The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen Series Book 2)

by Emily R. King

  Natesa rolls onto her back and gazes up at the ceiling. “Priestess Mita used to say that the sky has two faces, day and night. But the night doesn’t actually rule. Only when the sun turns its back on the world does night appear. You are light, Kalinda. You cannot turn your back on your godly purpose. Whatever choices you made, you made them with approval from the gods.” She grips my hand in hers. “The sun may not be shining yet, but dawn’s first ray is coming.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  Natesa sends me a wry smile. “Isn’t our friendship proof enough of miracles?”

  I snort a laugh and enfold her in my arms. “You’re a good friend.”

  “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

  “Neither did I,” I say, pressing my cheek to hers. Natesa’s face squishes in aversion at my affection, and I hug her harder. She half-heartedly pats my back in return, drawing another laugh from me.

  The door opens, and Indah enters with Pons. Upon seeing Natesa and me together in a private moment, Indah pulls up short. “Should we come back?” she asks.

  “No, come in.” I am still in my robe, but I am past worrying about indecency. I am more concerned about how Indah is recovering. I climb out of bed and meet them in the sitting area. Pons helps Indah limp to the lounge. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m well, but it’ll be some time before I can walk unassisted.” Indah leans back in her seat, Pons standing behind her. “My people informed me that there was some confusion as to the rules of today’s trial. I specifically recall Sultan Kuval saying we needed to deliver our package at the gate. He said nothing about us going through. After speaking with him, he has agreed that you finished before me. You’re back in the tournament.”

  “What?” Natesa and I say in chorus.

  “It wasn’t without persuasion,” Indah says, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Datu Bulan has allowed the Janardanians to fish in the southern seas at no expenditure. Sultan Kuval doesn’t want to jeopardize their arrangement.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” I stutter out. “You gave up your place in the arena?”

  “It wasn’t really mine to begin with. You beat me to the gate. Pons and I wouldn’t have made it out without you. We thank you for that.” Indah beams up at her guard. Affection radiates between them, dazzling and whole.

  They’re in love. How did I miss seeing it before? The familiar way they speak to each other, their shared smiles, their intimate supper last night . . . It is so obvious now.

  “Thank you,” I say, my heart tugging in envy at their closeness. I wish I had a simple answer for what comes next. I may not feel for Ashwin the way I do for Deven, but if I win tomorrow, Ashwin will be rajah. And I will still be rani.

  Indah shrugs off her good deed. “I may have done you a disservice. Citra was furious that her father admitted you back into the tournament. Her anger will bolster her hunger to win.”

  I nod, trusting Indah’s caution. “Did you tell Ashwin?”

  “I passed him in the corridor and notified him of the change.” I observe her for an indication of his reaction. Was he glad to hear I will remain in the tournament? Indah’s intuitive gaze intensifies on me, reading my insecurity. “He seemed distracted but pleased. He’s worried about you. He was uncertain if you’d still wish to compete.”

  Ashwin is worried about whether or not I am willing to continue? I hurt him, and his concern is for me.

  He is nothing like Tarek, nothing at all.

  “I do,” I promise.

  “You better be certain,” Indah says. “Because the people of the Southern Isles are also counting on you to defend your throne—and win.”

  27

  DEVEN

  Someone kicks me in the side.

  “Get up,” says a gruff voice.

  I turn over on my bedroll, away from the guard’s feet. “Meathead.”

  “What did you say?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I mutter.

  The guard rounds back to kick me again. I roll out of the way onto my knees and then push off the floor. Manas is awake and gone, as are the other men I bunk with.

  “Is Yatin all right?” I ask. “Did he ask for me?”

  “He’s alive. Now move.”

  The guard prods me out of the tent and into the first rays of dawn. The rain clouds have cleared, and the stuffy morning air sticks to my skin. The whole of camp has been woken. I follow the line of men to the quad. The rank board on the dusky hillside has been altered, but I question my vision in the grainy light. Kali’s name has been added to the board again, and Indah of Lestari’s name is missing.

  Kali’s still in the tournament. We have a chance.

