Ashwin swings his shoulders casually, searching for something else to say. “Natesa and Yatin asked to hold their wedding here.”
I do not believe his nonchalance. “They asked or you offered?”
“I may have suggested it. They don’t have much means, what with their inn opening soon.” Ashwin plucks a bloom from the neem tree and twirls it in his hand. “It’s odd to plan a wedding that isn’t mine. I’ve chosen four Virtue Guards but cannot commit to a single bride. The ranis and courtesans are growing restless waiting. I told them they can all stay . . . but there’s only one name I wish to announce as my kindred.”
“Ashwin,” I say tiredly, “it’s time that I step aside and let there be another.”
“If the role of the kindred is unappealing, be my second or third wife.”
“You know I cannot.” My duty to the throne ended when I vanquished Kur. “I’ll serve as your Burner Virtue Guard, though you really should choose one with two hands.”
He sobers some. “How is your sketching coming along?”
“Slowly.” I have sketched every day since returning to the palace, and have shown improvement, but my poor drawings are not much to boast about. “Ask Gemi to marry you, Ashwin. She’ll be a good wife, and your union will strengthen foreign ties.”
And as an heir, Gemi will understand Ashwin’s need to place the empire first, above even her.
“You’ve thought through all the advantages,” he says, tossing the flower aside.
“You know I’m right,” I reply in kind. “It’s time for you to marry. The empire needs ranis, and you’re ready.”
Ashwin skims his finger across my cheek. “I wish it could be you.”
“You’ll always place the empire first. That’s how it should be. But I . . . I have a different dream for myself.”
My attention strays to the shadows, to the sandalwood incense in my pocket, to the sketch in my bedchamber that I have been working on for a fortnight.
Ashwin takes my hand in his. “If you ever change your mind . . .”
“Thank you.” I squeeze his fingers lightly.
He releases me without any more provocation. “Are you certain you won’t join us? Yatin’s older sisters are going to recite tales of the gods.”
“That does sound divine, but I really am tired.” This is my customary excuse to reduce his disappointment in my absence or lack of interest about the happenings in the palace. “Please send our guests my regards.”
“I will.” Ashwin tucks his hands in his trouser pockets and strolls off.
I pick up the bloom he dropped and lay it in front of the tomb. “Good night, Mother and Father.”
By the time I return inside, the lamps are lit, and the aroma of rich spices from the feast permeates the corridors. The balcony doors in my bedchamber are closed, the room stifling. Asha has been busy as of late. She is apprenticing to become a healer under Baka. I kick off my sandals and open the exterior doors. A wind ripples the draperies. I remember a time when Deven and I cocooned inside them, tangled up and—
I stop myself before I cannot breathe, and I return to my bedchamber.
Parchment and charcoal sketches are spread out across my table. I light the lamp, casting a glow over the sketch on top. An intriguing portrayal, mostly finished, stares up at me. His angular jaw that I have grazed, sweeping cheekbones that I have cupped, full lips that I have kissed, and kind, resolute eyes.
His nose still is not straight. My left hand struggles with the evenness of the charcoal strokes that my right hand could once perform so deftly. It took me nearly three days to replicate the thickness of his eyelashes. But the effort must be put in.
The sketch will be of no use until his nose is correct.
I sit and try once more. Tiny trembles shake my left hand. The first line is wrong. I rub it clean and try once more. Then again . . . and again . . .
The oil lamp burns low. The moon rises high, and the far-off noises from the feast quiet. Charcoal stains my fingers and nails, and my back aches from hunching over. When I am certain I will never draw a perfect line again, I finally do it. I draw the straight slope of his nose, and there he is, in all his perfection.
My nerves spark, revitalizing my purpose. I have done it. I am ready.
I take out the sandalwood incense I pocketed from the chapel. My fingertip glows with fire, and I ignite the end. A steady flow of smoke rises, hazing the chamber, and treating my senses to a smell I have missed.
The sketch I toiled over for many days is laid on the table. Several moons’ worth of preparation and practice to regain a level of artistry with my weaker hand waits for me. Is it good enough? Does it look like him? Or have I forgotten any details? The thought sets me ill at ease. I pick up the sketch and examine it, racking my memory. Each detail required painstaking care.
No, I haven’t missed anything. This is him.
But if I am wrong. If I fail . . .
