The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(12)

“Why don’t you wear a yellow armband?” I whisper to Opal, depending on her sensitive ears to hear me.

After a glance at Princess Citra’s back, she answers. “Bhuta refugees have two choices: sign the peace treaty and agree not to use their powers or swear fealty to Sultan Kuval and join his army. Rohan opted for the latter. The sultan doesn’t retain women in his army, so I signed the treaty. I’ve been given special permission to use my powers so long as I serve as a personal servant to the prince.”

“And who are they?” I ask of the white-clad guards with shaved heads alongside the princess. They are plain faced and fit, with toned torsos and arms.

“Eunuchs. They protect the sultan’s queens, courtesans, and children.”

How strange this place is from home. Not only did Tarek not employ eunuchs to guard his women, his courtesans were forced to entertain his men of court. I grimace at the memory of Tarek’s ill-treatment of Natesa and Mathura.

Princess Citra stops before a curved doorway. Stationed on either side of the entry are guards dressed in baggy dark-green uniforms. My longing intensifies to a piercing ache. The Janardanian guards’ postures and strict demeanors remind me of Deven.

“Your chamber is down the hall,” the princess says and then ushers Opal and me through the door.

Brother Shaan rises from a chair near an empty hearth. A smile rips across my face. He devoted his life to the Parijana faith—and to protecting me, the daughter of Rajah Tarek’s first-ever rani.

I hurry to Brother Shaan, and he wraps me in his arms. “My child,” he says, “you’re safe.”

“Anjali attacked us.” I draw away. The wrinkles on his weathered face are permanently creased into a state of concern. “I left ahead of Deven and the others.”

He grasps my cold hands in his warm ones. “You did what was right.”

Princess Citra taps her nails against her leg, her voice short. “Prince Ashwin asked to see Kindred Kalinda as soon as she arrived.”

“His Majesty is in his study,” says Brother Shaan. “I’ll look after the kindred from here. Good night, Princess.”

She bottles her breath, then exhales sharply and marches out.

“Where’s the book?” Brother Shaan asks. I lift the flap of my pack, and he peeks in at the Zhaleh. “And the oil vessel?”

“Here as well.” I nearly forgot the oil vessel was in my satchel. I try not to think about carrying around a vial that contains a thousand drops of bhuta blood acquired from years of Rajah Tarek’s merciless bloodlettings and stonings. Tarek needed to consume the blood before speaking the incantation in the Zhaleh that releases the Voider, but he did not live long enough to start the ritual.

Brother Shaan lowers the flap of my bag. “They’re safer with you. Continue to protect them. We’re beyond Hastin’s reach here, but others will seek them for their advantage.” I would rather give Brother Shaan the Zhaleh, but I can withstand a couple more days watching over it. “And, Kalinda, Burners are not welcome in Iresh. The sultan isn’t prejudiced; he’s an opportunist. Burners are historically harder to control. If Sultan Kuval discovers what you are, he’ll take action against you. For now, your heritage must stay private.”

I have lots of practice hiding my powers to put others at ease, so I see no harm in continuing.

A low voice sounds behind us. “Brother Shaan—oh. I didn’t realize we have visitors.”

I swivel to see a man in the far doorway. Great Anu, it cannot be.

His shiny dark hair is trimmed and combed back, his smooth face beardless. His soft skin is oily, like a freshly molted snake, and his apparel is sewn from the finest silk, purple as a field of irises. The regal man stands tall, perched above the world like a proud bird of prey.

Rajah Tarek is alive.

The rajah’s face lights up, as though he has been waiting for me here all this time. I whip out my dagger and push Brother Shaan behind me.

“Stay back,” I warn.

Rajah Tarek’s smile shrinks, and he closes his book. “I—I apologize for startling you, Kalinda.”

His voice is wrong.

The realization triggers an avalanche of other details that my startled mind only now registers. His chin is softer and eyes rounder. He is a tad taller and thinner than Tarek, gangly and less muscular. His clean-shaven face is young, placing him a year or two under me. And he carries a book that he was reading when he walked in. I never once saw Tarek interested in reading.

Brother Shaan steps out in front of me. “Your Majesty, please forgive the kindred. You’ve given her quite a shock.” He pushes my arm down, lowering my dagger. “You came in before I could prepare her. Kindred, this is Prince Ashwin.”

I stare at the man—no, boy—before me. The longer I gape at him, the more obvious my mistake. He is a twin of his father, but the subtle dissimilarities are apparent enough for my face to heat with humiliation.

“Your Majesty.” I manage a short bow, my guarded gaze firm on him.

The prince steps fully into the chamber, and, on instinct, I raise my dagger. He sidesteps, skirting me near the exterior of the room. “I’ll shake your hand later.”

I tremble at the thought of touching him. The prince notices my disdain, and injury fills his eyes. Did I not tell Deven to give Prince Ashwin a chance? I rush to recover my abysmal first impression. “We traveled across Tarachand from temple to temple, searching for you.”