The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen Series Book 2)

by Emily R. King

“I do,” he whispers. “I fear the hold you have on my heart.”

  “Ashwin—” I start to move away, but he holds me near him.

  “You’re no monster, Kalinda. I’ve met a monster, and you’re nothing like him. I’m ashamed of Tarek, ashamed of how the rest of the world perceives the empire and me on account of him. But I am not ashamed of you.”

  Ashwin’s soothing scent, aloe vera oil, invites me closer. He dips his chin nearer to mine, so our lips are only a dandelion’s length apart. Our sides press together, his warmth searing into me. His dark eyes turn liquid with affection, and his jaw softens with trust. He combs his fingers through my loose locks. “Your hair is like woven twilight.”

  A recollection of Tarek’s intrusive hands stroking my hair slams me. Enough of this.

  I push from Ashwin’s hold and rally the strength to stand. He rises with me, steadying me on my rickety legs and bare feet. He tries to pull me close, but I step from the circle of his arms and totter for the door.

  “Kalinda?” Ashwin asks.

  I do not stop. Tarek may be dead, but his memory lives on in my shadow. I cannot outrun him, but I have to try.

  Ashwin calls after me again, his footfalls close behind me. I round a corner and see Opal hurrying our way.

  “Prince Ashwin,” she says. “Brother Shaan needs you.”

  Her urgency causes me to pause.

  Ashwin hastens past me to Opal. “What is it?” he asks.

  “Civilians in the encampment have fallen ill.” Apprehension furrows Opal’s brow. “Some of the ailing aren’t expected to recover.”

  I nearly double over from guilt. I helped Hastin take over Vanhi and run these people out of their homes. They are here, and falling ill, because of me. “I’m coming along,” I announce.

  Opal’s gaze sweeps to me. “My apologies, Kindred, but the sultan has insisted that you stay away from the encampments.”

  So Sultan Kuval did hear our people chanting my name. “I’m here to offer my support to the prince. I’d like to go, if he’ll have me.”

  Confusion lingers in Ashwin’s expression from my hasty exit moments ago, but he dismisses his hesitancy with a perfunctory nod. “Kalinda will join us.”

  Opal fetches me another pair of sandals and then carries Ashwin and me down to the encampments on her wing flyer. The afternoon sun warms the humid air, and the wind rushing over me wicks away the sweat beading across my upper lip. We land and go to Brother Shaan, waiting for us near the entry gate to the civilian camp.

  “Your Majesty,” he says, bowing. “Five dead after dawn, another two this hour.”

  Ashwin mashes his lips together. “When did the sickness start?”

  “Yesterday, but it’s spreading quickly. The healers believe the local mosquitoes carry a scourge. Our people aren’t accustomed to the strange climate.”

  I arch my chin to see inside the camp. Sick tents have been set up away from the main housing. People swing fans, shooing away the bugs, yet the insects hover like vultures waiting to feed off a sky burial. The ailing people fill the sick tents and lie on bedrolls around them.

  “I need to go in and offer my condolences to the grieving families,” says Ashwin.

  A Janardanian commander blocks the gate. “No one may go in or come out, Your Majesty.”

  Ashwin takes a charged step forward. “My people are dying.”

  “Those are my orders.”

  Ashwin digs his thumbs into his tear ducts, collecting his frustration. The same anger burrows in my bones. I will snap if something is not done.

  “Can we pass out lemon-eucalyptus oil to ward off the insects?” I ask.

  “We’re in short supply,” replies Brother Shaan, “and collecting the resources to concoct more ointment would take a fortnight. The trial tournament will be over by then.”

  I watch the residents swaying the fans. The breeze brings coolness to the clammy heat but also disturbs the hovering mosquitoes. “Can we station Galers around the camp? A constant draft could push the bugs away.”

  “I don’t have approval for that,” the commander says.

  Ashwin drops his hands from his face. “Do it.”

  The commander holds the prince’s defiant stare. A warning passes from Ashwin to the soldier, silent but tangible. The commander shifts away and murmurs to his men. A bhuta guard with a sky symbol on his armband whips up a wind, summoning a hearty gust that sends the mosquitoes off to the jungle.

