The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen Series Book 2)

by Emily R. King

  Ashwin follows my gaze and speaks into my ear. “Years ago, Rajah Tarek poached an elephant herd from the jungle. When Sultan Kuval demanded them back, Tarek sent him the ivory husks of the oldest and largest elephant he stole.” Ashwin gazes pointedly at the large tusks of the sultan’s throne. “I’ve been told those are they.”

  Sultan Kuval beckons to Ashwin. The prince goes to occupy the empty throne to the sultan’s left. Brother Shaan kneels across the aisle from the sultan’s court. I would rather sit alone, but to prevent others from noticing that we are at odds, I join him. I do not meet the brother’s seeking gaze. I am still fuming at him for not telling me when my party arrived. His omission cost Deven the skin on his back.

  The sultan rises, and a hush falls over the terrace. “Welcome, honored guests,” he says. “We’re joined by representatives from Lestari and Paljor, as well as Prince Ashwin of the Tarachand Empire. The prince has asked for aid, and we have heard his call. The rebels are not his responsibility alone. Together we will unify the continent with this trial tournament. At this time, each competitor will come forward and declare their intent to vie for the Tarachand throne. First we welcome Indah, Virtue Guard from the Southern Isles of Lestari.”

  He swings out an arm to direct our attention to the stream. A young woman floats over the water on bare feet, a cloud of vapor around her. A short skirt is wrapped around her legs, and a twisted band covers her chest. She is tall, taller than me, and built to weather a tide, with strong sculpted legs and arms. Her bare waist is thin, her shoulders broad, and her golden-brown skin dewy. Ashwin’s mouth falls open. Lestari has sent a woman who exudes natural strength and sexuality, and who is also an Aquifier.

  Indah reaches land, and the ethereal mist dissipates. She pads on bare feet to the dais, carrying a trident and a large shell. Her eyes are the same golden hue as the interior of the shell and reflect the bronze sheen of her painted lips.

  Indah bows and holds out the shell to Ashwin. “Your Majesty, please accept this gift from my island as a token of my devotion.” He takes the shell, his hands exploring its rough ivory surface. “Hold it to your ear, and you can hear the sea.”

  Ashwin lifts the shell to his ear, and his eyes widen. Indah bows to him with a smile, and then descends the dais and joins the Lestarians in the audience. She moves with the grace of a wave and the might of the moon. Ashwin sets the shell in his lap, pleased and stunned by her magnificence.

  Sultan Kuval announces the second competitor. “Next we welcome Tinley from the alpine cliffs of Paljor, daughter of Chief Naresh and Guardian of the North Wind.”

  A gale rushes through the terrace, tousling hair and skimming cheeks. A sound like a whip cracking snaps overhead, and everyone looks up. Something large flies above us, a bird with red-orange feathers and the sharp beak and talons of an evolved predator. A mahati falcon, king of the sky and natural enemy to serpents, mocks the wind with the speed of its flight.

  On the back of the mahati rides a sleek young woman. Her opaque eyes and silver hair are striking against her warm sepia skin. She lands the falcon with a whoosh that disperses all sound to wind song. Only a Galer could dominate the skies with such flawless form.

  Tinley dismounts and strokes the bird’s feathery breast. She pulls a scorpion from a pouch around her waist and tosses it into the falcon’s open beak. A long sarong covers her upper thighs, a high slit revealing long, lean legs, and her chest is banded with a single strip of dark cloth. A crossbow is strapped to her back. Her milky eyes take in the crowd, sharp as the long nails jutting from her fingers like talons. She stalks into the terrace and down the aisle before the dais.

  Tinley bows and removes a feather from her pack. “Prince Ashwin, as a token of my devotion, please accept this feather plucked from my falcon, Bya, sky-friend to all mankind and guide to the heavens.” Her musical voice rings like copper wind chimes.

  Ashwin takes the feather and runs his fingers over the flexible blades. Tinley assumes her place among the crowd beside her people. A small current of sweet air flows around her, a sip of pureness that is intoxicating.

  Dread imbeds itself in my belly. I am not competing against mere warriors. These women are bhutas and masters of their inner element. Another lesser concern nags at me. I did not bring a gift for the prince. I have no more time to think of this as the ground begins to tremble.

