The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(73)

“Hailing from the Turquoise Palace in distant Vanhi, welcome Kalinda Zacharias!”

Yells of discord bang at my back. I search inside for my temper, for my Burner powers to spark in defense, but they are still a far-off star, cold and unreachable.

A bladesmith motions for me to join Citra in the arena. Seeing no stairs, I hoist my leg over the rail and leap down. The added weight of my armor throws me off balance, and my knees buckle as I land. I fall forward onto all fours. Uproarious laughter cascades across the piers. Their cruel amusement, like nettles, rakes over my skin.

Citra’s shadow falls over me. “You know how to make an impression.”

I push to my feet before her. Citra’s frame carries the heavy armor like it is an exoskeleton. She struts to the sparring ring etched into the ground. The arena floor is an endless slab of unforgiving stone that reeks of old blood. I pad across the flat surface into the ring and face her.

The drummers begin an ominous, slow beat. Citra draws her khanda, and the rhythm rolls faster. The start of the tournament is coming, dragging me forward like a landslide. I pull my daggers and settle into my fighting stance. The drumming surges to an earsplitting thunder.

I am directly beneath the storm. I cannot run from the terror flooding me.

I am going to die without my powers.

My next thought overwhelms me with sadness.

I’ll never see Deven again.

The beat stops.

In the sudden silence, Citra throws out her free arm. The stone floor lifts to her command, and a raised culvert of rock heaves at me. Dust and pebbles spray my face. I dive out of the rocky deluge, and my helmet falls off, rolling away.

Citra materializes through the cloud of dust, running around me on stones that elevate beneath her feet, each taller than the last. When she is above my head, she leaps at me with her sword poised to strike. I lift my daggers, and they clash against her khanda. With our blades connected, Citra heaves the land beneath me, knocking me off balance. I rearrange my weight and avert another khanda blow to the head.

“Where are your powers, Burner?”

I wedge a knee between us, thrusting her back. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

Citra raises her khanda, confusion crossing her face. “Know what?”

“The tonic I took yesterday hasn’t worn off,” I explain, perplexed by her response. “Your father poisoned me.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Yes, he did.”

“He didn’t tell me,” she replies, stepping back.

“Did you let your blood today?”

“Yesterday evening. My father said it was to cleanse me for battle.”

My mind spins with reasons why the sultan would not tell her, and from Citra’s hurt expression, we come to the same conclusion—he does not trust her to win on her own merits.

“I don’t need help defeating you,” Citra growls.

She sweeps her khanda and cuts my right side. Pain explodes across my abdomen. I bend over, grasping my wound. She kicks me in the knee, and I fall in an agonized crouch, bleeding through my fingers.

Citra kicks me again, in the back. I groan from the bruising strike. “I can win without my powers,” she snarls.

The loss of blood weakens me, but it also tears down the wall between me and my blocked powers. The star of my soul-fire is closer, like a comet blazing in my direction. The poisons are bleeding out.

I push to my feet, suffering the agony of every excruciating movement, and lower my wet hand from the cut. I allow the blood to flow and free me from my poisoned prison. Daggers ready, I strike at Citra. She evades and smashes the hilt of her sword into my lower back. I stumble forward and raise my dagger in time to parry her sword and plunge my second dagger into her shoulder.

She cries in pain, and then again as I wrench out the blade. The audience pours out a round of boos and curses at me. Blood splatters around Citra and me, the iron scent nauseating. I cannot tell which crimson specks are mine or hers, but my powers are returning.

I push soul-fire into my hands. Citra lifts the ground beneath me, plunging me into the air. I am level with the center of the amphitheater, high above the arena.

Citra rises up on another pedestal, her shoulder bleeding. “Now this is a fair fight.”

I throw a heatwave at her, and the spectators gasp. Citra dodges, leaving her teetering close to the end of the pedestal. She throws a cloud of dirt up to blind me. I shield my face from the raining pebbles and lower my arms to the clearing dust.

Citra leaps onto my platform and knocks me down, landing on top of me. I roll her onto her back and push her head over the edge. The audience chants Citra’s name. She elbows me in my injured side. I moan on a fresh wave of pain and roll off her. She hacks down with her khanda, and I grab the blade. Before the metal can cut me, I push forth my powers. The blade glows red-hot, and the heat surges up to the hilt, scalding Citra. She drops the warped khanda, cradling her palm.

As I stand, the Trembler princess lifts more pedestals around us and leaps to the next. I throw a blast of fire after her, and the audience gasps again, enthralled by my rare abilities. The tail of my flame connects with Citra midjump, and she falls short of the pedestal, scrambling to pull herself up.

I jump to the pedestal between us. She forms a foothold, saving herself from falling, and grins at me. The ground beneath me crumbles.

I drop, going down with the rocks and boulders. The sky turns hazy. I hit the ground, and rocks pummel me. I throw up a blast of fire, burning some to dust. A boulder lands, pinning my leg. Something snaps in my knee, and dizziness reels through me.