  Ashwin chops out orders. “Brother Shaan, you’ll oversee the camp in my stead. I’ll speak to the rest of the guards about setting up shifts for the Galers.”

  The prince marches to the guardhouse. I am astonished that the Janardanians are heeding his commands. Perhaps they fear the illness will spread to the city. Or maybe they are beginning to view Ashwin as a legitimate ruler.

  A group of refugees meanders over to the fence to stare at us.

  “Opal told me you revealed your powers,” Brother Shaan remarks.

  I turn my back to the onlookers. “Do the people know?”

  “They will soon. When they do, I’ll tell them it’s a rumor started to defame you. That should give them time to adapt to the idea.”

  I twist my fingers in the pleats of my skirt. “I don’t like lying to them.”

  “They must prepare for what’s to come. No matter who wins the tournament, Ashwin will wed a bhuta. His children will be bhutas. The next heir to the Tarachandian throne will be a bhuta.”

  “So long as it isn’t a Burner,” I mutter.

  Brother Shaan lays a consoling hand on my shoulder. “Undoing their prejudice will take time. Have patience and faith.”

  Faith will not undo my actions. I glance at Ashwin to ensure that he is still out of hearing range. “Why didn’t you tell the prince how Tarek died?”

  “Your support gives Ashwin the confidence to rule, and he gives you hope for a peaceful empire.”

  “Your being right doesn’t justify lying to us.” I pull from Brother Shaan’s grasp. “You should have told me when the rest of my party arrived.”

  “I meant to tell you later that night. I’m sorry. I didn’t know Deven would get hurt.” Brother Shaan’s remorse files down the sharpest edges of my anger. “I wanted you to have time alone with the prince. Both of you were wounded by Tarek. Only you can truly understand how deeply. You have every reason to trust each other.”

  Across the way, Ashwin still speaks to the guards. My confidence in him is growing, and I am coming to rely upon his support. Telling him the truth about Tarek’s death can wait until after the tournament, when our people are free.

  The crowd peeking over the fence grows. More than my presence is drawing attention. I look a fright in my filthy training sari with the dry blood on my arm. “I better go,” I say.

  As I cross back to Opal, waiting at the wing flyer, I pass the gate for the military encampment and long for a glimpse of Deven. Seeing no sign of him, I fend off my disappointment and turn away. Anu, let him be safe.

  Opal flies me back to the palace. As we circle over the gardens, I spot Tinley below, grooming her mahati falcon, Bya. The great bird stays still as the Galer brushes its beak. When we land, the falcon squawks and ruffles its feathers. Up close, the mahati is even more striking, its red-orange feathers blazing in the sunlight. Tinley pets her bird and speaks in a low, soothing voice. She does not treat Bya like a beast with a master but as a dear friend. The falcon nudges Tinley in the shoulder with its beak, and she tosses it a scorpion to eat.

  “Doesn’t the stinger hurt him?” I ask, listening to the crunch of the scorpion being devoured.

  “Her,” Tinley corrects. “Bya’s female.”

  “She has a beautiful name.”

  Tinley is not warmed by my compliment. She turns her back to me and says, “Slag.”

  Opal sets a hasty pace away from Tinley, and I rush to catch up. I do not recognize the term “slag,” but, given Opal’s reaction, I doubt Tinley intended her use kindly.

&nb
sp; In the palace corridors, guards stiffen when they see me, and servants cower. A group of the sultan’s courtesans, escorted by eunuch guards, makes an abrupt about-face. As they scurry away, I overhear one of them mutter “slag,” and the others titter.

  “What does ‘slag’ mean?” I ask Opal.

  She answers in haste. “It’s a distasteful term for a Burner. My mother taught Rohan and me never to use it.”

  I sniff once, feigning a lack of interest, but the offense stings. I have never heard a derogatory term for the other bhutas. Are Burners despised so much? I drag my sore feet to my bedchamber, impatient to bury my head under my blankets and muffle out the world, but Opal halts before the threshold.

  “You have a guest,” she says, lowering her brows.

  Before I can ask who is inside my chamber, Indah opens my door and smiles.