  Vizier Gyan waits in the quad, flanked by his men. Since today is the tournament, I anticipated the grounds would be mostly clear of guards, but even more surround us. I look to Manas as to the purpose of this gathering, but he frowns, puzzled too.

  “We have been informed of a schemer among you,” announces Vizier Gyan.

  Manas folds his arms across his chest in defiance. Other men shift on their feet, uncertain who the source is of this early morning roundup.

  Vizier Gyan explains, “I’ve been monitoring everything in this camp, including what our visiting healers bring in and take out.” My face turns to stone, shutting in my alarm. “Yesterday during our search we discovered something missing from one of the healer’s baskets. Only one of you was permitted inside the sick tent while he was here.” Vizier Gyan aims his finger at me. “Captain Naik, step forward.”

  I am not given the chance. Guards grab my arms and drag me before the vizier. They pat me down, find the vial in my pocket, and shove me to my knees.

  Vizier Gyan holds up the neutralizer tonic. “Did you take this from the healer while in the sick tent yesterday?”

  I stare straight ahead, regretting my impulsive choice to steal the vial. Anything I say could incriminate me further and possibly lead back to Kali. The vizier already suspects she sent the healer for Yatin. I will not give him a reason to interfere with her duel.

  Vizier Gyan rests his hand on the back of my head. Pain explodes in my joints as my bones grind together, and then it stops.

  “I will ask you one more time,” he says. “Did you take this?”

  “Yes,” I squeeze out.

  Vizier Gyan lets me go, and I fold over. Every bone in my body aches like he reached inside me and rearranged my skeleton. “What did you intend to use it for?”

  I intended to pollute the guards’ drinking water during the tournament today.

  The grinding pain begins to fade. From my vantage point kneeling, I spot knife scars on the vizier’s inner wrists under his long sleeves. Bloodletting scars. I recognize them from the bhuta executions Rajah Tarek held often. Bhutas were bled from strategically placed cuts so they would suffer from blood loss, weakening their powers. Then they were bludgeoned to death with stones.

  “I recognize your scars,” I say. “Do your men know?”

  Vizier Gyan’s nostrils flare. He tugs down his sleeves and barks, “Take him to the cell.”

  The guards drag me to the one-room hut, my weak legs stumbling to keep up. I am really tired of this cell. Vizier Gyan follows me inside and slams the door, shutting out the guards. I rest against the wall, still recovering from whatever he did when his powers ground at my bones.

  “Those marks on your wrists are bloodletting scars,” I say, holding my aching arms against my sore rib cage. “Did Tarek order you executed?”

  “Does that delight you, Tarachandian soldier?” he sneers.

  “I never participated in any of the stonings. My brother . . . well, half brother, is a bhuta.” The vizier’s expression remains fixed in fury, so I press, “What were you doing in Tarachand?”

  “My sister, the sultan’s first-ever wife, and I were on a tour of the rice fields along our border when we were caught in the cross fire between imperial soldiers and bhutas fleeing Tarachand. A Burner killed my sister.
I was captured by Tarachandian soldiers. Hastin stopped them before they stoned me to death.” Vizier Gyan tries to bury his sorrow beneath his hatred, but I hear it in his voice, raw and raised like the scars on his wrists.

  “You’re working with Hastin.”

  Vizier Gyan flicks a speck of dirt off his jacket. “Hastin has grand designs to avenge our people. He desires to punish every last half-wit who hunted down and murdered bhutas. But his yearning for vengeance prohibits him from seeing the breadth of our opportunity. A throne tournament was the perfect distraction to finally strike back. While the prince and the other nations have been in Iresh, I have been moving troops into Tarachand.”

  My lungs cave in on themselves. I saw the soldiers near our borders. They must be through by now. “Does the sultan know?”

  “Kuval has ambitions to expand his rule into Tarachand. He thinks he can unseat Hastin from Vanhi and then use Citra to browbeat the boy prince into doing his bidding and increase his diplomatic power. But the better way is to secure the Zhaleh.”

