The Rogue Queen (The Hundredth Queen #3)(86)
Is it Deven?
Please, Anu. For all that is good in the world, you must bring him back.
A voice calls my name. I cannot tell whose. My spirit succumbs to the venom, and I float off into the night, seething at the stars.
34
KALINDA
The Tigress Pavilion is warm today. Spring awakens heat from the afternoon, and a breeze ushers in a sweetness scented of blooming irises and sun-warmed citrus. None of the women or girls complain, of course. We are content with the sunshine, remembering vividly a world under a broken sky.
I have finished my art lesson and dismissed my class. Sarita, my co-instructor, will come by later to pack up my supplies and return them to my chamber. She has an aptitude for painting, and as I may never sketch like I used to, she is a fine asset.
In the center of the pavilion, Parisa and Eshana demonstrate sparring strategies. Their class of temple wards sits cross-legged in front of the full weapon racks, their attention rapt on the ranis wielding staffs. Near the black-and-white-tiled fountain, Shyla shushes three girls for whispering instead of listening and then lectures them on the importance of honoring the land-goddess Ki and her sister warriors. Rehan toddles at her feet, her little hands clinging to her mother’s knees.
Priestess Mita, Healer Baka, Sister Hetal, and all the other sisters kneel on floor cushions in the shade of a ruby-red canopy. They sip on chilled mint-and-lemon tea and select ice chips from a bucket to suck on or wipe across their brows. Natesa suggested the wards and sisters stay at the palace until another temple could be built. Construction may not begin for a long while, though, as benefactors are reluctant to contribute to our collection now that we have altered the terms of the Claiming. Some of them like the challenge of winning over a sister warrior, while others believe it is improper for women to select their occupation and, should they desire, a husband. Regardless, the land-goddess Ki always intended for women to have a choice, and so they will. Eventually we will collect enough funds to erect the first Sisterhood temple in Vanhi, but I already lament the day when these girls will leave us. They have been a pleasant distraction.
Parisa’s voice carries across the pavilion. “We should always be kind to our sisters,” she advises her pupils.
“Unless we’re sparring,” Eshana replies, bopping Parisa on the hip with her staff.
Their class giggles as the pair exchange a series of light, playful whacks. I slink by the row of girls, waving good-bye to the few who also attend my art course, and slip out.
In the corridor, I maneuver past men working high above on scaffolding. They spread white plaster across the wall and ceiling, patching holes and cracks in the ivory facade. Repairs on the palace began as soon as we returned to Vanhi.
Well, almost immediately. First, we banished the rebels to the arctic tundra. Anjali and the rest of Hastin’s followers were commanded never to set foot in Tarachand again. Given their gross offenses, their punishment was a mercy. Then we helped our refugees relocate to their homes in Vanhi. The city is still partly empty, but more and more people return every day.
I stride through to the center of the palace. The gate to the rajah’s private atrium hangs open. I start down the path of the well-tended garden, alive with leafy trees and brightly colored flowers, and pause before I step on a fallen lime. I pick up the ripe citrus with my left hand, my only hand. Indah had to amputate my other one. She told me afterward that demon venom is deadlier than a dragon cobra’s, which can kill a man in fifteen minutes and an elephant in a few hours. Pons crafted me a prosthesis out of wood and leather, but I returned it to him so he could improve the cuff and strap. It fell off while I was teaching my art study. None of my students laughed—they have more respect for me than that—but I will not wear that hand again until it fits right.
Through the shady trees, Natesa and Yatin bustle about. Brac, Mathura, and Chitt help them set up for tonight’s feast in celebration of the arrival of Princess Gemi and Datu Bulan, as well as Chief Naresh and Tinley. The lot of them flew in this morning. This is our first reunion since we left Samiya.
I was in terrible shape that day. I spent the entire flight back to Vanhi holed up in my cabin on the chief’s airship, refusing to see anyone except Indah for my healing sessions.
Somedays I wish I had never left that cabin.
Setting down the lime, I back out of the atrium before my friends see me and invite me in. I ascend the staircase down to the main entry hall. Before I make it out the main palace door, Indah calls to me. She and Pons catch up, their bundled newborn cradled in his big arms.
“How was your visit with your father yesterday?” I ask Indah. Admiral Rimba and his wife came ahead of the datu and princess to spend more time with their daughter and grandchild.
“Better,” Indah says, leading us into an alcove off the entry. “Whenever he’s grumpy, I pass him the baby. Little by little, he’ll accept our new family.”
I heard the admiral’s fit of temper while aboard the airship. He was none too happy about his daughter expecting a child out of wedlock, which evidently was more shameful to him than what Pons would experience from most Janardanians. Natesa told me later that he tried to wed Indah and Pons right then, in the air somewhere over northern Tarachand. But Indah would not allow her father to pressure her into a life-changing commitment like marriage before she was ready.
The three of us, or four, including the baby, enter the hushed chapel. Burnt offerings lie in ash on the stone altar, the scent of sandalwood in the air. The chapel has rarely been empty since our return. Natesa and I burn sacrifices every day for those who perished on the mountaintop. I spend more time here than I do my bedchamber.