“Repeat what?” Natesa answers, eyes twinkling. She picks up a comb and brushes my hair. “Don’t worry, Kali. Everyone knows you’re glad for them.”
“I am,” I say firmly.
Though Ashwin proposed marriage to me, I care for him as my cousin and friend. I support his decision to take the Southern Isles’ princess as his first wife. Gemi has a unique zest for life and a free spirit. The empire is in dire need of a leader with her forward-thinking views.
A crash outside draws Natesa to the balcony. She clucks her tongue and motions me to join her. Servants douse a grass fire in the garden below. A pair of girls flee into the trees.
“You didn’t make it to the dining hall in time,” says Natesa.
I rub at a mounting headache. “I had no idea two girls could be so much trouble.”
Servants extinguish the fire and resume their work. Past the palace wall, Vanhi has woken. Men crowd the roads with their burros and carts, headed to the marketplace that is shaded by a mosaic of lean-tos. Women hang laundry on the lines strung between the huts and milk goats. Children play in the side-winding river while their older siblings collect water in baskets. Life is on the move, ready for a new day. I could fall into bed until noon.
I scoop up my clothes and duck behind the dressing screen. Natesa prepleated the sari, but I fumble with the pins.
“Kalinda?” Her voice comes at me tentatively. “Would you like help?”
“No.”
A former rani who lost two fingers during her rank tournament taught me how to carry out everyday activities such as dressing and dining. By necessity, my left hand has become dominant and does well with the assistance of my prosthesis.
While pulling my sari over my shoulder, I drop a pin. Gods almighty.
Natesa hovers nearby, waiting for me to give in.
I select another pin and try again.
2
KALINDA
My trainees—Basma, age nine, and her seven-year-old sister, Giza—gaze up at me with their hands clasped in front of their bellies. Dirt dusts their sandaled feet and legs. Historically, the Vanhi amphitheater housed rank duels between sister warriors. Basma and Giza are sisters but are far from skilled fighters.
“Who threw the heatwave at Master Tinley?” I ask.
Basma’s stare does not waver from mine. “It was me.”
Giza lowers her chin. A sign of agreement? Or is she letting her older sister take the blame for her mistake?