The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(71)
Ashwin takes my hand in his and then reaches for my other one. He holds them up and rubs his thumbs over the backs. “Your rank marks have faded.”
On the day I need them most. I will win them back, I vow. But apprehension clamps down on me. Memories from my rank tournament plagued my sleep last night. Blood and screams and death.
Ashwin lets my hands go and skims his knuckles across my cheek. “You’re nervous.”
“In tangles.”
He offers me his arm. “This is your throne, Kalinda. Tarachand is your empire to defend.”
Gods willing, I will represent our homeland well.
I slide my arm through Ashwin’s, and we start off for the procession.
Ashwin and I part ways at the palace gardens. The storm clouds from yesterday have gone, but the sweltering air still scents of wetness. Rohan goes with Ashwin, and Opal escorts me to the line of waiting elephants and extravagant wooden litters.
Elephant warriors ride bareback atop their steeds in showy dress uniforms of plum tunics and loose green trousers. A machete hangs at each warrior’s hip, and a khanda is strapped to their backs, gold hilts glinting in the sun. More soldiers prepare to march alongside us. The dragon cobra emblem of Janardan adorns the soldiers’ tunics and the emerald banners they carry.
Opal pushes a step stool beside the elephant I will ride. A servant stands near the mighty beast’s head, stopping it from moving. I rode an elephant to my rank tournament, but it had a howdah carriage. This elephant is bareback, no saddle to secure myself into.
“Can I ride with the prince?” I ask, motioning at Ashwin climbing into one of the litters.
“It is tradition for the duelers to ride bareback,” says Opal. “Don’t fret. The elephant has been trained to stay in line.”
A couple yards in front of me, Citra straddles another elephant. A green-and-gold training sari displays her toned body and gentle curves, and her shiny dark hair is braided into tiny sections and clipped up in swooping strands. A thin gold-chained crown rings her head, a teardrop beryl gem dangling from it over her forehead. The kohl around her eyes sweeps out to dagger points, lengthening her eyelashes and deepening the severity of her stare.
She smirks, a patronizing curl of her rouged lips. “Afraid of a short ride?”
Nothing is short about the elephant, but I cannot dishonor our hosts’ tradition. Opal steadies the stool as I step to the top. Bracing against the elephant’s side, I hop up onto it and fling my leg over its back; its girth is wider than my stride. I immediately slide forward to its narrower neck and stop myself by grabbing behind the elephant’s ears.
The elephant sidesteps in agitation. The servant pacifies the animal, and Citra snickers. My face burns. I look a fool, but at least I am still astride the great beast.
“Rohan and I will ride ahead to the amphitheater,” says Opal. “Only native-born Janardanian soldiers are allowed in the procession. We’ll be waiting for you there.”
She pats my leg to put me at ease, but a storm of anxiety wreaks havoc on my nerves.
A gong sounds, and the procession starts down the stairs that Citra made alongside the cliff. One after another, the elephant warriors and foot soldiers disappear over the edge. Servants lift Sultan Kuval’s wooden litter. He sits beneath a shade canopy atop silk pillows. Delicately carved orchids decorate the posts of the four open sides. He sways as his servants heft the litter to the top of the stairway and downward, falling out of sight. Ashwin is carried next in another ornate litter, and then more foot soldiers and elephant warriors follow.
Citra is the next royalty to descend from the palace, and then my elephant lumbers closer to the sheer drop. I grip its head tighter as it starts down the stairs. I slide forward, my legs clamping around the elephant’s hard neck, and train my gaze on the zigzagging stairway. I duck often to avoid an overhang or lean away from the spray of the waterfall.
Once we reach the ground, Janardanians line the roadway, cheering for their princess. Citra smiles broadly and waves in return. I am so taken aback by the sincerity of her affection for them that I do not see the mango soaring at me until it strikes my arm. The rotten fruit splits open, and sticky juice sprays down my side.
Numerous people lining the road boo at me and throw more fruit. I hunch down over the elephant, and my back is pelted. A papaya hits the side of my head, and chunks of it mash into my ear. I wait for the foot soldiers to step in and stop my assailants, but they stay behind and in front of my elephant, plodding onward without a care.
Ahead, I can barely see Ashwin’s litter winding through the packed roads. He is too far in front to view what is happening. I cover my cheeks, hot with humiliation, and leave my head down. Along with their booing, the rabble shouts names. “Filthy bhuta.” “Slag.” And the most insulting, “Kur’s pet.”
Angry tears sting my eyes. Sultan Kuval knows his people hate Burners. He should have anticipated this uproar. Perhaps he did, and he is trying to browbeat me into conceding.
I choke down a burning lump of fury and sit up tall. I lift my chin high and draw a dagger. The next piece of fruit that flies at my face, I block with my blade and forearm. The spectators near me shrink away, as they do not know that I am without my powers. But not all are afraid. The anonymity of the mob and inaction from the soldiers encourage their loathing. I do not stop all the rotten fruit from hitting me, and I cannot halt their heckling, but a fierce stare and the gleam of my dagger slow a portion of their wrath.