  Does Hastin know Janardanian troops are in Tarachand’s borders? Will he retaliate? I cannot determine how far the vizier’s deceit has spread, but every unresolved offense since coming to Iresh suddenly makes sense. “You had me lashed.”

  “I assumed the kindred would run with you and the Zhaleh upon learning Prince Ashwin punished the man she loved. I had troops on standby to intercept her and take the book.”

  “You underestimated her.”

  “Every warrior has a weakness,” he counters. “Kalinda will let her guard down—and I will be there. Rajah Tarek’s empire will fall for what he did to my sister.”

  His surety unnerves me. He must have a plan in place to take the Zhaleh. “Releasing the Voider will destroy more than the empire. Janardan will fall too. The entire world will be lost.”

  “I have no interest in using the Zhaleh as a weapon. Instead of strong-arming Hastin with our armies, I will use the book to negotiate the warlord’s exit from Vanhi. I do not wish to go to war.” Vizier Gyan’s antipathy carries stark honesty. “Kuval intends to send bhuta soldiers into battle, and more of my people will die. Bhutas are resigned to squander our powers or serve under Kuval’s rule. I left my scars as a reminder of my sister’s heart’s wish—to set our people free. I will bring her dream to pass through her daughter.”

  “Citra won’t win,” I say.

  “She will. Kalinda may have wheedled her way back into the tournament, but Citra will be champion, and I will ensure she gains the support of your people by giving them proper supplies and care. The refugees are so desperate for kindness they will love her despite her being a bhuta.” I round my hands into fists, nauseated by his cunning. “Once Citra has the refugees on her side, she’ll get rid of the boy prince and reign over the empire with me as her adviser. Bhutas will flock there for freedom.”

  The vizier will dismantle the empire and build a new kingdom on its ashes. “What of my people?” I ask, my queasiness spreading.

  “The refugees will become slaves to the new empire, and I will turn you and your soldiers over to Hastin. He can execute you as he pleases.”

  I swing my fist at Vizier Gyan, but he opens a pit in the ground beneath me with his powers. I fall in it up to my chin, and the dirt squeezes around my limbs, trapping me.

  Vizier Gyan stands above me, casting a shadow across his pit. “The duel will start soon. The amphitheater isn’t far from here. If you listen closely, you’ll hear my people celebrating your kindred’s death.”

  28

  KALINDA

  I awake shivering.

  Morning sunlight streams through the windows and balcony. My blanket is pulled up to my chin and my limbs are drawn in close to my heart, yet I am cold. I search inside myself for my soul-fire, but my powers elude me. I throw off the covers and stumble to the mirror glass. I try to push my inner light into my hands. They do not glow.

  Natesa glides in, refreshed for the new day. She holds out a black training sari for my duel. “Good, you’re awake. You leave for the amphitheater in an hour.”

  I swivel from the mirror glass, and even after I halt, my head continues to spin. “Sultan Kuval gave me neutralizer tonic yesterday before the trial. He said it would wear off by now, but I still don’t have my powers.”

  “Slow down,” Natesa says, laying out my clothes. “You took something from the sultan?”

  “All of the competitors did.”

  My legs wash of strength. I rest against the vanity for support. The sultan poisoned me. Am I the only competitor he sabotaged? Or did he drug Indah as well? He would not impair his daughter.

  I release a guttural moan. “Citra is going to crush me.”

  “You don’t have any powers,” Natesa asks, finally hearing me. “At all?”

  Indah and Pons enter my chamber. Pons wears a navy tunic with a low-cut split collar and has recently shaved the sides of his head. Indah sports an aquamarine sari with dazzling gold beading that matches her lip stain. They came dressed in their finest, prepared to represent Lestari well in the tournament procession.

  “We came to see if you need anything,” Indah says, smiling. She reads our troubled faces and loses all cheerfulness. “What’s the matter?”

  “Kalinda doesn’t have her Burner abilities,” Natesa says, her palm over her mouth in horror.

  “I haven’t gotten my powers back after taking the tonic yesterday,” I explain. “I think the sultan’s poison is still obstructing them. Do you have yours?”

