The Fire Queen by Emily R. King, now you can read online.
1
KALINDA
Death has a stench, and it is not decaying flesh but the bitter scent of smoke clawing into my pores. A wide, dark plume blots out the afternoon sun, an ashy stain rising to the heavens like a sacrificial trail. A lonely wind, hot as dragon’s breath, pushes black soot toward our caravan.
Please, gods. Not again.
I click my tongue and press my heels into my camel’s side. The long-legged animal grunts, exhausted from long days of tracking. I dig my heels in deeper, rousing a spurt of strength from the beast, and the camel’s feet crunch over clumps of dead grass as yellow as the harvest moon. Rays from the late-summer sun beat down, parching the land.
We crest a short hill, and I yank on the reins, stopping to absorb the destruction. Across the expanse of golden hills, dark smoke obscures the temple roof, and red flames chew apart the crumbling stone walls and surrounding cobble courtyard.
Another Brotherhood temple razed to rubble.
Deven leans forward, his chest close to my back. “Great Anu,” he says behind me. “They outpaced us again.”
Mathura and Brac slow to a halt at our side. We left the imperial city of Vanhi with another camel, but Mathura’s fell lame days ago. After being held in the palace for over two decades, the stately courtesan has viewed the outside world with childlike wonder, but a solemn frown ages her striking face. Her son Brac, a Burner, removes his headscarf, uncovering his reddish-brown hair, and scratches his scalp. His golden eyes are red rimmed with fatigue. Two moons’ worth of road dust covers him, covers us all. My blouse under my sari itches against my back, sweat clinging to a layer of grime.
Yatin and Natesa catch up, their camel struggling under Yatin’s hefty bulk. Natesa, my former contender in the rank tournament, gapes at the pyre. Yatin shakes his head in dismay. His years as a soldier did not prepare him for this level of ruthless destruction.
I lift my chin, stretching the hard lump in my throat. “We’ll circle the area.”
“Keep an eye out for survivors,” Deven orders the group.
Our camels charge down the slope, pushing into the smoke-filled wind and leaving trails of trampled pasture behind us. As we conquer the next rise, we pause, overlooking the temple.
“Captain,” Yatin says in his deep burr, “would you like me to ride closer?”
“I see no need,” Deven replies with grim-set lips.
I follow his gaze to the closed courtyard gate and barred doors. This is precisely how we found the last two Brotherhood temples. The patrons of the Parijana faith—brethren and young male apprentices—were locked inside when the fire was set. The flames raged into a blazing sarcophagus. We found no survivors.
Tears clear the smoke stinging my eyes. Deven shifts forward, sealing his chest against my back, and his arms come around me. I settle into him, too stricken to question his affection. Deven has been increasingly distant since we left Vanhi. Although I ache to return to our former easiness, we are both still reeling from our escape.
Nothing has been the same since Rajah Tarek claimed me as his last bride. I had to earn my position as his hundredth and final rani in a rank tournament, battling in the arena against his courtesans vying for my throne. I did not grow to love Tarek; I fell in love with my palace guard Deven. After Tarek killed my best friend, Jaya, and sentenced Deven to execution, he had to pay. I won the rank tournament, but I was forced to take the rajah’s first wife’s life or forfeit my own, a choice I still agonize over. During battle I learned the first wife was my mother’s sister—my aunt—and the only family I had met since I was orphaned as an infant.
I wed Tarek the evening after my arena duel. That same night, after I enacted my revenge by taking Tarek’s life, the Turquoise Palace was attacked by rebel bhutas seeking vengeance against the tyrant rajah. I fled from the bhutas’ conniving warlord with the friends who accompany me now. Each day I thank the gods I have them, especially Deven. Wedding Tarek pushed the life we dreamed of together in the lower hills of the Alpana Mountains further away, but I will not give up on our hope for peace.
Deven’s calloused thumb rubs my wrist, staying away from the back of my hand where the number one, the rank of the kindred, is dyed into my skin. The henna bridal markings on my arms and back faded a fortnight ago, but my wifely rank was doubly inked on with something stronger and will not leave me, no matter how often I scrub my skin raw. The mark of the rajah’s first favored wife is a cursed reminder of the night I became Rajah Tarek’s wife—and his widow. I wish this blight on my body, this reminder that I swore my life to another man, was gone.