“Her cracked shell must have caused it.” Anoush clucks her tongue. “Shame.”
“Grandmother,” Tinley says, “what was the purpose of that story?”
Anoush runs a finger down the back of the fluffy falcon. “Mahatis ferry the souls of the deceased to the Beyond. To access the gods’ holy home, the falcons pass through Ekur.”
“What about the arches outside the city?” I ask.
“Our people built those for souls returning to our realm. A mahati can lead you to Ekur. Many have searched the mountains in vain. They went on foot when they should have gone by sky.” Anoush sinks into Tinley’s lap, winded.
Tinley strokes her white hair. “I’ll ask the aides to take you to lie down now.”
“Leave me be.” Anoush removes the medallion. “For you, Burner Rani.” Her whole arm quakes, so I accept the charm. “I have finished my purpose.”
“What purpose, Grandmother?”
Anoush’s rasps crackle into pants. “Moons ago, when I was very ill, I was visited by a god. He said the Burner Rani who dethroned the tyrant rajah would come, and after I directed her to Ekur, I could return to the Beyond. The god gave me the medallion to pass on to Kalinda, but he called her by another name.”
I set down the hatchling and kneel by Anoush. “What name?”
“He called you”—she wheezes—“Cala.”
I rock back. That is the name I heard while we were flying near Wolf’s Peak.
“Tinley, you know all the stories now,” Anoush says, patting her cheek. She coughs, each more painful sounding than the last. “Assist Kalinda. Go with her and find peace.” Her head lolls against her granddaughter’s middle.
“Grandmother? Grandmother?” Tinley listens, her ear over Anoush’s mouth. The aides rush over. “She’s breathing. We need to get her home. Someone fetch my father!”
A stable hand sprints off to find the chief. One of the aides feels Anoush’s forehead.
“Why did you let her come here?” Tinley demands. “She should be in bed.”
“Today started as a good day,” an aide replies. “She was feeling well and insisted on meeting you and the Burner Rani. We couldn’t persuade her otherwise.”
Anoush does not strike me as someone who is easily swayed, yet I sympathize with Tinley’s outrage. My gut has wound into tangles.
More stable hands arrive to lift the limp old woman. Tinley and the aides stay close as they carry Anoush out. I begin to follow them, but the hatchling squawks and squawks. Uncertain if the bird is safe to leave alone, I shove the medallion into my pocket and pick her up. The tiny falcon cozies into my prosthesis. I cradle her, needing her comfort more than she needs mine.
12
ASHWIN
The ranis and courtesans quiet as I enter the Tigress Pavilion. Few men are let into this den of sister warriors. As a rule, we are advised to stay out. This long-held custom originated from a general sense of propriety. Only Brac routinely defies it, but he has left to spy on Lokesh.
Eshana greets me, and Parisa follows her over. The other women—a mixture of sisters, temple wards, and former courtesans—chatter lowly, their stares on me. I swipe restless fingers through my hair. Why are they all dressed in training saris? And where are Natesa and Gemi?
“Your Majesty,” Eshana gushes, “we weren’t expecting you.”
Parisa folds her arms across her chest. She wears her hair tied back, revealing the missing piece of her earlobe. A purple scar runs down her neck from the earlobe. Both were injuries sustained during her rank tournament.
“Is that aftershave?” Eshana asks. “Parisa, would you say it’s cinnamon?”
Parisa turns up her nose. They must smell the cinnamon sweets I took from a bowl during my previous meeting. The last candy I ate is still on my breath.
Eshana drapes herself down my side. “Have you given more thought to that foot massage?”
“He doesn’t want a massage from you,” Parisa snaps. “He has his foreign viraji for that.”
“Sssshhh . . .” Eshana pushes Parisa off to a corner. “You could be reprimanded.”
“For what?” Parisa does not lower her voice. “An outsider cannot be our kindred. The rajah’s first wife should be one of us.”
Other women mumble in accord. Shyla appears at my side.
“Your Majesty, let’s seat you.” As she leads me away, she says, “Those two have been bickering nonstop. Parisa told everyone you’ll wait two years to decide which of us, if any, will migrate to your court. Eshana insists you won’t make us wait long.”
