The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen Series Book 2)

by Emily R. King

  “I made myself a champion. I won’t make the same mistake twice.” I slam the door in his startled face, letting the satisfaction of the brusque echo vibrate through me.

  A servant bustles in from an antechamber. I wave her away. “I don’t need a servant. Tell them to reassign you.”

  She retreats the way she came, and I prowl the bedchamber, searching for possible exits, an escape route, should I need one. None of the closed windows have latches. I check the balcony, dissatisfied with my findings. The exit is too high to jump from, and armed guards patrol in the garden below, either to protect me or to lock me in. Most likely both. And Opal will be stationed outside my door.

  I am stuck.

  I take off my satchel and drop it on the bed. A note addressed to me rests on the table. Beside the note are a sketchbook and a tray of fine quills, ink bottles, and charcoals. I run my fingers over the rainbow array of inks. I have always wanted to learn how to paint, but I pull away. Prince Ashwin cannot bribe me.

  But perhaps the prince’s gift could have another use . . .

  I tug the leather cover off the sketchbook and fit it around the Zhaleh. That will do. After slipping the Zhaleh back into my bag, I stretch out on the bed and try to relax into the downy pillow and silk sheets, but noises carry in from the balcony, lonesome birdcalls and warbling cicadas. My bedsheets smell oddly of musty moss.

  A dull throbbing swells inside me. I wish for the crackle of a campfire, the grit of dust on my hands, and the comforting scent of warm sandalwood and leather. Where are you, Deven?

  A yawn pops out of me. Shutting my eyes, I picture home to force my muscles to unwind, but Rajah Tarek’s spirit looms over me in the dark.

  5

  DEVEN

  I slog across the marshlands, surveying the inky edge of the Morass in the distance. In the other direction, Yatin and Brac forge for cattails and Natesa and Mother pick long-stemmed reeds. Rohan is resting from our long flight. The wind told him Anjali and Indira are retreating back to Vanhi, so we have the wetlands to ourselves.

  At last, we are on the ground again, but I cannot see where I am stepping in the dark. I misjudge a mound of grass and slosh through a puddle. Cold, muddy water pours into my boots.

  Son of a scorpion.

  I finish surveying the area—with wet boots—and then squish back to Rohan, propped up against the wing flyer. His young face is disconcertingly pale. I heard no complaint or grousing from him today, but it was clear from his shaking arms that his Galer powers were overexerted by too many riders.

  Natesa and Mother huddle upon a higher mound of land, piling willow reeds. Brac holds his glowing hand to the heap of grass, and it ignites. Firelight brightens the area, revealing the dampness on our clothes and the bugs zipping through the balmy air.

  Yatin heaves rocks over for Natesa and Mother to sit on and then takes first watch near a glassy pond. He removes his uniform jacket and rests on top of it. Out of habit, I go to do the same and remember half a second too late that I took mine off in the desert after we left Vanhi. Eventually I will get used to not wearing my uniform, even though I am viewed as half the man I was with it. Yatin still thinks of me as his captain, but to the troop that passed us on the road yesterday, I am a traitor. I would be a fool to think my execution sentence is behind me. The trained soldier within me knows I deserve whatever punishment comes my way. But the man stripped of my uniform wants my title, my honor, back. An impossible wish. Traitors are neither forgiven nor forgotten.

  I find another rock for my seat, then pull off my boots and set them near the fire to dry. Mother passes out cattails for supper. They are all we have to eat. Our food stores were destroyed in the attack.

  Natesa curls her lip at the grassy stalk. “I’m not eating that.” She throws the cattail at the feet of the fire and rises.

  I shift out of her path before we touch. The one time I tried to help Natesa onto her camel, she drew a blade on me and nearly took off my finger. She only lets Yatin near her. She was wary of men when we first met, and her time as Rajah Tarek’s courtesan made her even more cautious. I would not admit this aloud—Natesa would probably slice me open if she knew—but I sympathize with her, as I do my mother. Rajah Tarek was not good to his courtesans.

  Natesa joins Yatin, his silhouette big beside hers. My chest pangs in envy. Skies, I wish I knew Kali was all right.

