Ashwin takes my hand in his and then reaches for my other one. He holds them up and rubs his thumbs over the backs. “Your rank marks have faded.”
On the day I need them most. I will win them back, I vow. But apprehension clamps down on me. Memories from my rank tournament plagued my sleep last night. Blood and screams and death.
Ashwin lets my hands go and skims his knuckles across my cheek. “You’re nervous.”
“In tangles.”
He offers me his arm. “This is your throne, Kalinda. Tarachand is your empire to defend.”
Gods willing, I will represent our homeland well.
I slide my arm through Ashwin’s, and we start off for the procession.
Ashwin and I part ways at the palace gardens. The storm clouds from yesterday have gone, but the sweltering air still scents of wetness. Rohan goes with Ashwin, and Opal escorts me to the line of waiting elephants and extravagant wooden litters.
Elephant warriors ride bareback atop their steeds in showy dress uniforms of plum tunics and loose green trousers. A machete hangs at each warrior’s hip, and a khanda is strapped to their backs, gold hilts glinting in the sun. More soldiers prepare to march alongside us. The dragon cobra emblem of Janardan adorns the soldiers’ tunics and the emerald banners they carry.
Opal pushes a step stool beside the elephant I will ride. A servant stands near the mighty beast’s head, stopping it from moving. I rode an elephant to my rank tournament, but it had a howdah carriage. This elephant is bareback, no saddle to secure myself into.
“Can I ride with the prince?” I ask, motioning at Ashwin climbing into one of the litters.
“It is tradition for the duelers to ride bareback,” says Opal. “Don’t fret. The elephant has been trained to stay in line.”
A couple yards in front of me, Citra straddles another elephant. A green-and-gold training sari displays her toned body and gentle curves, and her shiny dark hair is braided into tiny sections and clipped up in swooping strands. A thin gold-chained crown rings her head, a teardrop beryl gem dangling from it over her forehead. The kohl around her eyes sweeps out to dagger points, lengthening her eyelashes and deepening the severity of her stare.
She smirks, a patronizing curl of her rouged lips. “Afraid of a short ride?”
Nothing is short about the elephant, but I cannot dishonor our hosts’ tradition. Opal steadies the stool as I step to the top. Bracing against the elephant’s side, I hop up onto it and fling my leg over its back; its girth is wider than my stride. I immediately slide forward to its narrower neck and stop myself by grabbing behind the elephant’s ears.
The elephant sidesteps in agitation. The servant pacifies the animal, and Citra snickers. My face burns. I look a fool, but at least I am still astride the great beast.
“Rohan and I will ride ahead to the amphitheater,” says Opal. “Only native-born Janardanian soldiers are allowed in the procession. We’ll be waiting for you there.”
She pats my leg to put me at ease, but a storm of anxiety wreaks havoc on my nerves.
A gong sounds, and the procession starts down the stairs that Citra made alongside the cliff. One after another, the elephant warriors and foot soldiers disappear over the edge. Servants lift Sultan Kuval’s wooden litter. He sits beneath a shade canopy atop silk pillows. Delicately carved orchids decorate the posts of the four open sides. He sways as his servants heft the litter to the top of the stairway and downward, falling out of sight. Ashwin is carried next in another ornate litter, and then more foot soldiers and elephant warriors follow.
Citra is the next royalty to descend from the palace, and then my elephant lumbers closer to the sheer drop. I grip its head tighter as it starts down the stairs. I slide forward, my legs clamping around the elephant’s hard neck, and train my gaze on the zigzagging stairway. I duck often to avoid an overhang or lean away from the spray of the waterfall.
Once we reach the ground, Janardanians line the roadway, cheering for their princess. Citra smiles broadly and waves in return. I am so taken aback by the sincerity of her affection for them that I do not see the mango soaring at me until it strikes my arm. The rotten fruit splits open, and sticky juice sprays down my side.
Numerous people lining the road boo at me and throw more fruit. I hunch down over the elephant, and my back is pelted. A papaya hits the side of my head, and chunks of it mash into my ear. I wait for the foot soldiers to step in and stop my assailants, but they stay behind and in front of my elephant, plodding onward without a care.