We stop at the black-and-white-tiled fountain. Cushions are laid out opposite the weapons racks, and a sparring ring is marked on the training yard floor with chipped paint.
“Will you?” Shyla inquires. “Make us wait two years, I mean.”
I have not told anyone, not even Kalinda, that I am developing a long-term solution for the women of the court. Before I present my proposal, I need to finish my research. Shyla does not want flimsy promises. She needs the truth. “Firstly, this will always be your home. I will never ask you and Rehan to leave. Secondly, I—”
Natesa and Gemi enter the pavilion, and I lose my stream of thought. Kohl lines Gemi’s eyes, and her lips are dyed a daring red. Her hair is partially braided and circled around her head in a crown while the lower half flows down her back. The compromise between the ranis’ customary loose locks and the courtesans’ single, thick braids is striking. She fits in with a black training sari, wrapped so the skirt sweeps through her legs and tucks into the back of her waist. Our women don this fashion for ease of movement when they spar. Gemi could have accomplished the same freedom in the trousers she regularly wears, but she wore the Tarachandian traditional garb.
I take her clammy fingers in mine and guide her to the floor cushion on my right. Shyla occupies the one to my left. Everyone else kneels as well. None of the women invite my viraji’s attention with a jubilant welcome.
“Everyone is so quiet,” Gemi whispers to me.
“You’re doing well.”
Natesa stands in the center of the training pavilion. She outglows everyone in a tangerine sari with fuchsia embroidery. “Welcome to the arrival celebration for Princess Gemi of the Southern Isles. We will open with a sparring demonstration. Viraji, we will now introduce the wards of the Samiya Temple.”
Pairs of girls, between ages eight and sixteen, rush into the training section. They confront their companions with bamboo staffs and lift their weapons at the ready. Natesa claps and the show commences.
The girls sidestep and swing their staffs in a choreographed dance of striking and evading. Gemi observes, fully absorbed. One by one, each skirmish brings about a victor. We applaud them, and the wards scurry off.
The bhuta trainees run into the area next. Indah, who must have been waiting with them elsewhere, instructs her charges.
“Bhutas ready!”
The children bend into their knees. Giza and Basma, the Burner sisters, cast flames above our heads. I jump, concerned that the girls might inadvertently char us, and startle Gemi. We both exchange a nervous laugh.
The Galers stream wind at the flames and arc them higher. The Aquifiers steal water from the fountain and propel streams at the fire. Steam bursts above our heads, and, in unison, the floor rumbles from the Tremblers’ collective stomp.
All goes still.
Gemi begins the ovation. In Lestari, bhuta powers are displayed for entertainment, but the ranis and courtesans wear dazed expressions. I clap and some of them applaud half-heartedly.
The bhuta children dash off, and Shyla enters the sparring ring.
“Sister warriors,” she says, “select your weapons.”
Several ranis in the audience go to the weapons racks. Once they have picked their weapon of choice, they line up across the pavilion.
“As daughters of the land-goddess Ki,” Shyla says, “we face each other in battle to prove our honor, godly virtue, and strength. The ranis of Tarachand have
a rich history of defending their families and homeland. We now ask the viraji to step forward.” Gemi complies at once, and Shyla squares off with her. “As first wife and kindred, you will represent us to the world. Will you defend our families and homeland?”
“I will,” Gemi vows, shoulders back, chin high.
“Will you fight now?” questions Shyla.
I stiffen in protest. Natesa must have suspected this is where Gemi’s introduction would lead and dressed her appropriately.
“Yes.” Gemi beckons Indah. The Aquifier takes a trident from the weapons rack and gives it to the princess.
“Who will spar with the viraji?” Shyla asks the crowd.
“Me.” Parisa stalks forward with a khanda. Her lithe movements are practiced and powerful. For a moment, I see Gemi’s confidence flicker.
“Competitors will spar until first down,” says Shyla, retreating from the ring. “Either one concedes if she breaches the circle. No powers allowed.”
“I’ll compete fairly,” Gemi replies, holding the trident across her chest.
