Flying embers hit the cobble courtyard and bounce to sizzling ash. I worry a stray spark will ignite a brush fire and feed off the arid meadows, but the stone courtyard serves as a buffer to the bone-dry valley. The grounds were well maintained, cared for, loved.
My Burner powers simmer through me like streams of fire, begging for retribution. The bhuta warlord Hastin did this. I anticipated Hastin and his rebels would chase us to steal back the Zhaleh, the sacred book of record I took when we ran from the Turquoise Palace, but I was wrong. I should have known Hastin’s hatred for Rajah Tarek would lead him to seek out the rajah’s heir, Prince Ashwin.
The prince was raised in one of the four Brotherhood temples—which one is a long-held secret. We have trekked across Tarachand from temple to temple, searching for him, but Hastin has been one step ahead of us. This is the third temple we have located too late. Three sanctuaries of the Parijana faith brought down by powerful bhutas, the guides the brethren believe the gods charged to assist mankind.
“What now?” Natesa asks, her tone forlorn.
“What do you mean?” I reply.
“Prince Ashwin is dead.”
“We don’t know that,” I counter. “The prince could be at the final temple.”
“Why should we continue to search for him when he hasn’t stepped forward to claim his throne?” Brac questions. “Either Prince Ashwin is a coward or he doesn’t care what becomes of the empire.”
I gnaw on my inner cheek, locking down my exasperation. Brac is exhausted and frustrated. We all are. Our deliverance from war relies on us locating Prince Ashwin, but finding him is taking longer than we anticipated. We are chasing a spirit, someone we have been told exists but have never seen in the flesh.
“Hastin will own his victory when the prince is dead,” says Mathura. “We’ll find out if the prince survived this attack in the next few days.”
“Until we hear otherwise, we’ll assume he’s alive,” I say, and Brac glances away.
Am I wrong? Should we stop searching for the prince?
I look to Deven for his opinion as a captain, as my guard, as the man I love. He gazes at the burning temple, his eyes pained. Since he removed his soldier uniform and put on a plain tunic and trousers, his attention often drifts elsewhere, lost in thought. Before Rajah Tarek died, he charged Deven with treason and stripped his command for helping me aid the rebels in their attack on Vanhi. But Deven’s only mistake was siding with me.
“What should we do, Captain?” Brac inquires.
Deven flinches into focus, cringing every time someone uses his title. He scrubs a hand over his dark beard. His facial hair is scruffier than when he wore the crisp lines of his scarlet uniform, and the ends of his hair are longer, curling out from beneath his turban. His pause lasts longer than usual for his decisive nature. He has come all this way in pursuit of our new leader, and his hesitancy puzzles me.
“Son?” Mathura presses.
Deven glances at Brac, his half brother, and then at their mother, Mathura. “We’ll continue onward.” Deven points at the Alpana Mountains’ far-off shadowy peaks. “Tonight we’ll camp above the refugee trail in the foothills, and tomorrow we’ll start for the northern temple.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He registers my gratitude with a short nod, his soft beard grazing my cheekbone. “Stay alert,” he says. “The rebels could be nearby.”
We lead our camels away from the fiery ruins, the stench of death beating at our backs.