The Rogue Queen (The Hundredth Queen #3)(52)
Pons tugs her in close. “Perhaps at first,” he says, “but he’ll praise Enki once he’s a grandfather. He loves you, and he will love our child.”
Ashwin fidgets with his gold cuff. Our gazes meet, and once again, I can envision his dream for us. The dream I stomped all over. His dejection is still too fresh, too visible. I have to look away.
A sudden northern wind arises, twirling down the road the way we came. Pons tilts his ear to the sky, and his eyes progressively widen.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Come along.” He leads Indah back the direction we came.
Ashwin and I hustle after them, following the smoke spiraling into the sky, around the bend in the road to Samiya. A mahati falcon, feathers rich red with orange undertones and yellow tips, circles the site of the fire. Its master rides the giant bird on a woven saddle. Her silvery hair flies behind her, striking as lightning against her sepia skin. The falcon screeches as it dives. The sisters and wards scatter and hide in the unburned section of forest. The great bird, its body large as a wagon and its wingspan three wagons wide, lands near the ice-covered lake.
Tinley, the daughter of Chief Naresh of Paljor, dismounts her falcon. Her crossbow, her favored weapon while she competed against Indah and me in the trial tournament, is strapped to her back. Tinley was eliminated during the first trial, but I believe we parted on amiable terms. At least that is how I recall our time together.
The Galer surveys the woods for the frightened women and wards. Tinley still wears a sarong, and a high slit emphasizes her long, slim legs. A single strip of cloth is wound around her chest. The only change in her appearance is her bearskin cloak.
Tinley taps her talonlike nail against her bottom lip and considers me. “I saw the smoke trail while I was patrolling the border. You wouldn’t have anything to do with this disaster, would you, Kalinda?” I try not to take offense at her teasing, but her humor is too close to the mark. She evaluates my downturned mouth and dips her head sideways at Ashwin, her usual reluctant bow. “Your Majesty, gods’ grace to you and your kindred. When is your wedding?”
“We’re not getting married,” I say, ignoring Ashwin’s grimace.
“Are you planning another trial tournament?” Tinley demands. “Because I’m not competing. No disrespect, Your Majesty, but I’m content patrolling the skies. Marriage would only bind my wings.”
“We aren’t arranging another tournament,” Ashwin assures her. “As you can see, we’re in no state for such designs. We need your help.”
Tinley strokes her mahati falcon’s side. “I sent out a message for the nearest patrol vessel when I first smelled the smoke. They should arrive shortly.” Her milky eyes, like two moons, turn to the clouds. “And here they come.”
A huge shadow pushes through the overcast sky. The vessel, larger than those in the Lestarian Navy, floats on a tremendous wind and boasts three masts decorated with countless sails, a patchwork of varying shades of blue. The quilted sails are not confined to the top of the ship but also extend as wings. The stern is elongated, like a bird’s tail, and sports even more sails, akin to tail feathers. The Paljorians have mimicked their revered mahati falcons for the vessel’s design, with a bird figurehead fronting a sleek hull and high prow. Galers on deck direct gusts into the bulging sails, propelling the craft forward. More Galers maneuver airstreams under the hull, suspending the ship high above ground.
Winds disperse the smoke plumes and toss my hair. The airship flies over us, tucking its wings close to the hull, and lands in the clearing near the lake. Its crew lower four clamp-like feet to stabilize the rounded hull on the ground. A plank drops from the port side, in front of the wing, and a man disembarks.
Though his long, straight hair is white as a new star, his physique is strapping. His arms protrude beneath a loose tunic and the russet bearskin draped over his shoulders. His low-cut collar shows a sliver of his deeply tan chest. A short skirt hangs above his thighs, which rise and dip like valleys and mountains.
Ashwin greets the older man. “Chief Naresh, I recognize you from a portrait I saw years past. You haven’t aged a day.”
“You must be referring to the rendition in the history text. I had that portrait commissioned before you could walk, Prince Ashwin.” The chief’s eyes twinkle. His language drags a little and he drops his long vowels. Tinley’s accent is the same, but her father’s is more pronounced.
The chief’s light-brown eyes dart to me. “Kalinda Zacharias.” Beaming, he hauls me into a breath-stealing hug. Chief Naresh leans away, and his gaze roves over me as though seeing a long-lost friend. “You have your mother’s hair and your father’s sure-footed stature. Kishan was a great man, and Yasmin was the bravest sister warrior of her time. Their love was a bridge between bhutas and mankind. I mourned their passing.”
This demonstrative, complimentary man is not what I expected, considering his daughter is more frigid than a midwinter wind. His affection for my parents eases my envy that he knew them, while I will never have that privilege.
Chief Naresh greets Pons and Indah with more hearty embraces, then says, “Come aboard where it’s warmer.” He raises his voice to the women and girls in the woods. “All are welcome!”
Priestess Mita, well within hearing range, can judge for herself that the chief’s invitation is genuine, but she does not budge. The sisters and wards loiter too, wary of the mahati falcon ruffling its fiery feathers in the numbing cold.