  18

  DEVEN

  Gods, it’s hot. The absence of a breeze is stifling. Lieutenant Eko offers me a wet cloth for my face. I dab the rag against my bloody lip where I was hit by a staff. Manas scowls at Eko and me from inside the dining tent with the other soldiers. Friendly as usual.

  Midday meal comes to a close. I hardly touched my mushy rice, leaving it for Yatin to finish. My whole body is sore from sparring.

  “You take a beating well,” Eko says, sitting with me.

  “I’ve had practice.”

  “General Gautam was your father,” he notes. “I was surprised to hear of his death.”

  Interesting that I say I’m used to a beating and he mentions my father. Did Eko know the general as I did? The general tortured me for information about the rebels before he died. I remember the general bleeding out on the dungeon floor, but I suffer no powerful ache or loss. Everything I understand about honor and respect, I learned from my mother and other sister warriors. My father does not deserve my sorrow, only relief. He can no longer torment anyone.

  “The circumstances were complicated,” I answer.

  “They often are.” Eko squints up at the hillside. The gold dome of the Beryl Palace gleams in the sunshine. Below the impressive structure, a gigantic sign has been erected with four names written in bold letters.

  Indah of Lestari

  Citra of Janardan

  Tinley of Paljor

  Kalinda of Tarachand

  They posted the rank board for the tournament. I fasten my gaze onto Kali’s name. Did I really tell her she had to compete? The memory rings hollow through me. Yes, I did.

  Eko wipes at his forehead. His cheeks turn pink beneath his gray beard, burning in the heat of the day. “Manas told me you’re the kindred’s personal guard.”

  “I was. I no longer serve in that capacity.”

  He scratches his cheek, working through a puzzle. “Are you married? Have any children?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither, but I was in love once. A young woman came to sell sunflower seeds to the brethren at the temple. After spending all my coin to buy her wares, I mustered up the courage to visit her in the nearby village. Her father sent me away and told me not to come back. He had arranged a marriage between her and the village blacksmith. I thought I wouldn’t see her again, but the next fortnight she came to the temple peddling her seeds, and I asked her to marry me.”

  When Eko started his story, I did not anticipate caring. “What did she say?”

  “I was too late. She had wed the blacksmith two nights earlier.” Eko takes back my rag and dabs away sweat on his upper lip. I gulp down a lump of regret. His story did not end the way I hoped. “I won’t pretend to know your circumstances, Captain, but I know what it is to have fate stacked against you.”

  Manas must have told him about Kali and me. No offense to Eko, but our relationship is none of his concern. “The Brotherhood temple must have been an undemanding post.”

  “Most of the time it was, unless the rajah came to visit.” Eko swipes at his forehead, his flushed cheeks darkening to scarlet. “I’ve seen a man whipped twice in my life. Once was you, and the other was the last time the rajah visited the prince . . .” Eko trails off and rests his head in his hands. “I think I’ve had too much sun.”

  I lay my hand on his back—his skin burns through the thin cloth of his tunic. I signal for Yatin, and he comes right over.

  “Eko needs to lie down,” I say.

  We help Eko cross camp to our tent and lay him on his bedroll. I test the temperature of his forehead. He is feverish, his clammy skin sticking to mine.

  Manas bursts inside the sweltering tent. “What did you do to him, Deven?”

  “Nothing. He’s fallen ill. Fetch a guard.”

  Manas opens his mouth to argue and then sees his friend’s ruddy face and darts out.

  I sit back on my heels, listening to Eko’s labored breathing over the buzzing mosquitoes. Yatin reflects the same grim expression. We have seen sun sickness before. I had it myself the first time I crossed the Bhavya Desert. I fell off my camel during training and hit the sand like a stone. Yatin hauled my sorry rear back to Vanhi. Eko’s fever is too high for sun sickness. I do not know what this is.

  Manas returns with a guard and a healer. The guard snaps at us to leave. Yatin and I wait outside with Manas. He holds himself tense, wringing his fingers.

  The guard steps out of the tent, leaving Eko with the healer, and tromps off for the guardhouse. Moments later, a gong rings, calling all prisoners to the quad. The healer could be a while, so Yatin and I join the men. They are already there, mumbling about why we have been summoned. Vizier Gyan stands near the gate, talking with the guard who left Eko.

