwave at Master Tinley?” I ask.

  Basma’s stare does not waver from mine. “It was me.”

  Giza lowers her chin. A sign of agreement? Or is she letting her older sister take the blame for her mistake?

  Except for the finger length of height Basma has on Giza, the sisters are identical, with rounded faces and tiny underbites that become more pronounced when they hold back tears.

  Tinley grumbles from across the arena, the tail end of her long silver braid singed. Indah, acting Aquifier instructor, soaked her down with water from the practice barrels. Neither woman needed much persuasion to stay in Vanhi and train our bhuta children, though right about now Tinley must be rethinking her decision. Indah and Pons, her partner, are content raising their baby girl here, and Tinley will seize any excuse not to go home to her parents and four younger sisters in Paljor. Though I have tried to figure out why, she has not provided any hints to her self-banishment.

  Across the arena, Tinley returns to instructing the five Galer trainees, teaching them how to manipulate the sky and wind to their advantage. The archery target Basma missed remains untouched and will remain so for now.

  “Practice looking for your inner star,” I tell my students. “Don’t open your eyes until you find the brightest one.”

  While the girls look inward for the manifestation of the fire powers, I stride to Tinley’s section. Her apprentices push a massive granite block across the arena with their winds.

  “I smell like charred yak meat,” she grumbles.

  “More like roasted lamb,” Indah says.

  Her five Aquifiers rest in the shade for a break. High above us, the benches that encircle the roofless amphitheater are empty. Even higher, on the rafters, the gongs glint in the late-morning sunshine and the Tarachandian red-and-black pennants lie slack without a breeze. We divided the oval arena into four equal parts. The bhuta children ages five to sixteen train in their respective sector.

  A little over a moon ago, Brac petitioned Prince Ashwin on behalf of our bhuta youth. Accidents with their powers were occurring all over the empire. The half-god children with elemental abilities passed down through their parents’ bloodlines no longer lived in fear of execution but had no masters to train them. After one mishap led to a six-year-old Aquifier drowning in her village bathhouse, Brac gathered the bhuta children, mostly orphans, and converted the arena into a training ground. Princess Gemi, a Trembler, has agreed to instruct our four Tremblers once she arrives. In the meantime, Indah oversees them.

  The Aquifier lifts her wavy hair and fans the back of her neck. She has slimmed down since birthing her baby, while her proportions have fluctuated. What stayed of her pregnancy weight redistributed to her curves.

  “I thought winters in the desert were cooler,” she says. Perspiration shimmers across her golden-brown skin.

  “This is cooler,” I reply. I watch my apprentices search inside themselves for their soul-fire. Neither seems able to find it.

  “Are you going to leave them like that all day?” Indah asks.

  “I would,” replies Tinley. She twirls a gust at a Galer boy who quit pushing the granite block. He scrambles to rejoin the others. Their massive rock reaches the arena wall, and she yells, “Next time finish faster!”

  The children slump against the ground, panting.

  “You should reward their progress,” Indah says.

  Tinley examines her talonlike nails. “Compliments breed laziness. They must always be on guard.”

  “Always be ready” is our training motto. My teaching style is less aggressive than Tinley’s. Brac taught me about my Burner abilities, and I had formal weapons training at the Sisterhood temple—all wards do. Jaya put in the longest hours with me. She was firm yet heartening during our sparring sessions.

  I return to my students.

  “Giza, stand against the wall. Basma, face me.” They both scurry to follow my orders. I set the archery target before Basma. “How many stars can you find?” She shuts her eyes again and counts. When she reaches twenty-two, I cut her off. “Let’s say thirty. When you come fully into your powers, you’ll raze and consolidate them into one inner star. Until then, you mustn’t let them overpower you. Without looking, hold out your hands.”

  As my student obeys, Ashwin and Brac appear in the imperial box at the north end of the arena. My pulse trips into a sprint.

  The prince looks just like his father.

  That box is where Tarek supervised my rank tournament. I am still too susceptible to the memory that engulfs me.

  Gooseflesh raises up and down my body. The Claiming chamber is cold. A blindfold conceals my sight from the benefactor looming behind the thin veil. I hear him step out and feel the heaviness of his gaze exploring my nakedness.

  Patient, plodding footfalls come closer. I want to run, scream, cry. My chin stays high, my fingers curled. Hot, sour breaths drift across my cheek . . . neck . . . chest.

  Fingers thread through my hair. The water-goddess’s symbol of obedience, a wave stained in henna down my spine, burns like blasphemy.

  “This one.”