Ahead, I can barely see Ashwin’s litter winding through the packed roads. He is too far in front to view what is happening. I cover my cheeks, hot with humiliation, and leave my head down. Along with their booing, the rabble shouts names. “Filthy bhuta.” “Slag.” And the most insulting, “Kur’s pet.”
Angry tears sting my eyes. Sultan Kuval knows his people hate Burners. He should have anticipated this uproar. Perhaps he did, and he is trying to browbeat me into conceding.
I choke down a burning lump of fury and sit up tall. I lift my chin high and draw a dagger. The next piece of fruit that flies at my face, I block with my blade and forearm. The spectators near me shrink away, as they do not know that I am without my powers. But not all are afraid. The anonymity of the mob and inaction from the soldiers encourage their loathing. I do not stop all the rotten fruit from hitting me, and I cannot halt their heckling, but a fierce stare and the gleam of my dagger slow a portion of their wrath.
Our procession turns away from the city, weaving into the outskirts of the Morass, down a road lined with massive banyan trees. The treetops arch above, the branches threading together like clasped fingers. Children dangle from the boughs overhead. One child leans down and yanks hard on my braid and then swoops out of reach before I can swat him. The relentless hounding almost releases my tears, but I concentrate on each shaky inhale, matching it to the sway of the elephant.
Almost there. A little longer.
Twin teak trees mark the entrance to the outdoor amphitheater. Far ahead, Sultan Kuval’s servants set down his and Ashwin’s litters. The rest of the procession halts in succession. I slide down off the elephant, and Opal comes to my side. She takes in my sticky clothes and hair.
“Kindred, are you all right?”
“I’ve faced far worse than rotten fruit. Once I’m wearing my armor, no one will see the stains.” I throw a smile at Opal that I doubt is convincing and then leave her to meet the others.
Ashwin spots my blemished sari as I approach the entrance to the amphitheater, and his face sets in anger. I plead silently with him not to cause more of a spectacle. Citra is already smirking at me like she has a blade to my throat, and Sultan Kuval looks me up and down with pompous satisfaction. I clamp my molars together at their tiresome ridicule and garner every scrap of dignity I have left. Let them think I’m unshaken. Let them worry if I have my powers.
I join Ashwin’s side, and he views the full damage. “What happened?” he demands.
“The spectators on the roadway expressed their opinion of me.”
He faces Sultan Kuval and Princess Citra, and his voice slices at them like an arrow. “Why were your people permitted to accost my kindred?”
Citra jolts at his use of “my kindred.” Oh, yes. Ashwin knows where best to retaliate.
“The voice of the people may declare their favored warrior,” answers Sultan Kuval.
Ashwin risks staining his tunic jacket by pulling me against him, resting his hand on the small of my back. “Kalinda doesn’t need the voice of the people. She has me.”
Citra chirps an uncertain laugh. Ashwin glares at her, stone-cold. She sniffs in dismissal of his resentment and revolves away. Sultan Kuval twists the end of his mustache, his gaze troubled. Doubt is a powerful motivator, but it will only take me so far.
The sultan leads us down the path to the sunken amphitheater. The wide oval stadium and arena are dug into the ground, the steps leading downward. The rows of seating for spectat
ors are made of hard-packed land that rings the massive pit in the jungle floor.
Green pennants with the dragon cobra symbol rap in the breeze above the upper row of the stadium where we stand. All of the spectators are Janardanians. Sultan Kuval must not have permitted my people to attend due to the outbreak, not that they would cheer for me. As a chambermaid, Natesa was not allowed to come. Indah and Pons are seated near the sultan’s imperial box. My solitary supporter from home is Ashwin.
I slip my hand into his clammy one and anchor myself to his unwavering faith in me. He is my blood, my ally, my rajah.
Drummers line up alongside us and strike a furious beat. The audience rises and faces the top of the stairs. While the drummers thump a marching rhythm, Sultan Kuval and Citra start down the stairway.