  Something is not right. Our captors are more troubled about Eko than I assumed they would be over one sick prisoner.

  Vizier Gyan enters the quad wearing his usual long-sleeved tunic that hangs past his wrists to his knuckles. He must be accustomed to the heat, as he does not sweat in the warmer clothes. A land symbol I did not see before is sewn on his jacket collar. He’s a Trembler? The only other Trembler I have met is Hastin. Last time I saw the warlord, he dropped boulders on a group of palace guards, crushing them to death. I cannot decide which is more fearsome, Burner or Trembler powers.

  “An illness is sweeping the civilian camp,” the vizier announces, drawing a collection of sharp breaths from us prisoners. “We thought it was contained, but a man in this encampment has fallen ill. We’ll quarantine him from the general population. If you detect the beginnings of a fever in yourself or another man, report it immediately.”

  “How are our families?” one of our men asks. “Are they all right?”

  “We have no other news,” replies the vizier.

  The men are not satisfied.

  “My wife and children are in there!”

  “We deserve to know if our families are well!”

  Vizier Gyan signals for silence, but the demands multiply. My own fears expand. Mother and Brac will arrive any day. Vizier Gyan will confine Mother to the civilian camp, and given that Brac would not entrust his Burner identity to outsiders, he will be sent here with me. Skies, it would be good to see my brother, but I do not want him or my mother imprisoned. Neither camp is safe.

  The guards step in to break up the distressed men, hauling off the loudest shouter. Upon seeing him dragged away to confinement, the rest of the protesters ramble off.

  But there is nowhere to go. We are all trapped inside this cesspit together.

  19

  KALINDA

  Indah holds my door open. I shove down my agitation at finding her inside my chamber and step past her. After a quick inspection, nothing appears out of order. Pons is stationed near the balcony, in full view of the room and the gardens. Longing sweeps over me. That’s where Deven would stand if he were here.

  “Kalinda, your guests asked to wait for you to return,” Natesa says, her high voice nervous.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Indah adds, settling on my raised lounge. “Your servant offered us tea.”

  Stick to truths. She can
sense liars.

  “I’m happy to entertain a visit, but I’m in sore need of a bath.” I hold out my dirty skirt as proof.

  “This will only take a moment.” Indah pats the seat beside her. I join her, expecting this will be brief. Natesa hovers near the teapot and pretends not to eavesdrop.

  “So you’re a Burner,” Indah remarks, an observation without condemnation. “I should have guessed. Your eyes flash when you’re irritated.” She laughs. “Yes, like that. My mother’s eyes do the same thing.”

  “Your mother is a Burner? Didn’t you say she’s an Aquifier?”

  “My father is an Aquifier; I said my mother birthed me in healing waters. She’s the datu’s Burner Virtue Guard. She’ll be pleased to hear of your powers. Burners are scarce, even in Lestari. My mother has not said so, but she wished I, her only child, would inherit her abilities.” Indah’s tone carries no resentment, merely acceptance. “I admire your restraint, Kindred. If you hadn’t revealed yourself, I wouldn’t have guessed your secret. Even Pons heard nothing. Your Galer guards are skilled at misplacing sounds.”

  “Pons?” I ask, glancing at her guard in the balcony doorway.

  “Pons is a Galer. He was born in a village south of here. His parents brought him to Iresh when he was a child.” He must be Indah’s collector of secrets. “I hope you don’t mind that, after I left the throne room this morning, I researched your heritage. I was fascinated to hear your mother was Rajah Tarek’s first-ever wife, Yasmin, and your father was the former bhuta ambassador Kishan Zacharias.”

  I shield my dissatisfaction. “Who told you that?”

  “Your servant. She’s quite sociable.”

  I cut a censorious glance at Natesa, who stares a little too attentively at the teapot. “Natesa isn’t my servant; she’s my friend.”

  “My apologies. Your friend told us how Rajah Tarek claimed you. An incredible story with a tragic ending.” Indah taps her fingers against the back of the lounge. “Some might think it’s strange Rajah Tarek was murdered and yet you escaped.”

  “The warlord invaded the palace, and I was fortunate to get away. That’s what happened.”