The Star-Touched Queen (The Star-Touched Queen #1)(16)
My lips parted. “But how did you know—”
“My own spies informed me.”
“Does the Raja know?” I thought of Gauri playing in her room, completely unaware of danger.
“Yes.”
A flurry of questions rose to my mind. “But—?”
“I sent my messenger to alert him.”
“I have to get to the harem. My sister isn’t safe.”
Picking up the ends of my sari, I turned toward the door, but then a rumble shuddered through the kingdom. The chariots had overturned. I could picture the soldiers beneath the wheels—unfurling from those crouched positions like nightmares made flesh. Thunderous footfall pounded the earth, gates creaked open and screaming ripped through the air.
“I have to go,” I said, my voice rising. “I have to warn them.”
Amar grabbed my arm.
“It’s too late for that,” he said. “They’re already fighting.”
I paused, straining to hear anything other than blood rushing in my ears. Distantly, I heard iron against iron, the sound of clashing shields, and the roar of screams pitted against each other. Outside the window, the chariots lay overturned, split open like hollow shells.
“There’s no time,” he said, releasing his grip on my arm. “The Raja himself asked me to deliver you from this.”
“He did?”
Amar nodded. Outside, the sounds of fighting grew closer and the parapets of the harem gleamed impassively.
“The women will be fine. Those generals only want one war. They won’t attack your sisters. If they do, they’ll have to answer to the kingdoms of their betrothed. As we speak, soldiers are guarding the harem.” His voice cut through my thoughts. “Who will guard you if you stay behind?”
I had no answer, stunned by what was happening outside the window.
“We must go,” he insisted.
If I stayed, I would die anyway. But if I went, at least I could live …
A flutter of hope beat soft wings in my chest. How long had I wanted to escape these walls? And now, on the brink of drowning that hope with poison, it was here. The past seventeen years could have been breath held solely for this moment. Something caught inside me, as sharp as a wound. I almost didn’t recognize the feeling—it was relief. Incandescent and glittering relief. Giddiness swept through me, leaving my hands trembling.
“Well?” pressed Amar. “Are we going or not?”
We? I looked him over. The garland of red carnations hung limply around his neck. He held out his hand like a casual invitation, indifferent to the tumult outside the chambers. How could I trust him? What if he sold me to the enemies? He had no reason to protect me … unless I meant something to him.
Something else guided my hands. Images flashing sideways—a different hand, a samite curtain. I was convinced that we owned this single moment, this sphere of breath, this heartbeat shared like a secret. I don’t know what possessed me, but I took the white garland and threw it around his neck.
I stared at my hands, not quite believing what they’d done:
With one throw, I had married him. Amar lifted the garland of white flowers and grinned. “I hoped you’d choose me.”
The right corner of his lips curled faster than the left. It was such a small movement, but I couldn’t look away from it. His smile was disjointed, like he was out of practice.
The doors of the chamber burst open. The fighting that was already churning in the halls now pooled into the inner sanctum. Guards and enemy soldiers spilled inside with spears raised.
The smell of burning rice filled the room, acrid and bitter. I grabbed the edges of my sari, feet pounding against the silk of the floor. My run was frenzied. Blind. In the adjacent hall, I tripped over abandoned swords and shields, slipping over puddles far too warm and far too red to be water or oil. My heartbeat roared in my ears, pushing out the sounds of fists connecting with flesh and the echoing trill of locked swords. All the fatigue, ache and grief lifted from me, dissolving in the air. Energy snaked through my bones. A fierce, almost painful desire to live pushed me toward the door, taunting me with the promise of the sun searing my skin, of clear air rushing into my lungs.
A soldier’s hand grasped for me, but Amar pulled me away. Arrows zoomed past, but each time one came near, he would whirl me out of the way. Amar never shouted. He didn’t even speak. He moved fluidly, dodging javelins, always a few steps behind me, a living shield. His hood never budged and revealed nothing more than the bottom half of his face.
The doors began to open, creaking like broken bones. Blinding light spilled into the room. I squinted against the brightness, but my feet never stopped. Hot, dry air filled my lungs and left them aching. The second I slowed, I felt a cool hand on my wrist—
“My mount is this way,” said Amar, pulling me away from the road.
I was too out of breath to protest as his hands circled my waist and lifted me onto the richly outfitted saddle of a water buffalo. The moment I found my grip, Amar leapt onto the animal’s back and, with a sharp whistle, sent dust flying around us. The water buffalo charged through the jungle. Sounds bled one into the other—crashing iron to thundering hooves, gurgling fountains to colliding branches.
At first, I sat still, not wanting to disturb a thing in case this was a death-dream, some final taunt of escape. But then I saw the jungle arcing above me. My nose filled with the musk of damp, alive things. The numb evanesced.