The Rogue Queen (The Hundredth Queen #3)(53)

“They’re afraid of bhutas,” I explain.

Chief Naresh winks at me and speaks louder. “Then they must decide which they fear more—bhutas or freezing to death.” With that ominous choice, he ascends the ship’s plank with great, hefty strides. Indah and Pons go after him.

Priestess Mita waves insistently at Ashwin. “Don’t go, Your Majesty. They’re Paljorians! They let their birds live with them, and their women betroth themselves to men when they’re just little children.”

“Our women aren’t locked away in a henhouse,” Tinley drawls. “We let them strut about the yard with any rooster they like.”

Color flares across Priestess Mita’s collarbone. “Your Majesty!”

Ashwin bats a finger at Tinley, requesting her forbearance. She growls through bared teeth and stalks aboard the ship. “I ask that you not use my formal title, Priestess,” Ashwin says. “From you, it’s a mockery.”

She pulls back in offense, and Ashwin marches up the plank.

I signal the girls in the forest to come forward. Sarita picks up a child and steps out, undeterred by the giant falcon peering at her with glassy eyes.

“Sarita!” the priestess calls. “Get back here!”

She remains on course. “I’m going to get warm and, hopefully, find something to eat.”

At the prospect of shelter and food, more wards dash after her for the airship. Healer Baka leads two little girls out, her head high. After a tense stare-off with the priestess, even Sister Hetal quits the woods. Their parting prompts an exodus. The rest of the wards and sisters rush for the airship, leaving the priestess behind.

Sarita starts up the plank. “Do you think Priestess Mita will realize she’s excessively pigheaded?”

“Gods as my witness, I don’t care.” I whisk ahead, climbing aboard in search of elusive warmth.





20

DEVEN

Our horse team stumbles up another dune, spraying sand in my eyes. We ascend the slippery rise halfway, and then the catapult mires in the sand and jerks to a halt. From the time we set out this morning, we have intermittently charged across the hot sand and spun our wheels. Like the gods, the desert is no respecter of man.

I urge the horse team up the dune while Yatin and Natesa push the catapult from behind. Our sleepless night slows our ascent, but we trudge onward.

“Come on, come on.” My half plea, half prayer encourages the horses to conquer the sand dune.

Overlooking the landscape, I squint at the sunburnt dunes rolling into the distance. Our troops trek up and down them like organized lines of red ants. I collect my breath and guide our horses and wagon over the ridge to descend the other side.

Sweat trickles into my eyes. I swipe the stream away with my arm, also slick from perspiration, and smear grit across my brow. Soldiers trudge alongside us, their headscarves shielding their mouths and noses from the sun and sand. I pinned my headscarf across the lower half of my face, as did Yatin and Natesa. She was elated to discard the turban this morning and pick up a headscarf in the last village before the desert. There, we united with a legion of imperial soldiers waiting to join our march on Vanhi.

With them, our ranks have swelled to ten thousand men, maybe a few hundred more. Our growing numbers have allayed some of my anxiousness about being discovered, but I am still on edge. The soldier Yatin dispatched with his haladie was reported missing. A gossipy water server alluded to suspicions that the man deserted. But Manas may not be so quick to dismiss his disappearance.

My unit rallies and starts the climb over the next sand dune. On a parallel rise, another wagon becomes stuck. I spot Manas on his horse coaching a team of men to dislodge the wagon. Eager to get ahead of them, I yank harder on the harness. My arms quiver from urging on the horses, but soon we exceed the elevation of the other wagon.

Nearer to the steep ridge, our wheels sink into the sand. The wagon slides sideways down the incline and the top-heavy catapult tips. The horses stumble backward with the heavy wagon, snorting and braying. I dig my heels and skid with them.

Shouts ring out, and soldiers rush over to stabilize us. Hands and backs wedge against the leaning side. Yatin props himself under the shadow of the tilting artillery. Natesa relieves me of the reins so I can join him. My feet slip, but more soldiers help to steady the catapult.

Frozen at an angle, the wagon continues to drift. The men at the back push up and stop the wagon’s descent, but it is still tipping. The catapult will land on them and take out the soldiers in its path downhill.

“We need weight!” I say. “Yatin, jump on the high side!”

He goes around the wagon and climbs onto the catapult. His weight lowers the raised wheels some. Another three men leap on, and the wagon drops onto the sand. The men jump off, and our unit finishes hauling the catapult up and over the dune.

Down in the trench, Yatin, Natesa, and I collapse against the wagon, breathless and sun worn. The same commander that assigned us to man the catapult trots up on his horse.

“Well done, soldiers.”

I wipe my clammy brow with my headscarf, cleaning the grit from my eyes. “Just doing our duty, sir.”

He calls for a water server. Natesa pets the horses, her gaze downcast. She cannot drink without removing her headscarf, so she waves the server off. I down half my cup.

“May I keep this?” I ask the commander. We usually return our cups for reuse, but I want to reserve the rest of my drink for Natesa.