The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(25)

“Stay away from the water,” Ashwin warns. “The Morass is home to crocodiles.”

Another predator I would rather not run into. I follow him back into the trees without argument. Soon the trail widens, releasing us from the vine-strangled tree trunks and bristly weeds. Tiny lights sparkle in the distance. As we near the end of the path, a large grouping of white tents comes into view. Ashwin extinguishes the torch in the dirt, and we stop behind a teak tree.

Janardanian guards armed with machetes patrol outside a waist-high blockade around the camp. Within the fence, torches burn every ten paces or so, lighting the tight rows of tents. Mosquitoes congregate near the torches like clotting clouds.

Our people are everywhere. Some mill about, while others sit on the dirt ground outside their tents. Many are so thin I can see their angled cheekbones and the knots in their spines. All are in need of several good meals. They have little furniture, and what they do have is run down. The stench of refuse from overfull latrines wafts off the tented city.

My pulse echoes hollow in my ears. This is worse than the poverty in Tarachand. Tarek was not a generous ruler, but at least he did not pen them in like livestock.

“How many are here?” I ask.

“Last count was five thousand.” Ashwin’s guttural whisper teems with condemnation. “Sultan Kuval said he was caring for our people. But this . . . this is inexcusable.”

I swallow the bitter tang of regret. Ashwin understands now why he cannot trust the well-being of his people to anyone else.

He pushes away from the tree, his movements jerky from anger. “Brother Shaan said the second encampment is north of here.”

We stick to the underbrush to avoid the guards and skirt the camp. The encampment goes on and on, endless tents and people. Ashwin pauses to frown at two lookout towers stationed at the south side. The people are locked inside the camp with no defense. What threat do they pose? We move on to the end of the camp. Across from the main entrance, a dirt wall encircles a second smaller compound.

“This must be our military internment camp,” Ashwin says, more weary now than outraged. “Our soldiers reside here.”

“Are all of the refugees sorted into one of the camps?”

“That’s the Janardanians’ protocol. The sultan demands it.”

A warning crawls inside me. Deven and the others may have arrived by now, or if not, they will soon. What if they were brought here instead of to me? I whisper to Ashwin, “Did you see Opal before we left? She said Brother Shaan needed her.”

“I was with Brother Shaan. I didn’t see her.”

My gaze zips to the high walls of the military compound, my alarm expanding. Opal lied. Maybe she did not want me present when my party arrived. I draw my dagger and slip out of the underbrush.

“Kalinda!” Ashwin reaches for me, but I tug from his grasp.

I sprint across the clearing to the military encampment. A soldier on watch spots me and rings a gong. I peek through the slots in the gate to the compound but see only tents and guards within.

“Deven!” I call. “Deven!”

Janardanian guards block the gate. “Move away,” one orders.

I try to look past him. “You may have detained my guards.”

Across the way, people in the civilian encampment notice the disturbance and peer at me over the chest-high bamboo fence.

“Deven!”

My shouts prompt a hum of low voices . . . “The kindred.”

The guards shuffle agitatedly. They recognize me now too. My revered name flies across the camp behind me and lures more onlookers. In moments, people press against the bamboo fence.

“Kalinda!” Natesa shoves her way to the front of the crowd.

Hearing her, I swivel around and start for the other camp. Janardanian guards block my way, stopping me in the clearing. I could throw them back with a heatwave, but everyone would see my powers.

“Put down your weapon,” says a large guard.

I drop my dagger. He kicks it from my reach and tries to seize me. I wrench away from him. “I laid down my weapon, but I am not defenseless. I can work that curious crowd into a mob in seconds. Release my friend, or five thousand people will be upon you.”

The large guard who disarmed me, a bhuta commander by his yellow armband, presses his lips into a hard slash. Cords of muscles twang at his neck. I hold my stance, unmoving in my demand. At last, he signals to the guards at the far gate, and they release Natesa.

She pushes through the armed men. “Kalinda,” she says, grabbing me to her. “We told them you were expecting us, but they wouldn’t let us see you.”

“Where are the others?”

“All of us were too heavy for Rohan to carry, so Mathura and Brac stayed behind in Tarachand. They’re coming by foot.” Natesa points at the compound. “They put Yatin and Deven in there.”

I face the bhuta commander. “Release my guards.”

“I cannot do that, Kindred. Tarachandian guards must remain under watch.”

I put on my haughtiest voice. “They’re my personal guards. I’ll watch over them.”

Janardanian soldiers wave the people in the civilian camp away from the fence. Some obey, but most stand their ground. I threatened a riot, but I do not want any of them hurt.

“I take my orders from the vizier,” says the commander. “No one is allowed in or out without authorization.”