The Rogue Queen (The Hundredth Queen #3)(54)

“You’ve earned it,” the commander says, then looks to an officer riding to us.

Gods, almighty. Manas.

Natesa maneuvers around the horses, tending to their bridles. Yatin hovers at the fringe of my vision, his broad shoulders bunching. I let the brim of my headscarf fall to my eyebrows, the cloth still pinned across my lower face.

“Commander,” Manas says by way of greeting, “well done saving the catapult.”

“This is the soldier you should thank.” The commander motions at me.

I bow. Manas’s stare bores into me with the severity of the afternoon sun.

“You’ve crossed this desert before,” Manas remarks. I nod, my head still lowered to conceal my eyes. “What’s your name?”

I need a name. Any name. I blurt out the first one my mind latches on to. “Chitt.”

“We’re missing an officer, Chitt. You seem to be the vigilant sort. Did you see an officer depart from the troops yesterday?”

The soldier was an officer. Gods alive. No wonder Manas put out a report for him. I coarsen my voice so he will not recognize it. “No, sir.”

His horse paws at the sand, digging trenches that I feel in my chest. Soldiers continue to advance past, many slowing to get around us.

“I could use another man to replace the missing officer,” Manas says. “I admire your dedication, Chitt. I’m promoting you to captain. Come with me.”

I mangle a guffaw, cramming it inside me. Manas is promoting me to captain. I was his captain and commander. For him to advance me—or in all actuality, demote me—scalds. Regardless of his arrogance, at any moment he will discover who I am. Natesa and Yatin need time to vanish into the troops.

“No, thank you, sir.” I lift my chin.

Our gazes meet, and Manas’s eyes fly wide open. He leans down and pulls off my headscarf. While he bends over me, I drop my water cup and slug him in the nose.

He swings away, cradling his injury. His fingers come away bloody. Manas crushes my headscarf in his fist. “Seize him!”

Soldiers rush in around me. I do not struggle as they apprehend my sword, wrench my arms behind my back, and bind my wrists. Natesa and Yatin are gone.

Run and don’t look back.

“Commander,” Manas snipes, grasping his talwar, “this is Captain Deven Naik, a conspirator for Prince Ashwin and Kindred Kalinda. This man is a traitor.”

The commander falls all over his words. “He—he said he was from the south. He was wearing a uniform—”

“Enough!” Manas rides to his side, both astride their horses. “Did he have any companions?”

“Two men, one large and one small.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, General.”

“Good.” Manas draws his talwar and plunges the curved blade into the commander’s belly. His whole body twitches, blood blooming around the wound. Manas wrenches out his weapon, and the commander keels over, plummeting off his horse to the sand.

Manas sheathes his talwar and points to the closest unit of soldiers. “Find Captain Naik’s accomplices!” They obey in haste. Manas leans over me, his head impeding the sun. “I should’ve known you were skulking around when we caught the Galer boy. That filthy vermin begged for his worthless life.”

Rohan did no such thing, but I bottle a retort. Manas will not bait me.

Soldiers haul Yatin over to us. Also robbed of his headscarf, my friend walks with his shoulders back. His size must have given him away . . . or maybe not. I interpret his stubborn, set jaw. Yatin was caught intentionally. He let the soldiers find him to give Natesa more time to escape.

“Where’s the third man?” Manas demands.

“No sign of him, sir,” answers a soldier. I do not miss Yatin’s fleeting smile.

“Keep looking!”

The men dash off to search, but Natesa is clever. And with the extra time Yatin’s capture provided her, she will not be found.

Manas smirks down at me. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, Deven.” I close my mouth, unwilling to grant him the satisfaction of agreeing. “Bring them.”

The soldiers tether our bindings to the commander’s horse and shove Yatin and me after their general. We slog up and down sand dunes, grime blowing in our eyes and mouths. I stumble to my knees, and the horse drags me until I find my footing again.

Ahead, far past the furthermost soldier and wagon, a haze distorts the sweltering horizon. The smoggy film marks the beginning of a mirage, the gods’ presumed doorway to paradise. But not even the illusion of a fictional haven can close the pit in my stomach.

As we near the front of the troops, the air holds a leaden tang that bleeds on my tongue. The heaviness accompanies, or originates from, Udug. I can feel him near. His presence sticks to me like cobwebs, snagging on everything and itching my skin. We gain on a large unit of soldiers hoisting an elaborate litter. The draperies are closed, sealing its rider in the dark, but pungent bitterness pours from it, tangible as smoke.

Manas calls for a covered wagon to halt and opens the rear door. Opal shelters her eyes from the sunlight. Dried blood covers her bound wrists. Manas could have restrained her with snakeroot or fed her neutralizing tonic to dim her powers, but cutting her is crueler. Her shoulder is wrapped with a bandage, and burn marks the size of fingerprints dot her arms. Yatin and I are impelled inside with her. Manas slams the door and casts us into darkness.