  Rohan picks up Natesa’s discarded stalk and nibbles it away, his eyes flat with fatigue. He finishes the cattail, curls up on his side near the fire, and goes to sleep.

  Across the campfire, Brac is missing his trademark grin. I know he regrets parching me, but I cannot forget that he threaded out my life source and used it as a weapon.

  Mother flickers her gaze between us, preparing to heap her motherly guilt upon my peacekeeping ways. I am sure I will give in. I am no good at holding a grudge. My instructor at the Brotherhood temple once told me I was quick to forgive—a compliment, I think. But Brac needs to realize the full ramifications of parching me and to never do it again. I tug on my wet boots and trudge away, facing the fields.

  Alone in the quiet, my evening prayers meander from expressing gratitude for surviving another day to requesting protection for the next. But prayers cannot curtail my restlessness. By now, Kali must have met Prince Ashwin. The events that have befallen the empire since Rajah Tarek’s death are not her fault. She did as the gods directed her. Even so, her ending the rajah’s life may dissuade the prince from retaining her in his court.

  But should Prince Ashwin take a liking to her . . .

  Mother and Brac speak in hushed voices behind me, probably about me. Brac does not understand how he is viewed. His abilities are terrifying. When he uses his Burner powers, I am reminded that he is a half-god. A literal spiritual offspring of Anu.

  And so is Kali.

  The harder I hold on to her, the brighter she shines and the further apart we grow. Kali is a shooting star. I do not know how much longer I can keep her close without burning up in her wake.

  Early light reveals a mist over the marshlands. Rohan is up and alert, his strength and color returned overnight. He gnaws down the rest of the cattails for breakfast while we take turns marching across the soggy plain to use the latrine.

  Brac comes up to my side. “Mother and I spoke last night. We agree it would be better for her and me to find another way to Iresh. You go ahead with the others. We’ll take the road east of here.”

  Several paces away, Mother hugs Natesa and Yatin. She must be telling them good-bye.

  “Why Mother?” I ask, masking my hurt. They decided this without me. “Yatin could stay behind with you.” He is the obvious choice to free up the weight of the wing flyer.

  “Natesa wouldn’t allow it,” Brac says lowly so they cannot hear. Separating Natesa from Yatin would be like trying to untangle a monkey from a tree branch. A monkey that bites. “This was Mother’s idea. She wants to see more of the empire.”

  “What about her bad knee?”

  “I’ll trade work for a horse and supplies in the next village, and she can ride to Iresh.” Brac glances at Rohan drinking from our water flask. “We’ll arrive a few days behind you.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.” I pull on my pack and tighten the straps with brisk tugs. Brac reaches out to console me, and I lean away.

  “I am sorry for parching you, Deven,” he says, lowering his hand. “I was trying to protect you and Mother. I don’t want you to fear me.”

  I am not afraid of Brac. I am afraid of what he can do. Since we were boys, I have distanced myself from his powers. I hate that I am weak. Weaker than him.

  Brac starts to go, and, despite my anger, I refuse to part on bad terms. “Wait,” I say. “No matter what, we’ll always be brothers.”

  Brac hauls me into a hug. A moment later, Mother wraps her arms around us both. “I knew my boys couldn’t stay mad at one another.”

  “This is solely for your benefit,” says Brac.
<
br />   “That’s right, Mother,” I add. “As soon as you turn your back, I’m going to throttle him.”

  Mother shakes her head at our teasing and rests her palm against my cheek. “Be good to yourself. Your fate may not seem to be leading you where you want to go, but following it will bring you more peace than you could dream.” I squint down at her, sensing a lecture. She pats my cheek affectionately. “I’m proud of you, son.”

  Heavy regret lands across my chest. At one point I may have deserved her praise, but not anymore. I take off my pack and pass it to her. “My supplies should last until the next village. Look after each other. Brac likes to wander off when pretty women are near.”

  My brother barks a laugh, lifting my mood. Then the first stirrings of Rohan’s gales disperse the mist hanging over the marshland and wash away my smile. I have spent long stretches of time away from my family before, but the empire is days away from falling to the warlord’s control. I do not like leaving them behind.

