Our wing flyer soars over the stone temple that clings to the great cliff. The courtyard is empty and the meditation pond frozen over, but the sparring circle has been cleared away of snow and ice for training. My last skill trial here was the first time I spilled blood. More memories of my childhood bombard me: the outer gate that locked us temple wards in and the rest of the world out; the meditation pond that I soaked my feet in on a warm summer’s day; the chip in the temple wall I fired stones at with my slingshot.
We descend to the courtyard and land in the sparring ring. I breathe in the trees and clouds, the crisp air filling me up. I have missed the wholesome scent of the mountains. Indah jumps down from the wing flyer and staggers for the corner of the courtyard. Halfway there, she bends over and retches. Our landing must have unsettled her stomach. I climb off after Ashwin and Pons and make a move to follow her.
Pons waves me back. “I’ll check on her.” He goes to Indah’s side and holds her hair up. An ache digs into my breastbone. No matter what Admiral Rimba has against them being together, they deserve whatever happiness they wish.
A petite, hunched old woman occupies the open temple doorway. An oil lamp illuminates Priestess Mita’s wizened face and gray hair. I can feel the weight of her glower from here. She does not know why we have come; she simply has never liked me. She favored Jaya. I should have known my returning as a rani still would not win her over. Ashwin starts for the priestess, and after a weary sigh, I go too.
“Rajah Tarek?” Priestess Mita whispers.
Ashwin flinches, as he does every time someone mistakes him for his father.
“This is Prince Ashwin,” I correct.
Priestess Mita dips into a bow. “Pardon my error, Your Majesty. Where is Rajah Tarek?”
“He was killed,” Ashwin answers levelly. He bore no affection for his father in life and is not hypocritical in his death. His aloofness is in part to shield me, for I ended Tarek’s reign. Ashwin is one of the few people I entrusted with the truth of his father’s demise.
“My condolences.” Priestess Mita ends on an awkward pause while examining my trousers. “We’re honored you’ve come home, Kindred Kalinda. Who are your companions?”
I glance across the courtyard. Indah has finished retching, and Pons is walking her slowly over to us. “Indah and Pons are visiting from the Southern Isles.”
The priestess straightens from her hunch. “Foreigners?”
“Friends,” Ashwin amends. “They’re welcome in the empire.”
We leave off that they are bhutas. Priestess Mita still believes Tarek’s warped fallacy that bhutas are soulless demons of the Void. She does not know I am a bhuta, or a Burner, the rarest and most feared of my kind.
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Priestess Mita recognizes her rudeness at leaving us out in the cold. “If you would please, I’ll escort your party inside. We reserve the lower floor of the temple for honored benefactors. Our wards live separately on the upper floor. You understand that we must protect our daughters’ innocence.”
I seal off a flare of anger. Protect them for what? To stand naked and blindfolded in the Claiming chamber before a strange man—an honored benefactor—and let him look them over like prized sheep?
Seeing my grinding jaw, Ashwin takes my hand. “We understand,” he says. But does he? “Thank you, Priestess.”
She sniffs, dismissing my show of temper, and leads us down the stairway alongside the cliff to the lower entrance. Indah and Pons catch up as the priestess ushers us inside. I scarcely viewed the benefactors’ chambers the day I was claimed, but they are not as lavish as I recall. At the time, the gold-leaf furniture, silk draperies, and brass lamps were extravagance beyond my imagination. My own quarters were cramped and plain, the colors drab as the stone walls encasing them. Now that I have experienced true affluence and luxury, I notice the patched holes in the draperies, the flaking leafing on the dinged furniture, and the faded bedspread and stringy tassels. These accommodations are far below the prince’s privilege.
Ashwin smiles at the priestess. “This will do nicely.”
“Do you have a room for us?” Pons asks. Indah leans against him. I was wrong about her being queasy from the flight. She must have fallen ill.