I walk toward the weather, nearer to the cliff side. Flashes of lightning emphasize the silhouette of a young woman suspended inside a giant wind tunnel. Anjali, the warlord’s Galer daughter.
“Opal,” Deven barks, “take Kali and go.”
I whirl on him. “I’m staying. Anjali has come for me.” I betrayed her father when I took the Zhaleh and ran. I must be the one to face her.
“Kali,” he says, uttering my name with commendable calm, “you have to think like a rani. Protecting yourself is preserving the empire.”
Must the empire come first, before me, before him, before us? Duty would say yes, the empire should be my priority.
“What about you?” I grip his forearm, the force of the whirlwind shoving us back a pace.
“We’ll hold them off and meet you in Janardan.” Deven drops my pack over my shoulder, the Zhaleh within. “Brother Shaan said we could trust these Galers, but be careful.”
Panic takes hold of me. I fist his tunic and drag him close. “Promise you’ll meet me in Janardan?”
“I swear it.” Deven cups my chin, his touch tainted by hand-shaking alarm. Part of me is relieved that he is not composed either. But if Deven is afraid, then we have much to fear. He rubs his thumb across my cheek and steps into the punishing wind.
The camels are frightened by the violence of the sky and scatter. Deven braces behind a boulder with Mathura, and Natesa does the same with Yatin. Brac crouches low to the ground, closer to the storm.
I run for Opal’s wing flyer into the wind’s dusty grip. Opal creates a peaceful air bubble around her like the eye of a hurricane. I throw myself into her safe haven and draw in mouthfuls of clean air.
“Get in and hold on to the navigation bar,” she says.
I grip the bamboo bar, and another wider beam braces my hips. I lie suspended over the ground on a platform. Opal climbs on beside me. A gale catches the canvas wings and tries to rip them off like leaves from a tree, but she holds the wing flyer steady and lifts us into the sky.
A greater squall hurls us back—Anjali is nearly here. Opal fights to level us, one wing precariously close to crashing into the ground. Below, Rohan throws a draft and straightens our lowered wing. Another well-timed gust lifts us higher into the night. I close my eyes, which are now streaming with tears. This would be exhilarating if it was not so terrifying.
Hail pelts us. Beneath Anjali’s wind tunnel, a young woman rides a horse with her arms raised to the storm. Indira, an Aquifier, is conducting the thunderheads. Two bhutas against two bhutas is a fair match, but my friends have a better chance of winning if Opal and I stay.
“Turn back!” I shout to her. “They need our help.”
“I have my orders!”
Her almighty winds usher us east, away from Tarachand. Away from our friends and family. Away from Deven.
3