The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(11)
A bone-chilling yowl rises from the jungle floor. The short hairs on my arms prickle. While Opal rests, I stand watch over the rolling mists and count the minutes until we leave the Morass.
Opal frees the wing flyer from the trees with a hearty breeze, and we rise from the murky canopy into afternoon daylight. I inhale deeply, breathing easier above the closed-in jungle.
Refreshed by a nap and food, Opal calls brisk, fair winds, and we fly eastward. Drowsiness tampers with my attentiveness when the sun begins to sink at our backs and the copse of trees below is parted by a mighty green-hued river.
“The River Ninsar will lead us the rest of the way,” Opal shouts above the rushing air.
Minutes later, twinkling city lanterns manifest on the purple horizon like waking fireflies. She summons a strong gale, and we speed toward the shining beacon of Iresh, racing the final rays of daylight.
We plunge down and graze the river’s surface, our reflection darkening the jade waters. Opal dips her toe in and splashes our legs. I smile, rejuvenated by its coolness.
I’ve done it. I’ve left the Tarachand Empire.
I may as well have stepped into another world. No spiky mountains haunt my peripheral vision, and the dull orange and brown of the desert have been replaced by a flourishing oasis that could revive the whole of any wasteland. Civilization nestles in the heart of the Morass, the reddish-yellow lights the jungle’s lifeblood.
Our wing flyer stays low, gliding over the river alongside a battalion of flitting bugs. Huddled between a tremendous cliff and the River Ninsar, Iresh molds into the lush foliage.
We soar over riverboats that bob along the merchant-lined waterfront. Opal draws a wind beneath us, and we climb steeply. My stomach drops and then floats back up when we level off. I gaze down at circular bamboo huts with domed roofs. Vines buckle the narrow roadways and scale walls, the jungle veins connecting everything and everyone.
Opal flies us higher, trailing a wide, zigzagging stairway etched into the side of a craggy cliff looming over the riverside city. We crest the top, and a tremendous gold-leaf domed palace with low, flat columned outer buildings spans the breadth of the plateau. Living, breathing vines cover the Beryl Palace’s mossy walls. A waterfall engraves a raging path from the center of the palace grounds down the cliff and lays root in the river. Even here the Morass encroaches on man, but the Beryl Palace maintains firm hold against the jungle, a pillar of fortitude for the city at its feet.
The wing flyer glides to an open strip of grassland in a garden within the palace grounds. Opal reins in her winds. We land effortlessly, and she hops off the flyer. I slip down and stretch, my arms and back aching with fatigue.
Soldiers file out from the covered patios stretching alongside the grass. They line a stone path leading to a palace entry and stare straight ahead. Opal stays by the wing flyer. I hover near her, my hand tight on the turquoise hilt of my sheathed dagger. I eye the guards, absorbing every detail of their loose, buttonless tunics and skirted legs, along with the machetes at their hips and the khandas strapped to their backs. The guards in the Turquoise Palace wore stiff, high-buttoned collared jackets and long trousers. This is the first time I have seen men sporting skirts. The bagginess of their apparel must be cooler in this muggy heat.
An elegant young woman in a lime-green sari sweeps down the pathway. “You made good time. Where’s Rohan?”
“We were separated in a rebel attack,” Opal replies. “He and the remainder of the kindred’s party will join us later.”
“You must be Kindred Kalinda,” the young woman says. “I’m Princess Citra, Sultan Kuval’s eldest daughter.” She speaks the same language everyone on the continent does, but her s sounds like a z.
The princess examines me up and down with a summary frown. I am not known for my beauty. I am too thin, too tall. I wear no eye kohl or rouge staining my lips and cheeks. No makeup colors Princess Citra’s face either, yet her eyes shine like the River Ninsar, dark pools reflecting the green of the jungle. Her blackish hair hangs straight down her back, the top strands braided and twisted up in a crown. Her silky yellow-brown skin hints of floral perfume, but she is no delicate bloom. A machete hangs at her waist, and judging from her trim figure, firm stance, and sandaled feet fastened to the land, she is skilled with her blade.
Princess Citra meets my survey of her with a self-assured smirk. “Prince Ashwin requests your company straightaway.” Something possessive, even predatory, takes hold of her when she mentions the prince.
I slide a questioning glance at Opal—is the princess always this intense?—and she motions for me to follow her.
The princess leads us down the path and through a high-arched doorway into the Beryl Palace. Torches light the vacant halls. Ceramic pots with bushy plants bring the verdure of the jungle indoors. Emerald banners hang from ceiling to floor. Each corridor has a gold-framed portrait of the land-goddess Ki wearing a huge black snake draped over her shoulders—a dragon cobra—the sultanate of Janardan’s imperial symbol.
My soul-fire flickers as we navigate the corridors, shrinking and growing every so often. I would think it odd if I was not so tired. I must stoke my inner fire with food and rest. I will not be found defenseless on foreign soil.
I maintain cautious awareness of the Janardanian soldiers. Some wear a yellow cloth band tied around their upper arm, embroidered with one godly symbol: sky, land, or water. No fire symbol, so far. They must be the sultan’s bhuta guards.