“Where are you going?” Rohan whispers after her.
“To get the uniform.”
Rohan makes a face. “The dead soldier’s clothes?”
“Are you going to stop her?” I ask Yatin.
He leans against the tree. “There’s no sense in it. Changing Natesa’s mind is impossible.”
Before long, she returns wearing the deceased soldier’s jacket and trousers. Their roominess conceals her womanly shape. She ties her hair up and winds his turban around her head, hiding her long tresses. Although we do not wear turbans when we sleep, Natesa stares at me through the shadows, daring me to forbid her to come along. I have had loyal comrades in the past, men willing to fight for my life, but none of them has ever undressed a dead man and worn his clothes for me.
“Fine,” I say. Off in the distance, camp has gone quiet. We will draw too much attention strolling in after curfew. “We’ll sneak in when they break camp at dawn. Get some rest.”
Through the dark, I hear Natesa’s victorious accord and Yatin’s lamenting exhalation. Rohan says nothing. I accept his silence as a bid of amenability.
The four of us bed down on the forest floor, sticking to the dry patches preserved by the thick branches overhead. Rohan curls up close to Natesa for warmth. She plucks a leaf from his hair and strokes the locks from his eyes. Kali told me Natesa has a dream of opening an inn someday. I can picture her with a place of her own, caring for weary travelers.
Watching her with Rohan drags up a memory. Once when I was ten and Brac was seven, he ran away from the palace nursery. Many hours later, I found him huddled beneath a lemon tree in the stoning courtyard. Bodies of dead bhutas were buried under bloody piles of stones, decaying in the desert sun. He had run off after I had railed at him for ruining my wooden sword. I can still recall the imprints of his small fingers seared in the hilt of my favorite toy.
That was when I knew Brac was special—and I had to protect him. I threw my wooden sword in the hearth, turning the evidence of what he could do to ash, and never spoke of his abilities. But after that, we both changed. Brac became calculating and distrustful, and I acted as though nothing was amiss. Pretending was the only way I knew how to save him from ending up in that courtyard.
I wish I could return to the days when I was his bigger, stronger brother, but we are not masking his birthright from a grudge-holding rajah. We are up against an enemy that not even his Burner powers can impair.
As the rain drums faintly, my concerns turn toward daybreak, when we will infiltrate the demon rajah’s army.
13
KALINDA
Someone kicks my chair, bringing me upright. Indah stands before me, cradling a steaming teacup. “You sleep in the strangest places,” she says.
“What time is it?”
“Midmorning.” She shuffles in front of my chair and leans against the open casement. Sunlight falls in behind her. The snow clouds have passed, and the air is warmer. Icicles drip from the window. The tower beacon pushes warmth at my back, adding heat to the warming temperatures. I relit the flame last night after Tarek left. My memory of his visit is fuzzy in the light of day, pulling apart my confidence in what I saw.
Is it possible for souls to travel from the Void by shadows? Is there truth to Inanna’s Descent?
“Ashwin sent me to find you,” Indah says. “What are you doing up here? Have you been here all night?”
“I came to watch for Hastin.” I slip my hands under the wool blanket. My inner chill is relentless.
“You don’t have to do that. Pons is listening for his arrival.”
“I know. I just . . .” Seeing Tarek reminded me of how Hastin manipulated me into trusting him. The longer I wait, the more Deven’s warning weighs on me. But my apprehension may be for naught. Whether Hastin comes or not, we must leave Samiya tomorrow morning to meet with the Lestarian Navy.
“Healer Baka sent this for you. She told me I could find you here.” Indah passes me the teacup. I sip the hot drink, savoring its sweetness. She opens her cloak to the autumn air. Her cheeks have more color than yesterday.
“What were you doing in the infirmary?”
“I needed a remedy for my stomach. Healer Baka was very helpful. While she brewed anise tea for me, we discussed the temple’s supply shortage. I wrote Datu Bulan and told him the sisters and daughters will perish if he does not send rations. The carrier dove left an hour ago. I anticipate he’ll agree, but should he decline, we could petition the Paljorians.”
The Paljor territory converges with Tarachand on the north side of Wolf’s Peak. The tribe is closer than the Southern Isles, but reaching out to them is only a fallback. “Thank you. We’ll wait and see—”
A thwack thwack of bamboo striking bamboo sounds below. I join Indah at the casement and look out. Pons moved the wing flyer from the courtyard, outside the gate near the road. Melting snow leaves puddles that dry in the afternoon sun. In the distance, a sheet of ice still shimmers on the lake, slower to melt, but the warmer autumn day has cleared away the frost from the temple courtyard. Wards wearing sky-blue saris train with staffs in the sparring ring. Their instructor, Sister Hetal, shouts commands.