I assess the audience for any signs of alarm. No one appears to think this is an antagonistic welcome. Their hierarchy remains with or without the rank tournaments. My father’s ruthless legacy lives on.
Gemi lunges first. Parisa evades and swings. My muscles twitch in anticipation of either one sustaining a hit. Gemi blocks with the center of her trident, and Parisa shoves her back.
“What happened to your ear?” Gemi asks.
“I avoided a khanda blow to my skull.” Parisa aims her blade at my viraji while they circle each other. “Do you have any scars?”
“One on my thigh. I fell out of a tree when I was a child.”
“A tree.” Parisa laughs. Most of the spectators snicker as well. Gemi’s complexion deepens to scarlet. “I’ll give you a scar to be proud of.”
Parisa hacks at Gemi, forcing her to the rim of the ring. My viraji’s heel nears the line. Using both arms, she flings Parisa back. Gemi jabs the trident’s triple prongs at the rani and sweeps the long end under her feet. Parisa hits the floor on her bottom, sitting upright. Gemi lowers the prongs over her neck. Scars or not, she is spry for a novice fighter.
Parisa is still in the match. She whacks Gemi’s ankle with the blunt end of the sword. Gemi hobbles back, and Parisa hops up and kicks her in the knee. Gemi drops forward. Parisa goes behind her and knocks her in the head with her hilt. Gemi falls onto all fours.
I begin to stand, but Natesa motions me to stay back.
Parisa punches Gemi hard in the chin. My viraji falls into the center of the sparring ring, abdomen down. Parisa lowers the tip of her blade to the back of Gemi’s head, which bleeds from an earlier strike.
“First down,” Parisa says. Gemi rolls onto her back and looks up at the rani. “You’ll have to try harder to become our kindred.”
“Enough,” I interject.
Parisa falls back. She sets her khanda on the rack and prowls out of the pavilion.
Gemi picks herself up and retrieves her trident. She approaches the line of waiting opponents. “Next,” she says.
“One test will suffice,” I say.
“I’ll meet any challenger.” She hoists her trident at the ready. “Who’s next?”
None answer. They will not defy me.
Natesa slides between Gemi and the armed women. “This concludes our demonstration. We will now partake of fried breads and chilled wine in the dining terrace.” She guffaws nervously.
The women rack their blades and disband.
Gemi marches over to me and steels her voice. “You undermined me. You cannot defend me or they’ll always view me as an outsider.”
Her rosy complexion and smoldering eyes twist my tongue. “One test of skill was sufficient. You aren’t obligated to perform another.”
“But I am,” she hisses. “They must learn to trust me or I cannot lead.” She stomps to Indah, her knuckles white on the trident. The Aquifier tends to her head wound.
“She’s riveting,” Shyla says.
Heat pushes up my neck. “Gemi wasn’t raised as we were. To her, these rituals are strange.”
“Yet she’s shown she’s capable of rising to our standards.” Shyla touches my forearm. “Most of us didn’t receive a happy welcome upon our arrival, but few of us had the same innocence.”
I have also sensed Gemi’s goodness. She has not been jaded by the brutality of the empire. Training as a sister warrior will evolve her fighting skills, but what attributes will she relinquish for that knowledge? Is she doing this for herself, her peers, or for me?
“She wants a sister warrior to train her,” I say. “Will you do it? I trust you’ll be kind.”
Shyla blushes. “It would be my honor.”
“Your Majesty?” Pons calls from the doorway. I excuse myself to meet him. “Captain Yatin asked me to notify you that protestors have rallied by the river. At least two hundred, and their numbers are expanding.”
I leave the pavilion with Pons and go to an open casement that overlooks the city. People have clustered at the main riverbank. Lords, I hope Gemi does not hear of this.
“Where is the captain?” I ask.
“At the gate. Would you like me to escort you?”
“I’ll find my way.”
I get turned around twice. Once in a servants’ passageway, staggering a kitchen server, and again in the garden. (In my defense, the gardener clipped back the rhododendron trees, which were my previous marker.)
“Your Majesty,” Captain Yatin says, meeting me outside the guardhouse, “we must take you inside. The protestors are marching this way.”
Chanting resounds from the city. “Return to tradition!”
