The Fire Queen(18)

“We were separated in a rebel attack,” Opal replies. “He and the remainder of the kindred’s party will join us later.”

“You must be Kindred Kalinda,” the young woman says. “I’m Princess Citra, Sultan Kuval’s eldest daughter.” She speaks the same language everyone on the continent does, but her s sounds like a z.

The princess examines me up and down with a summary frown. I am not known for my beauty. I am too thin, too tall. I wear no eye kohl or rouge staining my lips and cheeks. No makeup colors Princess Citra’s face either, yet her eyes shine like the River Ninsar, dark pools reflecting the green of the jungle. Her blackish hair hangs straight down her back, the top strands braided and twisted up in a crown. Her silky yellow-brown skin hints of floral perfume, but she is no delicate bloom. A machete hangs at her waist, and judging from her trim figure, firm stance, and sandaled feet fastened to the land, she is skilled with her blade.

Princess Citra meets my survey of her with a self-assured smirk. “Prince Ashwin requests your company straightaway.” Something possessive, even predatory, takes hold of her when she mentions the prince.

I slide a questioning glance at Opal—is the princess always this intense?—and she motions for me to follow her.

The princess leads us down the path and through a high-arched doorway into the Beryl Palace. Torches light the vacant halls. Ceramic pots with bushy plants bring the verdure of the jungle indoors. Emerald banners hang from ceiling to floor. Each corridor has a gold-framed portrait of the land-goddess Ki wearing a huge black snake draped over her shoulders—a dragon cobra—the sultanate of Janardan’s imperial symbol.

My soul-fire flickers as we navigate the corridors, shrinking and growing every so often. I would think it odd if I was not so tired. I must stoke my inner fire with food and rest. I will not be found defenseless on foreign soil.

I maintain cautious awareness of the Janardanian soldiers. Some wear a yellow cloth band tied around their upper arm, embroidered with one godly symbol: sky, land, or water. No fire symbol, so far. They must be the sultan’s bhuta guards.

“Why don’t you wear a yellow armband?” I whisper to Opal, depending on her sensitive ears to hear me.

After a glance at Princess Citra’s back, she answers. “Bhuta refugees have two choices: sign the peace treaty and agree not to use their powers or swear fealty to Sultan Kuval and join his army. Rohan opted for the latter. The sultan doesn’t retain women in his army, so I signed the treaty. I’ve been given special permission to use my powers so long as I serve as a personal servant to the prince.”

“And who are they?” I ask of the white-clad guards with shaved heads alongside the princess. They are plain faced and fit, with toned torsos and arms.

“Eunuchs. They protect the sultan’s queens, courtesans, and children.”

How strange this place is from home. Not only did Tarek not employ eunuchs to guard his women, his courtesans were forced to entertain his men of court. I grimace at the memory of Tarek’s ill-treatment of Natesa and Mathura.

Princess Citra stops before a curved doorway. Stationed on either side of the entry are guards dressed in baggy dark-green uniforms. My longing intensifies to a piercing ache. The Janardanian guards’ postures and strict demeanors remind me of Deven.

“Your chamber is down the hall,” the princess says and then ushers Opal and me through the door.

Brother Shaan rises from a chair near an empty hearth. A smile rips across my face. He devoted his life to the Parijana faith—and to protecting me, the daughter of Rajah Tarek’s first-ever rani.

I hurry to Brother Shaan, and he wraps me in his arms. “My child,” he says, “you’re safe.”

“Anjali attacked us.” I draw away. The wrinkles on his weathered face are permanently creased into a state of concern. “I left ahead of Deven and the others.”

He grasps my cold hands in his warm ones. “You did what was right.”