“Their staffs are twice as tall as they are,” Indah says.
“They’re probably eight or nine.” The age when the sisters start training the wards for battle. They believe Ki wishes for them to mold the wards into warriors, an honor and rite of passage.
Indah turns into the sun. She exudes the beauty of her homeland—pearly teeth, gilded eyes like the island sunset, and brown skin with undertones of sandy beaches. “Thank Enki the snow is melting.”
“Isn’t snow just frozen water?”
“Yes, but manipulating ice and snow aren’t techniques practiced in the Southern Isles, for apparent reasons.” Indah’s attention slides to the stationary wing flyer. “I’ll be glad to go home where it’s warm.”
Her eagerness to return to Lestari conflicts with her dislike of heights. “How did someone who doesn’t like to fly fall in love with a Galer?”
Indah’s gaze follows the girls sparring below while she answers. “Pons and I met during our Virtue Guard training. His father was a trader of rare treasures and often bartered with Datu Bulan. While he was traveling, he would leave Pons at the palace. His father died during one of his trips, and Bulan took him in.”
“Why does your father disapprove of you and Pons?”
Frustration packs Indah’s every word. “Pons is a Janardanian. My family lines trace back to the first families in the Southern Isles. My father wants me to wed a Lestarian and preserve our bloodline.” She speaks the last in a gravelly voice, mimicking the admiral.
Parents. The one explanation I cannot relate to. However, I understand the obligation to uphold tradition. Never was I given a choice of which benefactor would claim me or for what purpose. I assumed women outside the temple had more freedom. Marriage proposals are often sorted out between families. But now I see that custom is also flawed.
Still, Indah was permitted to meet a man and fall in love. I was never given that option.
We lapse into a contemplative silence. As the wards take turns in the sparring ring, I grow fidgety.
“Indah, will you please fetch Ashwin and Pons? I have something for us to do.”
She pushes away from the casement, keen to join me. She must be bored of waiting for Hastin too. “Ashwin may not come,” she says. “He borrowed every book he could find on the Void from the library and was up all night reading. Last I checked, he hadn’t found anything of use.”
After what I learned from Tarek—if I did not in fact imagine his visit—I doubt the location to the gate will be cited in a text. “Tell him it’s important. I’ll meet you in the courtyard.” I hurry off, leaving her to satisfy my request.
Outside, a pair of girls duels in the sparring circle. The rest of them wait their turn by the weapons rack. An eighteen-year-old ward I knew from my time here, Sarita, gives them instructions while Sister Hetal observes.
“Strike her knee and then—” Sarita cuts off. “Kindred Kalinda.”
All the young wards whirl around and bow.
Sister Hetal scurries to the front of the group. “Kindred, Priestess Mita didn’t inform me you need to use the courtyard.”
“I don’t. I came to watch the wards practice.”
The girls whisper to each other, and Sarita scrutinizes my trousers. My former competitor in the sparring ring has not changed at all. Her shape is still soft yet firm, fit yet feminine. She and Natesa were good friends. From Sarita’s glare, she has not forgotten the last time we sparred. I gave her a bloody lip.
Pons, Ashwin, and Indah come up the side stairway from the lower level. The girls’ high voices pinch off at the sight of the Lestarian warrior with the partly shaved head, bare legs, and hairy chest. They are equally astonished by Ashwin’s good looks, and most of them blush.
“Girls, protect your innocence.” Sister Hetal covers the nearest girl’s sight, and the others shut their eyes. Sarita hides her face but peeks out at Ashwin from between her fingers. “Kindred Kalinda, the wards mustn’t see the men. Priestess Mita—”
“Would not presume to send away her prince.” I tug him forward, and Pons and Indah follow arm in arm.
“I thought you were avoiding me,” Ashwin says under his breath. I was, though at the moment I cannot remember why. His touch is like a sunrise on a frosty morning. “What are we doing here?”
“We’re introducing these girls to their ruler,” I answer and then raise my voice. “Prince Ashwin has come to view your sparring practice.” Sister Hetal blathers on about propriety and innocence. I direct my next statement at Sarita, who has lowered her hands to gawk at Ashwin. “Would you like to demonstrate your skills first or should we draw lots?”
No one moves. The younger girls still have their sight shielded, though many steal glimpses of the men behind Sister Hetal’s back.