  Yatin and Natesa are already on the wing flyer. I climb in beside Rohan, and the flyer rises. Brac wraps his arm around Mother’s shoulders. They shrink below us until they are the size of ants. Rohan’s winds switch direction, and the wing flyer banks deftly, agile with less weight, like a moth instead of a fat bumblebee. We turn southeastward over the wetland, and my family sinks out of sight.

  On the horizon, I spot a regiment of soldiers bearing the Janardanian flag traveling the roadway alongside the Morass.

  “Why are those troops this far west?” I call to Rohan.

  “Routine patrol,” he yells over the wind.

  The ranks of the slow-moving battalion—about a thousand men—and numerous wagons suggest they are hauling heavy artillery. They are well within their borders yet are marching northwestward, nearer to Tarachand. They could also be traveling around the Morass.

  Before I can determine their destination, we turn east into a red dawn.

  6

  KALINDA

  Opal waits while I strap my daggers to my thighs. She arrived moments ago, wearing the loose dark-green uniform of a Janardanian palace guard, and summoned me to meet with the sultan.

  “Any word from Rohan?” I ask.

  “Not yet, but he and the others are probably a day or so behind.”

  They could be here by tonight. If I can win over the people’s affection for the prince today, we could leave tomorrow.

  “Before we go, put this on.” Opal offers me a veil. I recoil like it is a lit match. Married women wear veils. I am not married. “Brother Shaan said you mustn’t be seen in public without the lower half of your face covered.” She attempts to put the veil on me, but I tug it from her hand and crush the flimsy cloth in my fist.

  “My husband is dead.”

  I toss the veil, and it flutters to the floor beside my unmade bed. The sheets are crumpled, like my nerves. My nightmares of Tarek were worse last night, heightened by this strange place and the deception that brought me here.

  The rest of our party waits in the corridor. Prince Ashwin offers me a shy smile.

  “You look lovely, Kalinda,” he says.

  Having every inch of me clean is a luxury I have missed. I woke to the noises of servants filling a bath for me and leaving. I bathed in the mint-scented water for nearly an hour and then spent longer than usual combing my hair. I wear no eye kohl or lip stain, as I never bothered to learn how to apply them. Any attempt would be heavy-handed and make me look garish.

  Brother Shaan bows. “Kindred, please behave in the meeting today. The sultan doesn’t often allow women into the war room.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say stiffly.

  Opal leads the way. The palace is opulent, with plant life at every corner, and swathed in tapestries of the land-goddess Ki. We leave the corridor to a covered walkway. A tall bamboo fence lines one side, so high I can only see the treetops peeking overhead.

  “What’s in there?” I ask.

  “That’s the tiger paddock,” Opal replies. “They’re the sultan’s pets.”

  Tigers are pets? I have come a long way from home.

  We are lead to an entry, past two tall potted plants on either side of a door. I step into the chamber with Brother Shaan and Prince Ashwin, and my inner flame snuffs out.

  I back out of the doorway and grip Opal’s arm. “I lost my powers. What’s going on?”

  “Protection.” She waves at the potted plants. “White baneberry and snakeroot.”

  The plants she speaks of are noxious to bhutas, given to mortals from the land-goddess Ki as a defense against us. They block bhuta powers, leaving us exposed. White baneberry and snakeroot have been used as safeguards from bhutas for centuries. I assumed the greenery was for decoration, but the palace is covered with poison. I must have experienced its effects last night while I walked the corridors.

  “The sultan doesn’t allow bhuta powers in the war room,” Opal whispers, glancing at Prince Ashwin, waiting for me inside. “Sultan Kuval doesn’t know what you are. The prince might, but I don’t know for certain. You should go. The sultan has limited patience.”

  Looking inside, I see a stout white-mustached man sitting on a pedestal across the sunken room. More pots of white baneberry and snakeroot line all four walls. A knee-high, rectangular table occupies the middle of the oblong chamber, with richly colored cloth floor mats laid about. Military officers are seated and ready to begin the meeting.

  Prince Ashwin eyes me with concern, attune to my discomfort. I am tempted to go back to my chamber, but I have come all this way to support him. Moreover, I have faced a room full of ranis, all experienced sister warriors. These men cannot be scarier than them.