  “Yes, my powers returned last night.” Indah exchanges a puzzled frown with Pons, and then her eyes go wide. “My injured ankle. I bled the poison out.”

  The crocodile bite let her blood. Sultan Kuval gave the same tonic to Citra, but he must have warned her. By now, Citra will have let her blood to revive her powers.

  Pons lays a supportive hand on Indah’s shoulder, their frowns abysmal. They believe I have been sabotaged beyond repair.

  I press down on my aching sternum. Gods, gods, gods.

  “You’re an Aquifier!” Natesa screeches at Indah. “You have to do something!”

  “The only way to drain the poison is to let her blood,” Indah replies, her voice regretful. “The recovery process takes hours. She would be in no condition to duel.”

  I slump down upon my vanity stool. Without my powers, Citra will bury me. I might as well be defenseless.

  “There must be another way,” says Natesa, pacing in front of me. Each time she passes by, my despair drops further.

  She stops abruptly, and her chin snaps up. “What if you don’t tell them? Let them think you have your powers. For all you know, the poison could wear off, and you’ll regain them by the start of the duel.”

  I would prefer a remedy to bluffing, but Natesa’s strategy may be the only answer. I cannot request a delay. Sultan Kuval will know I am stalling and tell me to concede, as he has done every other time I have protested during the trials. I have no other choice but to go forward with the duel. Whether I win or lose is up to the gods.

  “This stays between us,” I order. “Say nothing to Ashwin or Brother Shaan. I don’t want to worry them.”

  Indah and Pons mutter in compliance, both tense and anxious.

  Natesa throws up her gaze, suddenly aware of the time. “Skies above, you need your hair and makeup done before you go anywhere. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  I look in the mirror glass, my sallow reflection staring back at me. “Then you better get started.”

  Ashwin comes into my chamber as Natesa finishes painting my lips. Indah and Pons have already left for the procession. Now, nearly an hour after I woke, my hair is braided, my black training sari is pinned on tightly, and my daggers are strapped to my thighs.

  I still have no powers.

  Natesa gives me a hug. “Teach Citra what a true champion is. I’ll be waiting for your return.”

  I squeeze Natesa back in thanks. She bows to Ashwin and then goes into her antechamber.
I tuck away my worries and face Ashwin’s nervous gaze.

  “Brother Shaan suggested we arrive at the procession together so we appear united,” he says stiffly.

  I walk up to him and adjust his stand-up collar. His immaculate scarlet tunic and trousers are handsome. The black scorpion crest on his chest matches his turban. “We are united. I’m sorry, Ashwin. I was unfair to you when you deserved my honesty. I cannot promise you anything. Except that I . . . I would like to try again.”

  His face brightens with boyish charm. Is his smile sincere? Or does he see me as a murderess? The playful tilt of his head and the humor on his lips are so like Tarek. I cannot guarantee how close we can become when at times he reminds me of his father. My knee-jerk reaction may never go away.

  “So you’ll stay with me after you win?” he asks.

  Ashwin’s belief in my ability to triumph today corrodes my lesser apprehensions about us. We do not have time to discuss whether or not he forgives me now. His support of me is enough.

  “I’ll consider staying.” That is the best assurance I can offer. First, I must honor my promise to return for Deven, and then I will know if he and I have anything left between us to hold on to.

  “I was hoping you would wear this today.” Ashwin hands me his gold cuff. “Brother Dhiren gave it to me. It belonged to his grandmother. She was a sister warrior, like you.”

  The square cuff style is one a warrior wears to battle. I turn the piece of history over, running my fingers along the worn edges, dings, and shallow scrapes. This cuff has seen combat and bloodshed. I pray that today it will see victory.

  I slip the gold cuff onto my wrist. Ashwin’s wrist looks bare without it.

  “I have a good luck charm too.” He lifts a thin chain from around his neck. The oil vessel hangs at the end like a pendent. “I’m wearing it as a reminder of those we’ve lost. Is that morbid?”

  It would be if I wore the vial, given it contains the blood of my people, but Ashwin is honoring the fallen. I tuck the vessel back under his tunic. “Protect it.”