Across the way, Ashwin still speaks to the guards. My confidence in him is growing, and I am coming to rely upon his support. Telling him the truth about Tarek’s death can wait until after the tournament, when our people are free.

The crowd peeking over the fence grows. More than my presence is drawing attention. I look a fright in my filthy training sari with the dry blood on my arm. “I better go,” I say.

As I cross back to Opal, waiting at the wing flyer, I pass the gate for the military encampment and long for a glimpse of Deven. Seeing no sign of him, I fend off my disappointment and turn away. Anu, let him be safe.

Opal flies me back to the palace. As we circle over the gardens, I spot Tinley below, grooming her mahati falcon, Bya. The great bird stays still as the Galer brushes its beak. When we land, the falcon squawks and ruffles its feathers. Up close, the mahati is even more striking, its red-orange feathers blazing in the sunlight. Tinley pets her bird and speaks in a low, soothing voice. She does not treat Bya like a beast with a master but as a dear friend. The falcon nudges Tinley in the shoulder with its beak, and she tosses it a scorpion to eat.

“Doesn’t the stinger hurt him?” I ask, listening to the crunch of the scorpion being devoured.

“Her,” Tinley corrects. “Bya’s female.”

“She has a beautiful name.”

Tinley is not warmed by my compliment. She turns her back to me and says, “Slag.”

Opal sets a hasty pace away from Tinley, and I rush to catch up. I do not recognize the term “slag,” but, given Opal’s reaction, I doubt Tinley intended her use kindly.

In the palace corridors, guards stiffen when they see me, and servants cower. A group of the sultan’s courtesans, escorted by eunuch guards, makes an abrupt about-face. As they scurry away, I overhear one of them mutter “slag,” and the others titter.

“What does ‘slag’ mean?” I ask Opal.

She answers in haste. “It’s a distasteful term for a Burner. My mother taught Rohan and me never to use it.”

I sniff once, feigning a lack of interest, but the offense stings. I have never heard a derogatory term for the other bhutas. Are Burners despised so much? I drag my sore feet to my bedchamber, impatient to bury my head under my blankets and muffle out the world, but Opal halts before the threshold.

“You have a guest,” she says, lowering her brows.

Before I can ask who is inside my chamber, Indah opens my door and smiles.

18

DEVEN

Gods, it’s hot. The absence of a breeze is stifling. Lieutenant Eko offers me a wet cloth for my face. I dab the rag against my bloody lip where I was hit by a staff. Manas scowls at Eko and me from inside the dining tent with the other soldiers. Friendly as usual.

Midday meal comes to a close. I hardly touched my mushy rice, leaving it for Yatin to finish. My whole body is sore from sparring.

“You take a beating well,” Eko says, sitting with me.

“I’ve had practice.”

“General Gautam was your father,” he notes. “I was surprised to hear of his death.”

Interesting that I say I’m used to a beating and he mentions my father. Did Eko know the general as I did? The general tortured me for information about the rebels before he died. I remember the general bleeding out on the dungeon floor, but I suffer no powerful ache or loss. Everything I understand about honor and respect, I learned from my mother and other sister warriors. My father does not deserve my sorrow, only relief. He can no longer torment anyone.

“The circumstances were complicated,” I answer.

“They often are.” Eko squints up at the hillside. The gold dome of the Beryl Palace gleams in the sunshine. Below the impressive structure, a gigantic sign has been erected with four names written in bold letters.

Indah of Lestari

Citra of Janardan

Tinley of Paljor

Kalinda of Tarachand

They posted the rank board for the tournament. I fasten my gaze onto Kali’s name. Did I really tell her she had to compete? The memory rings hollow through me. Yes, I did.

Eko wipes at his forehead. His cheeks turn pink beneath his gray beard, burning in the heat of the day. “Manas told me you’re the kindred’s personal guard.”

“I was. I no longer serve in that capacity.”

He scratches his cheek, working through a puzzle. “Are you married? Have any children?”

“No.”

“Me neither, but I was in love once. A young woman came to sell sunflower seeds to the brethren at the temple. After spending all my coin to buy her wares, I mustered up the courage to visit her in the nearby village. Her father sent me away and told me not to come back. He had arranged a marriage between her and the village blacksmith. I thought I wouldn’t see her again, but the next fortnight she came to the temple peddling her seeds, and I asked her to marry me.”

When Eko started his story, I did not anticipate caring. “What did she say?”