  The echo of Tarek’s voice shatters my memory. I press my prosthesis over my charging heart. Ashwin abolished the Claiming, the rite that gave benefactors the power to take orphaned temple wards as servants, courtesans, or wiv
es. We are in the early stages of establishing alternative futures for those girls, and ourselves, but the past is hard to release.

  Ashwin’s arrival—not Tarek, Tarek is dead—stirs whispers from the trainees. The prince mentioned he might stop by to observe their improvement.

  Maybe he discovered how to free Deven.

  I know better than to let my hopes climb too high. Still, my breath is bated. I try to catch Ashwin’s attention. He watches the trainees. The Aquifiers shoot water from barrels like jumping minnows, and the Galers take turns suspending a rectangular carpet in midair. All of this is possible due to Brac, yes, but also Ashwin. He took in the bhutas and housed them at the palace. With the sisters and temple wards also lodging there until their new temple is habitable, his home is a constant mess of people.

  Basma leaves her eyes closed. I talk loudly so she is not distracted by the others training. “When I say so, release the lights.”

  “All of them . . . ?”

  “Don’t be afraid. They’re born of your soul-fire.”

  Basma fiddles her fingers. These girls must stop cowering to their own abilities.

  “Grab those stars and push out their heat,” I say. “Like this.”

  I throw a heatwave, and Basma’s eyes pop open. My shoulder recoils from the blast. I lock my elbow and regain control. My powers are half as strong as they were. Funneling them into one hand is a skill I have yet to master, if it is even possible.

  Basma tries for herself. Streams of mandarin flames jet from her palms and scorch the target. Frightened, she swings upward. Her heatwave arcs high across the amphitheater and strikes a pennant. The red cloth dyed with the empire’s black scorpion symbol catches fire.

  Basma covers her mouth in shock. Giza hurries over and hugs her sister. My annoyance at the girl’s carelessness dwindles and longing fills me. Will I ever stop missing Jaya?

  “I’m sorry, Master Kalinda,” Basma says.

  I grab both girls and hunch down to their level. “Don’t be afraid of who you are. You’ll learn to control your powers eventually. The gods gave you these abilities. They believe in you. Trust that.”

  The center doors to the arena clang open, and a large group of men prowl in. The men, wearing all black and headscarves across the lower half of their faces, disperse around us. Their swords are sheathed. Tinley and Indah guard their students, and I reach for one of my twin daggers. My mother’s blades are like a guardian spirit I carry with me always.

  An intruder steps forward, presenting himself. His headscarf covers all but his gaze. Though he no longer wears a uniform or carries the military-issued khanda sword, I recognize him as the first officer to defect from the army. The former commander has not been silent in his desertion. He has been speaking out all across the city against the prince’s acceptance of bhutas.

  “Go over there,” I say to my trainees. The girls dash to the children gathered behind Tinley and Indah.

  “Commander Lokesh,” Ashwin calls from the imperial box. “You weren’t invited.”

  The commander grips the gauntlets of his sheathed twin pata swords. The handguards cover his fists. “We saw the fire and came to see that everything was under control.”

  “As you can see, all is well,” Ashwin calls from on high.

  “I think not,” Commander Lokesh replies. His men still spread out, lurking closer. “Who will protect the people from these children? Your Majesty’s guards are becoming scarce.” He declares this with smug gratification. “My men and I are offering our services to those in need of more security in these uncertain times.”

  Captain Yatin and more guards march into the arena, near the imperial box. Ashwin is safe with Brac, but the mercenaries’ proximity to the children sets me on edge. I sheathe my dagger and push soul-fire into my fingers.

  “You need to leave,” I say. Tinley summons a wind to further coerce them. While her breeze tugs at the commander’s scarf, his cool gaze remains on Ashwin. I send off sparks, and Lokesh passes his attention to me.

  “Burner Rani,” he says in farewell.

  He signals to his men and they file out. After the last goes, Tinley reels a gust and slams the door shut. Yatin and his men exit to track their departure. Indah and a student sends geysers at the burning pennant and put out the fire. I let my powers ebb.

  “Something isn’t right about the commander,” Tinley says, reining in her winds. She drifts into herself, lost in thought. “His voice sounded . . . odd.”

  “I didn’t pay attention,” I say. “I was too busy watching his gauntlet swords.”

  Tinley harrumphs, unimpressed by his blades, and stalks to her trainees. The far doors swing open, and the prince enters the arena, his ambassador close behind him.

  “That was a warning,” Brac says. “Every day Lokesh takes in more soldiers. His mercenaries may soon outnumber the palace guards. You must divide them, Your Majesty.”

