The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(51)

“Are you certain?” I glance at the sultan. He beams proudly at his daughter.

Indah follows my gaze, and her brows crimp downward. “My informants are trustworthy. And so am I.”

She could be endearing herself to me to get the Zhaleh, but she profits nothing from this lie. Matching her stare, I sense her certainty. Brac and Mathura are not coming.

“Your friends are camped near the border checkpoint,” Indah says in a hushed tone. “They’re safer there than in the encampments, but it does make one wonder about the sultan’s intentions to honor his word . . .”

She saunters off, casual in her decimation of the fragile treaty between Tarachand and Janardan. What does the sultan gain by stranding our people at the borders? I cannot conceive what he ultimately wants or what he will do if Citra does not win the tournament.

Ashwin meets my gaze across the crowd and frowns. He can tell I am upset. I wipe the concern from my face and resolve to speak to him later. I must concentrate on the trial now.

“Tinley will now represent Anu, God of Storms,” decrees Sultan Kuval.

Tinley goes to his side, and the crowd hushes. Overhead, black clouds rush across the sky. A gust rustles the long reeds near the lagoon and plucks loose petals from the wild orchids. Two people come into view high on the cliff, Galers manipulating the wind. A crash of thunder startles everyone, and then a lightning bolt sends me ducking.

The sultan shouts over the blustery weather. “Tinley will now disperse the storm. Turn the sand timer!”

A lightning bolt illuminates Tinley’s determined face. She places two fingers in her mouth and whistles. Another crash of thunder sends spectators dashing to the bottom of the cliff and under an overhang that provides shelter. The dark clouds unleash a steady stream of raindrops. I cram under the overhang with the others. Ashwin squeezes through the crowd to my side.

“This is madness,” he remarks.

A screech barrels across the sky, and Tinley’s falcon, Bya, swoops down. Tinley jumps on Bya’s back, landing in her woven saddle. The mahati flaps its fire-colored wings, and they pitch upward, speeding into the storm.

“That’s madness,” I reply.

The great bird and her rider streak across the dreary sky, dodging lightning bolts. Bya fights to stay upright, but the strong gales knock the mahati around like a dancing leaf. Tinley, her hair white as the August moon, shoots a bolt into the storm with her crossbow. A patch of blue opens where the bolt disappears.

The audience sounds its awe; I cannot tear my gaze away.

Tinley fires three more bolts, and the sky around her opens farther. Her falcon swings around, leaving a circle of clear blue. As Tinley arms her crossbow to shoot again, the gaps in the clouds collapse to a gray wall. In seconds, her progress is reversed.

A thunderclap rattles straight to my feet. I shield my face from the lashing wind. Two soldiers hold down the hourglass timer. The sand is nearly half gone.

Thunder rages after Bya, but the falcon’s wings slice through the gray. As Tinley and Bya drag a ribbon of blue across the stormy abyss, a lightning bolt strikes. Bya dips, and Tinley slides out of her saddle. The crowd gasps. I lay my hand over my mouth in alarm. Gripping the mahati’s neck, Tinley struggles back into her seat and steers Bya directly into the storm.

With her feet planted in her saddle, Tinley stands and releases bolt after bolt into the massive thunderhead. The bolts bring along with them a flash of cleansing winds. The zipping gusts sweep across the sky, dicing up the storm and opening the firmament to mellow blue.

Bya banks right and then flaps her wings, pushing away more of the perilous clouds. The sand timer is nearly finished. They’re going to make it.

Tinley stands in the saddle with her crossbow armed. She and Bya streak upward into the last thunderhead, and a lightning bolt strikes down. An earsplitting scream fills the sky.

The falcon is falling. Twisting. Turning end over end for the land. Tinley holds on to Bya’s back, trying to rouse her. But the great falcon is in a free fall.

The spectators go still. Sultan Kuval’s mouth opens in shock, stunned by the sight of this mighty bird spiraling to her doom.

“Do something!” Ashwin shouts.

Opal and Rohan run into the field and stretch out an airstream between them. The swirling vortex smacks my face with brisk gusts. The two position themselves under Bya and throw up their wind. Like an invisible net, the swelling current catches the falcon and slows her fall. Opal and Rohan dig their heels into the ground and slowly lower their arms, bringing the bird and her frightened rider to safety.

Bya lands in a heap of fiery feathers. Her outstretched wing tip splashes in the lagoon.

Tinley hops off the falcon and peers into her glassy eyes. “Bya!”

The falcon does not respond; her wing smokes where the lightning struck. Indah rushes in and lifts a whip of water from the lagoon. She tosses the airborne stream at the falcon’s wing, dousing the last of the embers. The Paljorians cry mournful sobs that bruise the soul.

Tinley wraps her arms around the falcon’s neck, burying her teary face in Bya’s feathers. The sky has returned to blue, mockingly so. No thundercloud or lightning can be seen on any horizon.

Indah slides her healing hands over the bird’s injured wing. “Water bless the sky. Sea reflect the clouds. Blue of the sky shine in the heart of the sea.”

She repeats the healing prayer, and each time she finishes, my despair grows.