Ashwin tugs my hand, urging us to go next. As we descend into the amphitheater, I pray that the gods will have mercy and restore my powers before I reach the bottom. I avoid the defiant stares of the Janardanians and reach for my inner flame. My soul-fire is quiet, like a muffled voice. A hand has smothered it to silence, but it is there.
At the bottom of the stairs, the crowd towers high as the sky. Citra kisses her father’s cheek, and then Sultan Kuval leaves her and enters the imperial box that overlooks the arena.
“I’ll be right here,” Ashwin whispers to me.
I have wrung his hand so hard my fingertips are numb. He gives me an encouraging squeeze and then enters the imperial box. The sultan’s wives and courtesans occupy another reserved area above Kuval and Ashwin. Tevy is with the women, come to support her sister. If only Natesa could be here.
Bladesmiths heft heavy armor onto Citra and me. One drops a helmet that is too big onto my head, and the other straps a breastplate on me too tightly. They offer me a khanda. I refuse, opting for my lighter daggers. The armor is heavy, sinking me further into this pit of doom.
Standing before his throne, the sultan lifts his arm, and the drumming stops. “Welcome to the finale of the trial tournament! Our first challenger is Princess Citra—”
Spectators stomp their feet to demonstrate their support. Citra leaps over the barrier and drops down several feet into the arena. She lands without difficulty and then raises her arms to the stomping and starts to pump them. Her arms start slowly and then push faster. The audience matches her rhythm with their stomps, and soon the entirety of the amphitheater tremors under their feverous thumping. Finally, her people launch to their feet, their thunderous acclamation shuddering through me.
Citra grins and sweeps her arms down into a regal bow.
The cheers of the crowd peter off so I can hear my crashing pulse.
Sultan Kuval lifts his voice to finish the introductions. “Our second competitor is the kindred of the Tarachand Empire.”
Boos begin before the sultan can say my name. Ashwin scowls up into the crowd and then faces forward, deciding the group is too big to silence with a fierce look.
“Hailing from the Turquoise Palace in distant Vanhi, welcome Kalinda Zacharias!”
Yells of discord bang at my back. I search inside for my temper, for my Burner powers to spark in defense, but they are still a far-off star, cold and unreachable.
A bladesmith motions for me to join Citra in the arena. Seeing no stairs, I hoist my leg over the rail and leap down. The added weight of my armor throws me off balance, and my knees buckle as I land. I fall forward onto all fours. Uproarious laughter cascades across the piers. Their cruel amusement, like nettles, rakes over my skin.
Citra’s shadow falls over me. “You know how to make an impression.”
I push to my feet before her. Citra’s frame carries the heavy armor like it is an exoskeleton. She struts to the sparring ring etched into the ground. The arena floor is an endless slab of unforgiving stone that reeks of old blood. I pad across the flat surface into the ring and face her.
The drummers begin an ominous, slow beat. Citra draws her khanda, and the rhythm rolls faster. The start of the tournament is coming, dragging me forward like a landslide. I pull my daggers and settle into my fighting stance. The drumming surges to an earsplitting thunder.
I am directly beneath the storm. I cannot run from the terror flooding me.
I am going to die without my powers.
My next thought overwhelms me with sadness.
I’ll never see Deven again.
The beat stops.
In the sudden silence, Citra throws out her free arm. The stone floor lifts to her command, and a raised culvert of rock heaves at me. Dust and pebbles spray my face. I dive out of the rocky deluge, and my helmet falls off, rolling away.
Citra materializes through the cloud of dust, running around me on stones that elevate beneath her feet, each taller than the last. When she is above my head, she leaps at me with her sword poised to strike. I lift my daggers, and they clash against her khanda. With our blades connected, Citra heaves the land beneath me, knocking me off balance. I rearrange my weight and avert another khanda blow to the head.
“Where are your powers, Burner?”
I wedge a knee between us, thrusting her back. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
Citra raises her khanda, confusion crossing her face. “Know what?”
“The tonic I took yesterday hasn’t worn off,” I explain, perplexed by her response. “Your father poisoned me.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did.”
“He didn’t tell me,” she replies, stepping back.
“Did you let your blood today?”
“Yesterday evening. My father said it was to cleanse me for battle.”
