The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(14)

“Kalinda,” Prince Ashwin calls, catching up. “Please—”

“I won’t fight for you.”

He smiles, a dashing tilt of his lips. “I was going to ask if you would like me to escort you to your chamber.”

I deflate a tad. He must know I cannot find my way alone. “Fine.”

He joins me, leaving a gap between us. I widen our distance even more. I am not skittish, but Prince Ashwin has brought my nightmares of Tarek back to life.

We leave his chamber in silence, the Janardanian guards following us. I peek at the prince from the corner of my eye. He catches me, and I swiftly glance away.

“You aren’t the first to fear me for my appearance,” he says.

“The resemblance is incredible.” I assumed the prince would have more of his mother in him. Prince Ashwin is Lakia and Tarek’s son, and I am Lakia’s niece.

The prince and I are cousins. Family.

I mellow my voice. “It isn’t you they fear. It’s him.”

“I’m born of Tarek’s blood. Isn’t that the same?”

“I—I don’t know.” I walk faster. We do not choose the circumstances we are born into or the gods’ will for us, but which shapes us the most? Do our parents’ choices bind us to an inescapable fate or do our own?

Prince Ashwin pauses at an open door. “Brother Shaan told me of your tastes and hobbies. I took the liberty of requesting a few comforts for your stay. Opal will be your personal guard. I hope you find everything to your liking.”

I step inside the chamber, and my knees weaken with want. I have not slept in a bed since I left Vanhi. Adjacent to the large bed is a table with three chairs, and near the hearth is a raised lounge. More potted plants and trees stand in corners, as though the jungle could not spare a single room from its intrusion.

“Kalinda.” The wistful way Prince Ashwin speaks my name compels me to face him. The strength of his optimistic gaze spears me to my spot. “I would like for you to join me in defending our homeland. I need you to stand on my right-hand side.”

“I’ve stood on the right-hand side of the rajah’s throne. No matter what you were told about me, that isn’t where I belong.”

His shoulders draw up, his elbows tucking into his sides, holding himself tight. “I’m not blind to the legacy I’ve inherited. Rajah Tarek was a tyrant, but he also made you a champion.”

“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.