  Sultan Kuval raises his voice. “It is now my pleasure to introduce my firstborn and eldest daughter, Princess Citra, Sentinel of the Morass.”

  Trumpets peal, startling the crowd. The ground shakes harder, rising up through my thighs. A group of elephants stomp across the gardens, decorated with headpieces of golden tassels and rich green and purple cloth. Princess Citra rides bareback on the first of the animals. She and her majestic mount stop shy of the pillars, and she emits a ground-shaking yip. Her elephant lifts its two front legs and holds the balanced stance. Princess Citra hangs on, one arm raised above her head. Another yip from her, and the elephant drops, vibrating the pillars.

  The only other person surprised by Princess Citra’s powers is Ashwin, who gawks along with me. The princess has not worn a yellow armband like the other bhutas in Iresh, so it did not occur to me that she is a Trembler.

  Princess Citra slides off the elephant, moving gracefully in her heavy breastplate and helmet. She lifts her arms and clucks her tongue. The elephants bow before her, and the crowd hushes in reverent awe. Princess Citra clucks her tongue twice. The herd rises and plods away, their thin tails swishing.

  The princess slinks up the dais to Ashwin and removes her helmet, her hair falling over her shoulders like strings of black sapphires. “I offer a token of my devotion to Prince Ashwin.” Planting either hand on his armrests, she leans over him. “A kiss,” she says and presses her lips to his.

  Ashwin’s eyes fly open. The audience titters. Sultan Kuval scowls at his daughter’s audacious display. Princess Citra withdraws, and Ashwin droops in his throne, red faced. The princess licks her lips and grins. Has she any decency?

  The princess struts down the steps and kneels with the sultan’s women of court. A girl no more than twelve sidles up to her, and Princess Citra loops her arm around the youngster. They have similar features—they are sisters. The girl must be Tevy, the one Ashwin told me about.

  Sultan Kuval clears his throat, calling the audience to attention. “And finally, we welcome Kindred Kalinda, rank-tournament champion of the Tarachand Empire.”

  I rise without fanfare. I have no majestic beast to ride on. No fancy armor. No grand weapon besides my mother’s daggers, hidden beneath my skirt.

  Sultan Kuval’s lips twist smugly. He does not know that I am a bhuta, yet he pitted me against three. He has set me up to fail. How far does his scheming go?

  Silence digs into my back. I stare up at Ashwin, my heart hammering. I do not know what to do. I cannot be seen as weak before my competitors, but I cannot reveal my powers without word spreading to the camps that I am a Burner.

  “Kindred Kalinda, what’s your offering?” Sultan Kuval presses.

  “I . . .”

  Reading my panic, Ashwin rises from his throne. “Kalinda needn’t offer me a token of devotion. Her coming here is the only gift I require.” He crosses to me and kisses my cheek. I jolt a little. This close, he is a mirror of Tarek. Ashwin frowns, understanding that he has unsettled me. But instead of moving away, he kisses my other cheek. “I’m not my father,” he whispers.

  I scrounge up a smile and turn to the audience. Princess Citra’s face screws up in jealousy. Tinley inspects her sharp nails, unimpressed by my introduction, and Indah remains collected, unconcerned by my closeness to Ashwin. He and I return to our seats, and Sultan Kuval addresses the assembly.

  “I have given great thought to this trial tournament, as to what qualifications make an outstanding rani. My pondering led me to our history. In ancient days, Anu challenged his children, Enlil and Enki, to prove their godliness in a number of trials. Our competitors w
ill face a series of similar tests. But before they begin, each one must complete an exhibition of ability. Skill demonstrations are customary before any tournament. They provide each contender the opportunity to boast her weaponry expertise and intimidate her opponents.”

  For my last skill demonstration, I broke glass orbs with my slingshot. But I suspect the sultan will require something more strenuous of my bhuta opponents and, subsequently, me.

  “Tomorrow at sunset,” says the sultan, “competitors will meet at the mouth of the Morass. There they will receive further instructions.” With that ominous declaration, he adds, “Let us feast!”

  12

  DEVEN

  I lie on my stomach, all strength bled out of me. To blink is to harness the power of a thousand men. To swallow is to employ the gods. The Aquifier pours more healing waters over my back. The warm liquid releases a cascade of fresh smells, from sun-warmed muslin to coconut to white sandalwood. My skin tautens painfully and then tingles with welcome coolness.

