The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(19)

“I came here to help the people through assisting the prince,” I remind him. His implication that I am not doing enough to aid Prince Ashwin chafes.

“Yes,” Brother Shaan answers, “and the prince needs you to compete.”

I will do what I can for our people, but the last time I contended for my throne, I altered the empire, and not for the better. After my interrogation, the prince must realize I am not trusted by Sultan Kuval or his court. I will do more harm than good here.

But if Prince Ashwin does not see reason . . .

“Will he . . . will he force me?”

“I don’t know,” Brother Shaan answers. “The prince will do what he deems is right for the empire.”

Right for his empire or for himself? I fist my skirt, digging my fingertips into my thighs. This entrapment, this false benevolence, is all too familiar. It reminds me of Tarek.

Brother Shaan gazes up, seeking solace in Anu’s ever-present sky. “The other tournament competitors will arrive tomorrow. You have until then to decide.”

I have decided, but Prince Ashwin may still compel me against my will. Soon I will find out how alike the boy prince is to his father.





7


DEVEN

We soar into Iresh on a tailwind and land in the grounds of the Beryl Palace. I have never wanted to stand on my own two feet more than I do now.

The gardens are magnificent and clean, luxuries afforded to the affluent. No sooner do we jump down from the wing flyer than footsteps drum around us. Janardanian guards flock into the courtyard, and one points a machete at my nose.

This isn’t the warm welcome I expected.

I lift my hands away from my sword. One green-clad guard confiscates it, and another pats me down for hidden weapons. More guards disarm Yatin and Rohan, but when they reach Natesa, she shoves them away.

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses.

She is promptly wrangled and her haladie taken. Unarmed, she tosses them a look that would send a pig squealing.

A narrow-faced older man wearing a Janardanian military uniform strides into the garden. “Who are you?” he asks, coldly scrutinizing us.

“Vizier Gyan,” Rohan answers, “I’m an imperial guard here at the palace. These people are Kindred Kalinda’s party, come from Tarachand.”

“Refugees,” the vizier surmises.

“We’re the kindred’s personal guard, sir,” I explain.

Vizier Gyan arches a slim brow at Yatin’s filthy uniform and my lack of one. “And you are?”

“Captain Deven Naik, sir.” I use my former title, as Kali probably gave it to them to identify us upon arrival.

“Welcome to Janardan, Captain,” says the vizier. “Are you or your companions bhutas? We are required by law to ask.”

A snap of apprehension hits me. Did Kali reveal she is a Burner? “We are not.”

Vizier Gyan squints at me a long moment, skeptical of my answer, and then swivels away and speaks to his men in a low voice.

Natesa studies the mossy palace walls in consternation. “If this is our reception, what did Kalinda walk into?”

Yatin gently squeezes her elbow for comfort.

The vizier returns his attention to us. “Rohan, you may go.”

Rohan, unable to argue with a higher-ranking officer, twists on his heels and enters the palace. Four guards with yellow armbands flank the rest of us.

Vizier Gyan smiles without warmth. “Captain Naik, your party will come with us.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, heedful of the armed escort.

“We have protocols regarding refugees.” A muscle in the vizier’s cheek jumps slightly from his insincere smile. “As a military man, you must understand our need for order.”

What I understand is that this man controls whether or not I see Kali. “Lead the way.” I will comply with him, for now.

Vizier Gyan and his soldiers direct us down a steep stairway to the dense jungle below. Everything is so green. Vines and wild fruit trees grow alongside the stairs, and moss lives in the cracks of the stones. Life thrives on every surface. The jungle is suffocating compared to the barrenness of the desert.

White patches of tents appear below. The encampment is barricaded with a fence patrolled by soldiers. A smaller compound is organized opposite the other and is closed in by high dirt walls. Watchtowers with mirrors for spotlights are posted at either end. Each camp has one gate near a guardhouse so soldiers can observe all those who enter and exit. A small locked hut is stationed between them, a weapons bunker.

I could not have designed more secure compounds myself, but the measures do not protect the refugees from outside forces. They lock the refugees in.

Vizier Gyan stops between the entranceways to the camps. “Captain Naik, I’ll escort you and your man to the military encampment.” He means the high-walled compound guarded by soldiers wearing yellow armbands, an identifier of some sort. “My guards will lead the young woman to the civilian camp.”

Yatin sidesteps closer to Natesa’s side. His great bulk is intimidating, but we are grossly outnumbered. Our last line of defense is our words.

“Sir, the kindred is expecting us,” I say. “Before we go in, please notify her of our arrival, or if she’s unavailable, Prince Ashwin.”

“That’s not a possibility,” Vizier Gyan replies. “You see, neither Kindred Kalinda nor the prince told us you were coming.”