The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(45)

“I don’t have approval for that,” the commander says.

Ashwin drops his hands from his face. “Do it.”

The commander holds the prince’s defiant stare. A warning passes from Ashwin to the soldier, silent but tangible. The commander shifts away and murmurs to his men. A bhuta guard with a sky symbol on his armband whips up a wind, summoning a hearty gust that sends the mosquitoes off to the jungle.

Ashwin chops out orders. “Brother Shaan, you’ll oversee the camp in my stead. I’ll speak to the rest of the guards about setting up shifts for the Galers.”

The prince marches to the guardhouse. I am astonished that the Janardanians are heeding his commands. Perhaps they fear the illness will spread to the city. Or maybe they are beginning to view Ashwin as a legitimate ruler.

A group of refugees meanders over to the fence to stare at us.

“Opal told me you revealed your powers,” Brother Shaan remarks.

I turn my back to the onlookers. “Do the people know?”

“They will soon. When they do, I’ll tell them it’s a rumor started to defame you. That should give them time to adapt to the idea.”

I twist my fingers in the pleats of my skirt. “I don’t like lying to them.”

“They must prepare for what’s to come. No matter who wins the tournament, Ashwin will wed a bhuta. His children will be bhutas. The next heir to the Tarachandian throne will be a bhuta.”

“So long as it isn’t a Burner,” I mutter.

Brother Shaan lays a consoling hand on my shoulder. “Undoing their prejudice will take time. Have patience and faith.”

Faith will not undo my actions. I glance at Ashwin to ensure that he is still out of hearing range. “Why didn’t you tell the prince how Tarek died?”

“Your support gives Ashwin the confidence to rule, and he gives you hope for a peaceful empire.”

“Your being right doesn’t justify lying to us.” I pull from Brother Shaan’s grasp. “You should have told me when the rest of my party arrived.”

“I meant to tell you later that night. I’m sorry. I didn’t know Deven would get hurt.” Brother Shaan’s remorse files down the sharpest edges of my anger. “I wanted you to have time alone with the prince. Both of you were wounded by Tarek. Only you can truly understand how deeply. You have every reason to trust each other.”

Across the way, Ashwin still speaks to the guards. My confidence in him is growing, and I am coming to rely upon his support. Telling him the truth about Tarek’s death can wait until after the tournament, when our people are free.

The crowd peeking over the fence grows. More than my presence is drawing attention. I look a fright in my filthy training sari with the dry blood on my arm. “I better go,” I say.

As I cross back to Opal, waiting at the wing flyer, I pass the gate for the military encampment and long for a glimpse of Deven. Seeing no sign of him, I fend off my disappointment and turn away. Anu, let him be safe.

Opal flies me back to the palace. As we circle over the gardens, I spot Tinley below, grooming her mahati falcon, Bya. The great bird stays still as the Galer brushes its beak. When we land, the falcon squawks and ruffles its feathers. Up close, the mahati is even more striking, its red-orange feathers blazing in the sunlight. Tinley pets her bird and speaks in a low, soothing voice. She does not treat Bya like a beast with a master but as a dear friend. The falcon nudges Tinley in the shoulder with its beak, and she tosses it a scorpion to eat.

“Doesn’t the stinger hurt him?” I ask, listening to the crunch of the scorpion being devoured.

“Her,” Tinley corrects. “Bya’s female.”

“She has a beautiful name.”

Tinley is not warmed by my compliment. She turns her back to me and says, “Slag.”

Opal sets a hasty pace away from Tinley, and I rush to catch up. I do not recognize the term “slag,” but, given Opal’s reaction, I doubt Tinley intended her use kindly.

In the palace corridors, guards stiffen when they see me, and servants cower. A group of the sultan’s courtesans, escorted by eunuch guards, makes an abrupt about-face. As they scurry away, I overhear one of them mutter “slag,” and the others titter.

“What does ‘slag’ mean?” I ask Opal.

She answers in haste. “It’s a distasteful term for a Burner. My mother taught Rohan and me never to use it.”

I sniff once, feigning a lack of interest, but the offense stings. I have never heard a derogatory term for the other bhutas. Are Burners despised so much? I drag my sore feet to my bedchamber, impatient to bury my head under my blankets and muffle out the world, but Opal halts before the threshold.

“You have a guest,” she says, lowering her brows.

Before I can ask who is inside my chamber, Indah opens my door and smiles.





18


DEVEN

Gods, it’s hot. The absence of a breeze is stifling. Lieutenant Eko offers me a wet cloth for my face. I dab the rag against my bloody lip where I was hit by a staff. Manas scowls at Eko and me from inside the dining tent with the other soldiers. Friendly as usual.

Midday meal comes to a close. I hardly touched my mushy rice, leaving it for Yatin to finish. My whole body is sore from sparring.

“You take a beating well,” Eko says, sitting with me.