“Giza, stand against the wall. Basma, face me.” They both scurry to follow my orders. I set the archery target before Basma. “How many stars can you find?” She shuts her eyes again and counts. When she reaches twenty-two, I cut her off. “Let’s say thirty. When you come fully into your powers, you’ll raze and consolidate them into one inner star. Until then, you mustn’t let them overpower you. Without looking, hold out your hands.”
As my student obeys, Ashwin and Brac appear in the imperial box at the north end of the arena. My pulse trips into a sprint.
The prince looks just like his father.
That box is where Tarek supervised my rank tournament. I am still too susceptible to the memory that engulfs me.
Gooseflesh raises up and down my body. The Claiming chamber is cold. A blindfold conceals my sight from the benefactor looming behind the thin veil. I hear him step out and feel the heaviness of his gaze exploring my nakedness.
Patient, plodding footfalls come closer. I want to run, scream, cry. My chin stays high, my fingers curled. Hot, sour breaths drift across my cheek . . . neck . . . chest.
Fingers thread through my hair. The water-goddess’s symbol of obedience, a wave stained in henna down my spine, burns like blasphemy.
“This one.”
The echo of Tarek’s voice shatters my memory. I press my prosthesis over my charging heart. Ashwin abolished the Claiming, the rite that gave benefactors the power to take orphaned temple wards as servants, courtesans, or wives. We are in the early stages of establishing alternative futures for those girls, and ourselves, but the past is hard to release.
Ashwin’s arrival—not Tarek, Tarek is dead—stirs whispers from the trainees. The prince mentioned he might stop by to observe their improvement.
Maybe he discovered how to free Deven.
I know better than to let my hopes climb too high. Still, my breath is bated. I try to catch Ashwin’s attention. He watches the trainees. The Aquifiers shoot water from barrels like jumping minnows, and the Galers take turns suspending a rectangular carpet in midair. All of this is possible due to Brac, yes, but also Ashwin. He took in the bhutas and housed them at the palace. With the sisters and temple wards also lodging there until their new temple is habitable, his home is a constant mess of people.
Basma leaves her eyes closed. I talk loudly so she is not distracted by the others training. “When I say so, release the lights.”
“All of them . . . ?”
“Don’t be afraid. They’re born of your soul-fire.”
Basma fiddles her fingers. These girls must stop cowering to their own abilities.
“Grab those stars and push out their heat,” I say. “Like this.”
I throw a heatwave, and Basma’s eyes pop open. My shoulder recoils from the blast. I lock my elbow and regain control. My powers are half as strong as they were. Funneling them into one hand is a skill I have yet to master, if it is even possible.
Basma tries for herself. Streams of mandarin flames jet from her palms and scorch the target. Frightened, she swings upward. Her heatwave arcs high across the amphitheater and strikes a pennant. The red cloth dyed with the empire’s black scorpion symbol catches fire.
Basma covers her mouth in shock. Giza hurries over and hugs her sister. My annoyance at the girl’s carelessness dwindles and longing fills me. Will I ever stop missing Jaya?