My mind spins with reasons why the sultan would not tell her, and from Citra’s hurt expression, we come to the same conclusion—he does not trust her to win on her own merits.
“I don’t need help defeating you,” Citra growls.
She sweeps her khanda and cuts my right side. Pain explodes across my abdomen. I bend over, grasping my wound. She kicks me in the knee, and I fall in an agonized crouch, bleeding through my fingers.
Citra kicks me again, in the back. I groan from the bruising strike. “I can win without my powers,” she snarls.
The loss of blood weakens me, but it also tears down the wall between me and my blocked powers. The star of my soul-fire is closer, like a comet blazing in my direction. The poisons are bleeding out.
I push to my feet, suffering the agony of every excruciating movement, and lower my wet hand from the cut. I allow the blood to flow and free me from my poisoned prison. Daggers ready, I strike at Citra. She evades and smashes the hilt of her sword into my lower back. I stumble forward and raise my dagger in time to parry her sword and plunge my second dagger into her shoulder.
She cries in pain, and then again as I wrench out the blade. The audience pours out a round of boos and curses at me. Blood splatters around Citra and me, the iron scent nauseating. I cannot tell which crimson specks are mine or hers, but my powers are returning.
I push soul-fire into my hands. Citra lifts the ground beneath me, plunging me into the air. I am level with the center of the amphitheater, high above the arena.
Citra rises up on another pedestal, her shoulder bleeding. “Now this is a fair fight.”
I throw a heatwave at her, and the spectators gasp. Citra dodges, leaving her teetering close to the end of the pedestal. She throws a cloud of dirt up to blind me. I shield my face from the raining pebbles and lower my arms to the clearing dust.
Citra leaps onto my platform and knocks me down, landing on top of me. I roll her onto her back and push her head over the edge. The audience chants Citra’s name. She elbows me in my injured side. I moan on a fresh wave of pain and roll off her. She hacks down with her khanda, and I grab the blade. Before the metal can cut me, I push forth my powers. The blade glows red-hot, and the heat surges up to the hilt, scalding Citra. She drops the warped khanda, cradling her palm.
As I stand, the Trembler princess lifts more pedestals around us
and leaps to the next. I throw a blast of fire after her, and the audience gasps again, enthralled by my rare abilities. The tail of my flame connects with Citra midjump, and she falls short of the pedestal, scrambling to pull herself up.
I jump to the pedestal between us. She forms a foothold, saving herself from falling, and grins at me. The ground beneath me crumbles.
I drop, going down with the rocks and boulders. The sky turns hazy. I hit the ground, and rocks pummel me. I throw up a blast of fire, burning some to dust. A boulder lands, pinning my leg. Something snaps in my knee, and dizziness reels through me.
Citra struts over to me through the falling dust, her face smeared with dirt. I try to tug out my leg, but it will not budge. Citra punches me in the nose. I flop back, the world swinging away to the crowd’s joyous cheers.
She throws off her helmet, kneels beside me, and grabs my face. With her hands on my cheeks, grinding presses through me; chisels hack at my bones. I arch against the pain, agony silencing my cries.
Citra lowers her face over mine. “I’ve been told grating is excruciating. Some say it feels like termites are gnawing away your insides. Your legs, arms, spine, even your skull, are slowly filed to dust.”
She lifts the floor beneath us while I am pinned. We surge into the sky above the dust cloud. “Everyone is going to watch me claim your throne,” she says.
I reach out to scorch her, but my body spasms, little jerks of torture. Citra’s powers grind deep, mining the last of my strength. My sight grays to a sky of granite. My rib cage pokes into my lungs, and my joints crack together like smacking rocks. Soon, I will be no more than dust.
Then I remember—Citra’s skin-to-skin connection goes both ways.
I funnel all of my powers, everything I can rally inside me, and I shove it into her hands on my face. Smoke puffs around us. The scent of singed hair and burned cloth fills my nostrils. She screams and stumbles back to the edge, teetering on the lip of the pedestal.
I place my hands on the boulder pinning my leg and burn myself free. Citra grabs on to my other leg as an anchor, and her weight drags us over the edge.
The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen Series Book 2) Page 24