My nerves cannot handle another moment of wavering. I blow out the lantern, and shadows fall in around me. Pressing the sketch over my thudding heart, I survey the darkest corner of my chamber. Inhaling the sandalwood scent, I welcome the shadows, for they are the door to the evernight.
Anu, please let this be . . .
Closing my eyes, I go deep into my mind and unlock my chest of treasures. Memories of Deven Naik, alive and whole, fill me. His deep chuckle, satiny kiss, and soft beard. I continue the trail of memories, going back to the first time I saw him atop his horse, riding toward the temple. I hone my senses, seeking for a change in the dark, and open my eyes.
No one is here. I expand my sense of awareness, seeking a presence in my dim room, but grasp on to nothing.
Names hold power.
I call to him, first with my mind and heart, and then with my lips. “Deven Naik.”
The shadows do not stir. I am speaking to myself, to a ghost, to a lost dream.
The tears come, though I scarcely feel them. They are so prevalent as of late, especially at night when I am alone. I set down the sketch and put out the incense.
Moonlight frosts my balcony. I shut the doors, deepening the shadows in my chamber, and trudge to my bed. Tears fill up my nose and throat. I always think they will drown me, but they never do. I drop onto the mound of frivolous pillows, though I have found one use for them. Selecting a square one, I press it over my face and release a sob. Natesa sometimes checks on me at night, and I do not want her to hear me.
I weep into the satin cloth until my head swims with a headache. Tossing it aside, I wipe at my soggy nose, and a sudden awareness passes over me.
Someone is here.
I capture my breath and slowly sit up.
A shadow of a man stands near the empty hearth. I gasp, my lips trembling. I can hardly exhale as he crosses to me. At the side of my bed, I push up and lift my fingers to his profile, the one I sketched this evening and dream of each night.
“Kali,” Deven says at the same moment I touch his cheek.
He is real, not a pillar of dark. He pulses soul-fire.
“You came. You found me.” I leap at him, and his arms lock around me, solid and strong. He is a real man. I grab him close as can be, terrified that if I let go he will disappear. “I knew you were alive. I looked for you in the shadows.”
He buries his face in my hair. “I tried to come before, but the dark made it difficult. There are so many pathways to take. I felt you stronger tonight. You were like a beacon.”
I lean back and cup his bearded chin. His serious eyes are the same rich brown. Though his hair is longer, the shaggy length frames and softens his stern jaw. He smells of his normal sandalwood, tagged on by a hint of mist. “You’re trapped in the evernight?”
“Yes.”
I run my hand down to his chest. His heart thuds regularly against my palm. “Does it hurt? Are you in pain?”
He strokes my hair. “It’s dark, but I’m all right.”
“I have to get you out of there. I know of a tal
e. Inanna’s . . . Inanna’s Descent. She saved her intended from death. She went down into the Void and found him. I can use my powers to come for you.” I push a glow into my hand, and he starts to fade from view. I pull back on my soul-fire, and a frustrated groan lodges in my throat.
He is confined to shadows, unable to come into the light.
Do not cry. He doesn’t need your weeping. But as I gaze at Deven once more, his soul-fire feels wrong, like a flame trapped behind glass.
“I’m so sorry. I should have done more, gone back in the lake after you or made the others onshore search harder and longer.” My tears squeeze past my restraint. “I tried. I did.”
He rests his forehead against mine. “When I went through the gate, I thought . . . I thought I was dead. I thought all light was gone from existence, and I . . . I wanted it to be. But each night I could feel you dreaming of me, wishing for me. You kept me from fading away. I couldn’t have navigated through the shadows without you, Kali.”
I run my hand up and down his arm.
He’s alive. He’s here.
“We’ll find a way to bring you back,” I promise. “I’m just grateful you’re here now.”
Deven presses his cheek to mine. “Now that I know the path, I’ll come to you every night. Nothing will keep me away.”
Hunger for life that I have not felt since he was taken quivers inside me. I throw my arms around him, and his kisses sprinkle my forehead. I swear on every star in the heavens, I will find a way to descend into the depths of the Void and bring him home. But for this moment, and in this time, I rest against him and revel in the bliss of the midnight hour.
