The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(68)

“I—I don’t know what to say,” I stutter out. “You gave up your place in the arena?”

“It wasn’t really mine to begin with. You beat me to the gate. Pons and I wouldn’t have made it out without you. We thank you for that.” Indah beams up at her guard. Affection radiates between them, dazzling and whole.

They’re in love. How did I miss seeing it before? The familiar way they speak to each other, their shared smiles, their intimate supper last night . . . It is so obvious now.

“Thank you,” I say, my heart tugging in envy at their closeness. I wish I had a simple answer for what comes next. I may not feel for Ashwin the way I do for Deven, but if I win tomorrow, Ashwin will be rajah. And I will still be rani.

Indah shrugs off her good deed. “I may have done you a disservice. Citra was furious that her father admitted you back into the tournament. Her anger will bolster her hunger to win.”

I nod, trusting Indah’s caution. “Did you tell Ashwin?”

“I passed him in the corridor and notified him of the change.” I observe her for an indication of his reaction. Was he glad to hear I will remain in the tournament? Indah’s intuitive gaze intensifies on me, reading my insecurity. “He seemed distracted but pleased. He’s worried about you. He was uncertain if you’d still wish to compete.”

Ashwin is worried about whether or not I am willing to continue? I hurt him, and his concern is for me.

He is nothing like Tarek, nothing at all.

“I do,” I promise.

“You better be certain,” Indah says. “Because the people of the Southern Isles are also counting on you to defend your throne—and win.”





27


DEVEN

Someone kicks me in the side.

“Get up,” says a gruff voice.

I turn over on my bedroll, away from the guard’s feet. “Meathead.”

“What did you say?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I mutter.

The guard rounds back to kick me again. I roll out of the way onto my knees and then push off the floor. Manas is awake and gone, as are the other men I bunk with.

“Is Yatin all right?” I ask. “Did he ask for me?”

“He’s alive. Now move.”

The guard prods me out of the tent and into the first rays of dawn. The rain clouds have cleared, and the stuffy morning air sticks to my skin. The whole of camp has been woken. I follow the line of men to the quad. The rank board on the dusky hillside has been altered, but I question my vision in the grainy light. Kali’s name has been added to the board again, and Indah of Lestari’s name is missing.

Kali’s still in the tournament. We have a chance.

Vizier Gyan waits in the quad, flanked by his men. Since today is the tournament, I anticipated the grounds would be mostly clear of guards, but even more surround us. I look to Manas as to the purpose of this gathering, but he frowns, puzzled too.

“We have been informed of a schemer among you,” announces Vizier Gyan.

Manas folds his arms across his chest in defiance. Other men shift on their feet, uncertain who the source is of this early morning roundup.

Vizier Gyan explains, “I’ve been monitoring everything in this camp, including what our visiting healers bring in and take out.” My face turns to stone, shutting in my alarm. “Yesterday during our search we discovered something missing from one of the healer’s baskets. Only one of you was permitted inside the sick tent while he was here.” Vizier Gyan aims his finger at me. “Captain Naik, step forward.”

I am not given the chance. Guards grab my arms and drag me before the vizier. They pat me down, find the vial in my pocket, and shove me to my knees.

Vizier Gyan holds up the neutralizer tonic. “Did you take this from the healer while in the sick tent yesterday?”

I stare straight ahead, regretting my impulsive choice to steal the vial. Anything I say could incriminate me further and possibly lead back to Kali. The vizier already suspects she sent the healer for Yatin. I will not give him a reason to interfere with her duel.

Vizier Gyan rests his hand on the back of my head. Pain explodes in my joints as my bones grind together, and then it stops.

“I will ask you one more time,” he says. “Did you take this?”

“Yes,” I squeeze out.

Vizier Gyan lets me go, and I fold over. Every bone in my body aches like he reached inside me and rearranged my skeleton. “What did you intend to use it for?”

I intended to pollute the guards’ drinking water during the tournament today.

The grinding pain begins to fade. From my vantage point kneeling, I spot knife scars on the vizier’s inner wrists under his long sleeves. Bloodletting scars. I recognize them from the bhuta executions Rajah Tarek held often. Bhutas were bled from strategically placed cuts so they would suffer from blood loss, weakening their powers. Then they were bludgeoned to death with stones.

“I recognize your scars,” I say. “Do your men know?”

Vizier Gyan’s nostrils flare. He tugs down his sleeves and barks, “Take him to the cell.”

The guards drag me to the one-room hut, my weak legs stumbling to keep up. I am really tired of this cell. Vizier Gyan follows me inside and slams the door, shutting out the guards. I rest against the wall, still recovering from whatever he did when his powers ground at my bones.