  A member of the brethren has not come to offer a healing blessing on my behalf, as is customary in Tarachand, but I did not expect it. During my time training with the brethren, I learned Janardanians do not worship the Parijana faith as we do but a varied sect that places the land-goddess above her husband, the sky-god. Janardanians believe returning to the ground to feed the land, Ki’s domain, is an honor. They accept that they will die when the land-goddess chooses, and they do not interfere with her will through prayer.

  The Aquifier trickles more of his fresh-scented water over my back. Foggy dreaminess drifts over me with the lifting pain, my mind flowing from one abstract thought to the next. An image of a fox arises from the darkness.

  “I’m finished for now.” The Aquifier’s voice sharpens my focus. With great effort, I turn my head to see him gathering his empty jug and bandages. “I’ll leave your back unwrapped. The air is good for your wounds.”

  I thank him, and he leaves, shutting me in the dark.

  Closing my eyes, I relish the release from pain. I intend to sleep, but Kali’s grave stare blooms in my stream of thought. The rest of her materializes next, her willowy frame, thick dark hair, and delicate face. I reach for her, and the second my fingertips touch her cheek, her expression changes to hurt. She backs away and runs into the shadows.

  I set out after her, calling her name, and my surroundings transform into snowy woods. I run through the dark forest, and a snap sounds behind me. I round a tree and stumble to a halt. A fox lies dead at my feet, scarlet staining the snow around it, a snare wound around its leg.

  The door to my cell creaks open, bringing me back to the present, and a hulking figure comes in. I drum up an ounce of strength to clench my fist in defense.

  “Hello, Captain,” Yatin says. I uncurl my hand, and my friend pulls up the healer’s stool. “I cannot stay long. The guards check the prisoners’ tents twice an hour. The Galer guards may start listening to us, if they aren’t already.” Yatin lays his wide palm on the top of my head. “I am sorry I didn’t stop them.”

  “My punishment was just. You did nothing wrong.”

  “Neither did you,” he asserts.

  “That’s a matter of perspective.”

  Yatin leans forward and clasps his hands. Shadows play with my sight, revealing sections of his solemn face. Yatin is the youngest of six children. His older siblings are all sisters, and his mother a widow. Like me, when he joined the imperial army, he was more accustomed to women than men. I was brought up at the Turquoise Palace, surrounded by nursemaids, courtesans, and ranis, an experience my mother insists made me the peacemaker I am. Yatin is even more of a peacemaker. I admire his long-suffering temperament and belief that every soul is fundamentally good. He speaks carefully, with deliberate thoughtfulness. “The vizier announced the trial tournament to the men . . . I don’t understand. Why is the kindred competing?” His words carry another question. Don’t you love each other?

  I lick my parched lips. They feel dry, like tree bark. “Do you remember when we were camped in the lower Alpana Mountains, traveling with Rajah Tarek to the Samiya Temple?”

  “That was before Rajah Tarek claimed Kalinda,” Yatin recalls.

  “I was on watch one night. It was snowing and especially still, the snowflakes muffling the noises of the forest. In the distance, beyond the quiet, I heard scratching noises. The rest of the men were asleep, so I took a lantern into the woods and came upon a trapped fox. A hunter had set a snare, and the fox had the misfortune of finding it. When the fox saw me, it growled and tried to wrench free. In its struggle, the snare wrapped tighter around its hind leg, and blood soon flecked the snow.”

  I wet my dry lips again. My body is dragging me over a cliff of exhaustion, but I hang on to consciousness. I need Yatin to understand. “The fox was unharmed other than the snare strangling its leg. I knew if the animal worked itself free, it would survive, but it would not calm down and outsmart the snare so long as I was near. So I walked back to camp, and soon its growls and yips ceased.

  “The next morning, I rose before dawn and returned to the trap. As I got closer, I heard no sound of struggles. With some dread, I thought the fox had died trying to twist free. But when I reached the trap, the fox was gone, and the snare had been chewed apart. Tracks led into the woods. The fox had wriggled and gnawed its way to freedom. When I returned to camp, Rajah Tarek asked me where I’d been, and I told him about the fox. He said I should have harvested its pelt. He saw the trapped fox as something to take advantage of.” I shake off the memory of Rajah Tarek and go on. “Last night with Kali, I remembered that fox. She asked me to go with her, and I was tempted. But that snare . . . It would have still been around her leg.”