  I step to the prince’s side in the war room, and my powers shrink to a useless ember.

  A middle-aged military officer with a gaunt face greets us. “Kindred Kalinda, I’m Vizier Gyan, the sultan’s head military adviser. We’ve heard much about you.” His gray-streaked hair is tied back, and he carries two machetes, one on each hip. His poor attempt at a welcoming smile broadens his austere appearance. He, with the other Janardanian men, wears a loose-fitting skirt instead of trousers, folded so there is a slight crease separating his legs. The vizier sizes me up in turn but with scrutiny that surpasses polite interest.

  Prince Ashwin leads me to the steely-eyed man on the throne. “Sultan Kuval, this is Kindred Kalinda.”

  The sultan lowers his double chin as if to inspect me better. “They call you the indomitable Kalinda, the reincarnation of Enlil’s hundredth rani.” His tone borders on ironic.

  I wince at the comparison to the fire-god’s triumphant intended queen. Tarachandians started a myth that I was Enlil’s final wife in another life, and Rajah Tarek fed their fantasy, expanding my reputation beyond the believable. I temper the urge to correct the sultan.

  “Thank you for having me, Your Majesty.”

  “I heard you refused the prince’s invitation to join the trial tournament.” His gruffness carries a note of satisfaction.

  “I’m undecided.”

  “We anxiously await your answer,” Sultan Kuval replies, returning to his ornery tone. “Please be seated.”

  Prince Ashwin and I kneel at the table, and Brother Shaan sits across from us.

  Vizier Gyan addresses the council. “Before we begin with other matters, we have questions for Kindred Kalinda about the recent events in Vanhi. Kindred, you were in the Turquoise Palace when it was occupied by rebels, were you not?”

  His question, and the subsequent dozen or so probing stares, catches me off guard. I clasp my unsteady hands in my lap, seeking some semblance of composure. “I was.”

  “How did Rajah Tarek die?”

  A phantom finger strokes down my cheek, and a deep voice whispers my love in my ear.

  I jerk my chin sideways. The sultan’s watchful presence hovers at the brink of my vision. “I—I don’t know. I fled when the rebels attacked.”

  Vizier Gyan takes hasty notes in front of him with a q
uill pen. “How did you escape?”

  “The captain of the guard led me through a secret passageway below the palace.”

  Their silence fires a flush over my skin. They do not know that I bargained with Hastin and slayed Tarek. Prince Ashwin shifts in his seat beside me. How much does he know?

  “On the night of the attack, did you see the bhuta warlord?” Vizier Gyan asks.

  I falter on a reply. All I can think of is the truth: Hastin tried to kill me in the underground cavern, but I used my powers and fled.

  Brother Shaan speaks up. “We must contest this line of questioning. We didn’t bring the kindred here so you could interrogate her.”

  “Our apologies,” replies Vizier Gyan. His flat offer of remorse is meant to appease Brother Shaan’s protest on my behalf. The vizier does not extend his apology to me. “The kindred is the only member of Rajah Tarek’s imperial court who escaped the insurgency. We must establish how and why she was spared.”

  They suspect I might be a traitor.

  But I am.

  I scatter the thought before guilt lands on my expression. “I’ll answer.” I level the vizier with a cool stare. “I didn’t see Hastin in the palace on the night of the attack.”

  Vizier Gyan leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Did you see Rajah Tarek’s body?”

  Brother Shaan lifts his hand to gain the council’s attention. “The kindred lost her husband on her wedding night. Upon fleeing the warlord, she searched for Prince Ashwin and came here to join him. Her devotion to the empire is undeniable.”

  No one contests him, though the council’s blatant disapproval of my fleeing Vanhi remains evident in their frowns.

  “One last question.” Vizier Gyan returns his meddling stare to me. “Where is the Zhaleh?”

  Finally, a question I have rehearsed an answer for.

  “I don’t know,” I say, reciting the reply I practiced with Deven in case the rebels caught me. “Tarek had it for years. The book must still be in Vanhi.”

  “Very well,” the sultan clips out. “Vizier Gyan, proceed with the other matters.”