  “On what grounds?” Ashwin inquires. “The commander has done nothing unlawful. Lokesh has the right to vocalize his views. I cannot silence everyone who disagrees with me.”

  “Lokesh wants us to fear him,” I say, gesturing at the huddled children.

  Ashwin lowers his head. “Welcoming bhutas into the empire is a substantial change. The people will learn to trust each other. The more they interact, the less they will fear. For the time being, we’ll suspend training.”

  “Canceling training is what he wants,” argues Brac.

  “Would you have the children continue as though Lokesh hadn’t come here?” Ashwin challenges. He knows we would not. “We’ll assess the matter day by day.”

  Basma and Giza sprint to Brac and leap. He catches them and swings them around. “Come play with us!” they plead.

  Brac carts them off to join a game that Indah started. Ashwin’s gaze lingers after them, dark circles under his eyes. He was up late reading again.

  “Find anything new in your library?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, and I deflate. The only record we have of a mortal traveling into and out of the Void is the tale of Inanna’s Descent. Ashwin recalls some but not all of the story. We have been searching the library for the written version with no luck. Even if we find the text, the gate to the under realm lies at the bottom of a frozen alpine lake. Deven’s mother, Mathura, has traveled to the Southern Isles with Brac’s father, Chitt, to question the Lestarian elders about the existence of another gate. We have yet to receive word from them.

  “Would you like to ride back to the palace with me?” Ashwin asks. “I’m stopping by the temple building site.”

  Out of respect for his viraji, I have avoided spending time alone with him. Nonetheless, he is still my cousin. “I’d like that. Brac can stay with the girls.”

  The trio are far into the game. The trainees take turns blasting their powers at a coin on the ground. Whoever makes it jump the highest wins.

  Captain Yatin waits atop his horse outside the main door. His snug uniform shows off his bulky arms and barrel chest. He shaved his long beard, a mandate for officers. Natesa often complains about missing his hairy chin. I think his boyish face softens his daunting build.

  “Lokesh is gone,” Yatin reports. “I lost him in the market.”

  Ashwin assists me onto his horse and climbs on behind me. Our bodies are snug, nothing more. The attraction that was once between us has been dispelled.

  We set off uphill through the flow of people. Yatin and the other guards ride close to dissuade anyone from approaching. Most hurry in the other direction when they see me. Two wash girls do not recognize me until they are in front of us. They both utter “Burner Rani” in dismay and run off.

  I pretend their abhorrence does not bother me so Ashwin will not get upset. Truthfully, a piece of me misses my imperial title. Relinquishing the esteemed rank of kindred has left me off-centered. I have sought stability by serving my trainees and teaching the temple wards, but I am like a sunbird without a perch.

  We ride into the temple cour
tyard. Celestial glories are etched into the stone exterior, patterns of the sun and phases of the moon. In the short period since we broke ground, the artistry has been remarkable. After much convincing, Priestess Mita commissioned Tremblers to perform the carpentry, shortening overall construction by half the time.

  The floor plan is patterned after Samiya, except for the added windows and classroom where the Claiming chamber would have been. No more does the Sisterhood rely upon the generosity of benefactors. As fate would have it, the brethren of the Parijana faith are very frugal. They have enough in their coffers to support every division of the Brotherhood and Sisterhood for decades to come.

  Ashwin enters the archway and admires the multicolored walls. At our behest, the master architect sought inspiration from our diverse empire. Every landscape is portrayed, from the desert to the mountains to the southern seashore. Ashwin buffs a dusty tile with his sleeve and peers up at a shell chandelier, a replicated design from the Southern Isles.

  “The builders should conclude their work in a few weeks,” he remarks.

  Priestess Mita will oversee the dedication, then the sisters and wards will move from the palace and live here. I continue onward, leaving that lonely thought behind.

  Inside the chapel, painters toil on the murals. Their rendition of Ekur, the gods’ mountain temple, is otherworldly. Lush flowering gardens, pillars that hold up the sky, crystal waters bursting with rainbow fish, pristine walkways . . .

  “I’ve wished to speak to you alone for a while,” Ashwin says from my side.

  “We’ve been preoccupied.”

  “We both know it’s more than that.” He tugs nervously at his jacket sleeves. “You’ve been distant.”

  “Any closer and your viraji will be displeased.” I nudge him in jest. His solemnity is immovable.

  “I worry about you, Kalinda.”

  “You needn’t.” I ponder the mural of the land-goddess Ki flanked by sister warriors. Women of all ages carry blades engraved with the five godly virtues. My attention drifts to the shadowed corner of the room. I once thought I belonged with the daughters of Ki. Now I am not so certain.