  Yatin processes my meaning. “You think Kalinda can break free from her throne?”

  “I think she has a better chance if I leave her be. The closer I am to Kali, the harder she resists the snare that has her.” For two moons I have tried to find a way to release her from her throne, but her fate belongs to the gods. “I cannot save her, nor should I try.”

  “Even if it means walking away.” He is silent a long moment. I begin to drift off, but his low voice tugs me back. “Will the prince exercise his first rights to Kalinda?”

  “He will try.” I despise Prince Ashwin for dangling Kali’s freedom before her for his gain. He is like Rajah Tarek was with the snared fox, extorting control over another’s pain and misfortune. “But she will find a way to break free.”

  “What if she doesn’t?” Yatin asks.

  Exhaustion pulls me toward sleep, but I rasp out one more answer. “Then I have failed her.”

  13

  KALINDA

  A host of servants rearranges the terrace into an outdoor banquet hall with low tables and candlelight. The sultan dines among his wives and courtesans, away from the rest of the attendees. Eunuchs stand guard around them, scrutinizing any patron who comes too close.

  Prince Ashwin is seated at a table on the dais, and my competitors and I are invited to feast beside him. He saves the floor rug to his right for me, leaving the left one open. Princess Citra plunks down on it before Indah and Tinley have a chance.

  While servants set dishes of food before us, down the short steps a toddler seated with the sultan’s court screams and throws food at his nursemaid.

  “Who is that?” I whisper to Ashwin.

  “The heir to the sultanate. Kuval has a lot of daughters, but that is his first son.”

  Princess Citra must be fifteen years older than the young prince, yet her baby brother is to inherit the throne. Such dynamics seem unfair given the princess’s loyalty to her homeland. The nursemaid picks up the screaming boy and paces with him out in the garden.

  Citra scoots closer to Ashwin’s side, drawing his attention. “What did you think of my token, Ashwin?”

  “Ah . . . it was unexpected.”

  “Was it?” she purrs. Indah laughs at her from across the table. Citra scowls. “What?”


  “You’re exactly as your reputation portrays.” Indah’s gaze slides across the table. “All of you are.”

  “Oh?” Tinley sits forward, her light hair gleaming under the chandelier lantern. “What have you heard?”

  “I’ll start with you, daughter of Chief Naresh,” Indah replies. “You cut your teeth on mahati bones and learned to fly when you were only four. At age eight you hatched Bya and have since spent most of your time on your falcon in the sky. Your proficiency is with the crossbow, you enjoy anything that has to do with heights, and you tug at your tresses when you’re uneasy.” Tinley swiftly unthreads her fingers from her silvery hair. “Ever since your father’s second in command cornered you in the tanning hut, you distrust men. If you lose the tournament, you’ll negotiate for better trade for your people. However, if you win, you do not intend to live with the prince. You’ll settle in a mountain outpost and spend the rest of your days patrolling the empire’s borderlands from the sky.”

  Ashwin stops chewing. “You wouldn’t stay with me in the palace?”

  Tinley shoots Indah a poisonous glare. “I haven’t decided yet, Your Majesty.”

  I pick at my food with my fingers. The spicy sauces and dishes smell delicious, of turmeric and coriander, but I am too nervous dining with these women to put anything in my belly.

  Indah swivels her focus to Citra, her next victim. “You have never left Iresh. You didn’t even set foot outside the palace gates until you were fourteen. Your father is afraid you’ll be killed like your mother was.” I sit up straighter, and Ashwin stills, the flatbread in his hand forgotten. Citra’s eyes and jaw harden. “You have one full younger sister, Tevy, who shares your same mother, and you would do anything for her happiness. Your first love was with a palace servant when you were thirteen. Your father found out, castrated the boy, and sold him to another household. Since then, you invite public male attention often to punish your father.”

  Tinley snorts, amused now that the focus is off her. I spread my fingers out in a fan against my breastbone. How does Indah know all of this? From the other women’s reactions, everything she says is accurate.