The protestors round the bend in the road to the main gate. Commander Lokesh leads the parade on his horse. He slouches in the saddle, relaxed in his arrogance, as the people intone.
Yatin ushers me to the palace entry steps. The commander halts at the gate. His headscarf masks his face except for his bold stare.
Anger scalds my tongue. Who is he to come to my door and terrorize me?
I revolve from Yatin and stride to the gate. With each step, the cries of the mob mount. Commander Lokesh signals for quiet, and the protestors silence. Several of my former soldiers and guards are mixed into the crowd.
“You’ve disobeyed a direct order, Lokesh.”
“As I’m no longer your commander, I elected to ignore it.” His headscarf does little to muffle his voice, which rings clear across the expanse.
I endeavor to keep my words between us. “Call this off.”
“These people have gathered on their own. I’m merely their figurehead.”
I grasp the bars. “Because of your lies, they beat a soldier to death.”
“I regret that you’ve lost another defender, but his demise could have been prevented had you listened to your people.” Lokesh goes on, plainspoken and loud. “We disapprove of a bhuta foreigner as our rani and will reject her as our kindred.”
Countless men stomp in accord. A cloud of dust drifts up and flows through the bars.
“You’re too shortsighted.” I drop my voice. My anger makes my every word crisp and clear. “Princess Gemi brings with her the assurance of fair trade, ample treasuries, and naval protection for generations to come. This union will provide us with the resources to rebuild stronger than ever. No other rajah has made a more profitable alliance.”
“Then you don’t wed for love,” states the commander. “If you want what’s best for Tarachand, then select a rani from the existing court. A rani who battled for her throne and earned our respect.”
His brazenness stokes my temper. “This is my decision. Accept my choice and advise your followers to do the same.”
Lokesh’s attention strays behind me and his tone darkens. “Someday you won’t have bhutas to hide behind. Then what will you be?”
I follow his gaze to the palace. Gemi and Indah are watching from a balcony. Yet again I
appear to rely upon my bhuta allies for compliance. I push away from the bars. “That’s enough, Commander. We’re done here.”
“Heed my warning, Prince,” Lokesh says. He spits through the bars to punctuate his distaste for me and then steers his horse around and saunters off.
The crowd disbands, casting glowers in my direction. I recheck the balcony. Indah and Gemi have returned inside. How long was my viraji standing there?
Yatin enters my peripheral vision and waits for my order.
“How many men do you estimate are in Lokesh’s ranks?” I ask.
“Approximately a hundred and fifty. Close to our same number of palace guards.” Yatin scratches his bristly chin. “A dozen men joined after they heard about the bonus, but three more defected in the middle of the night.”
Lokesh continues to fatten his support while we bleed ours. This public spectacle was for intimidation. Now that he has a taste for humiliating me, his behavior may escalate.
“Double the guards on watch. I don’t care where you find the men, just do it. I want to know if Lokesh comes anywhere near the palace.” I relax my taut jaw. “And ask Pons to send for Brac. We need to talk.”
I march inside and nearly trip over two girls playing marbles in the entry hall. How in the gods’ names did Tarek live with people constantly underfoot? I sidestep around them and head for the only place in the palace where I can be alone.
13
KALINDA
Wind rages against the village of mourners trekking up from Teigra. They have sleighs, but it is their ritual to carry the dead on foot to their resting place. A burial procession, Chief Naresh called it when he told me his mother had passed on. He said the matron slipped away quietly, surrounded by her family and friends.
We crest the snowy hill. Two guards lay the body wrapped in cloth on top of an altar, a slab of stone on stacked rocks. The afternoon sun, partly veiled behind a horde of clouds, gives no warmth over the winter landscape. Chief Naresh and Tinley lean together. Maida and Bedros comfort each other, and Sosi holds her younger children.
Snow flurries zip around us in unnatural sideways patterns, a manifestation of Maida’s or Sosi’s northern Aquifier powers. I watch from outside the group, my rabbit fur shielding me from the worst of the cold. Anoush’s final words to me burrow into my mind.
The Warrior Queen (The Hundredth Queen Book 4) Page 9