CHARACTER GLOSSARY
Kalinda: orphan turned first queen, a Burner
Deven: general of the imperial army
Prince Ashwin: heir to the Tarachand Empire
Natesa: former imperial courtesan
Yatin: soldier, Deven’s best friend
Brother Shaan: member of the Brotherhood
Indah: southern Aquifier, Virtue Guard
Pons: Galer, Virtue Guard
Brac: former rebel, Burner
Mathura: Deven’s and Brac’s mother, former imperial courtesan
Admiral Rimba: Indah’s father, southern Aquifier
Captain Loc: captain of the raiders
Princess Gemi: heir to the Southern Isles, Trembler
Datu Bulan: ruler of the Southern Isles
Rohan: brother to Opal, Galer
Opal: sister to Rohan, Galer
Rajah Tarek: deceased ruler of the Tarachand Empire
The Voider (aka the demon rajah, Udug): demon unleashed from the Void
The demon Kur: ruler of the Void
Manas: general of the imperial army
Priestess Mita: leader of the Samiya temple
Jaya: Kalinda’s deceased best friend
Healer Baka and Sister Hetal: sisters at the Samiya temple
Tinley: daughter of Chief Naresh, Galer
Chief Naresh: ruler of Paljor, Galer
Shyla, Parisa, and Eshana: ranis
Asha: palace servant
Hastin: the bhuta warlord and leader of the rebels, Trembler
Anjali: Hastin’s daughter, Galer
Indira: rebel, northern Aquifier
Edimmu, Lilu, and Asag: demon siblings to Udug
Yasmin: Kalinda’s deceased mother
Kishan: Kalinda’s deceased father, Burner
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sending praise and salutations to these fine individuals:
Jason Kirk, my commander in chief. Not an e-mail passes between us that I don’t utter appreciation for you as my editor. You’ve made my publishing journey a true joy.
Clarence Haynes, the depth of your insightfulness and soulful questions knows no bounds. Without you, this book would be a shell. As you often say, excelsior and peace.
Kim Cowser, Brittany Jackson, and Kristin King, for your cheerleading from afar and your buzz-building efforts. You’re my sister warrior street team.
My ever-supportive agent, Marlene Stringer. I fulfilled my vision for this world and story because of your unfailing support. Thank you for loving Kalinda.
Kate Coursey, we are bosom buddies for eternity. You’re never getting rid of me.
Fellow sister warriors: Veeda Bybee, Kathryn Purdie, Breeana Shields, Kate Watson, Tricia Levenseller, Charlie Holmberg, Caitlyn McFarland, Lauri Schoenfeld, Angie Cothran, Erin Summerill, Sierra Abrams, Brekke Felt, Shaila Patel, Leah Henderson, Jessie Farr, Catherine Dowse, Michal Cameron, Mikki Kells, and Wendy Jessen. You are all kindreds in my eyes.
Fellow warrior book lovers: Krysti Meyer, Sarah Cleverley, Beth Edwards, Benjamin Alderson, Jaime Arnold, Gabrielle Saunders, and Rachel Piper.
Michael Bacera, for picking up the phone and answering my weird questions.
Jessica Springer, for cheering me on. Got that book written yet? (A promise is a promise.)
My parents, Debby and Keith, for teaching me how to dream big and for cheering me on as I do. Eve and Chris, for your sensitivity for all things cultural. Sarah and Stacey, for GIF texts and political rants.
Joseph, Julian, Danielle, and Ryan, for tolerating a year of go, go, go. You are the most amazing kids. You must be. Otherwise I would still be drafting.
John, my best friend and sweetheart. You step into my shoes and never complain when I ask for five more minutes to finish the sentence I’m on. Someday that may be true . . .
My readers, for your e-mails, tweets, and instant messages. Your kind words bring me joy. And to every other reader who took time out of their busy life to read my words. You’re pretty awesome.
Lastly, but most importantly, my father in heaven. Three whispered words on a night when I felt hopelessly lost gave me direction for years to come. Thank you for the inspiration and fortitude to see this through.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Erin Summerill
Emily R. King is a writer of fantasy and the author of The Hundredth Queen Series. Born in Canada and raised in the United States, she is a shark advocate, a consumer of gummy bears, and an islander at heart, but her greatest interests are her four children. Emily is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and an active participant in her local writers’ community. She lives in Northern Utah with her family and their cantankerous cat. Visit her at www.emilyrking.com.
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