“I was too late. She had wed the blacksmith two nights earlier.” Eko takes back my rag and dabs away sweat on his upper lip. I gulp down a lump of regret. His story did not end the way I hoped. “I won’t pretend to know your circumstances, Captain, but I know what it is to have fate stacked against you.”

Manas must have told him about Kali and me. No offense to Eko, but our relationship is none of his concern. “The Brotherhood temple must have been an undemanding post.”

“Most of the time it was, unless the rajah came to visit.” Eko swipes at his forehead, his flushed cheeks darkening to scarlet. “I’ve seen a man whipped twice in my life. Once was you, and the other was the last time the rajah visited the prince . . .” Eko trails off and rests his head in his hands. “I think I’ve had too much sun.”

I lay my hand on his back—his skin burns through the thin cloth of his tunic. I signal for Yatin, and he comes right over.

“Eko needs to lie down,” I say.

We help Eko cross camp to our tent and lay him on his bedroll. I test the temperature of his forehead. He is feverish, his clammy skin sticking to mine.

Manas bursts inside the sweltering tent. “What did you do to him, Deven?”

“Nothing. He’s fallen ill. Fetch a guard.”

Manas opens his mouth to argue and then sees his friend’s ruddy face and darts out.

I sit back on my heels, listening to Eko’s labored breathing over the buzzing mosquitoes. Yatin reflects the same grim expression. We have seen sun sickness before. I had it myself the first time I crossed the Bhavya Desert. I fell off my camel during training and hit the sand like a stone. Yatin hauled my sorry rear back to Vanhi. Eko’s fever is too high for sun sickness. I do not know what this is.

Manas returns with a guard and a healer. The guard snaps at us to leave. Yatin and I wait outside with Manas. He holds himself tense, wringing his fingers.

The guard steps out of the tent, leaving Eko with the healer, and tromps off for the guardhouse. Moments later, a gong rings, calling all prisoners to the quad. The healer could be a while, so Yatin and I join the men. They are already there, mumbling about why we have been summoned. Vizier Gyan stands near the gate, talking with the guard who left Eko.

Something is not right. Our captors are more troubled about Eko than I assumed they would be over one sick prisoner.

Vizier Gyan enters the quad wearing his usual long-sleeved tunic that hangs past his wrists to his knuckles. He must be accustomed to the heat, as he does not sweat in the warmer clothes. A land symbol I did not see before is sewn on his jacket collar. He’s a Trembler? The only other Trembler I have met is Hastin. Last time I saw the warlord, he dropped boulders on a group of palace guards, crushing them to death. I cannot decide which is more fearsome, Burner or Trembler powers.

“An illness is sweeping the civilian camp,” the vizier announces, drawing a collection of sharp breaths from us prisoners. “We thought it was contained, but a man in this encampment has fallen ill. We’ll quarantine him from the general population. If you detect the beginnings of a fever in yourself or another man, report it immediately.”

“How are our families?” one of our men asks. “Are they all right?”

“We have no other news,” replies the vizier.

The men are not satisfied.

“My wife and children are in there!”

“We deserve to know if our families are well!”

Vizier Gyan signals for silence, but the demands multiply. My own fears expand. Mother and Brac will arrive any day. Vizier Gyan will confine Mother to the civilian camp, and given that Brac would not entrust his Burner identity to outsiders, he will be sent here with me. Skies, it would be good to see my brother, but I do not want him or my mother imprisoned. Neither camp is safe.

The guards step in to break up the distressed men, hauling off the loudest shouter. Upon seeing him dragged away to confinement, the rest of the protesters ramble off.

But there is nowhere to go. We are all trapped inside this cesspit together.

19

KALINDA

Indah holds my door open. I shove down my agitation at finding her inside my chamber and step past her. After a quick inspection, nothing appears out of order. Pons is stationed near the balcony, in full view of the room and the gardens. Longing sweeps over me. That’s where Deven would stand if he were here.

“Kalinda, your guests asked to wait for you to return,” Natesa says, her high voice nervous.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Indah adds, settling on my raised lounge. “Your servant offered us tea.”

Stick to truths. She can sense liars.

“I’m happy to entertain a visit, but I’m in sore need of a bath.” I hold out my dirty skirt as proof.

“This will only take a moment.” Indah pats the seat beside her. I join her, expecting this will be brief. Natesa hovers near the teapot and pretends not to eavesdrop.

“So you’re a Burner,” Indah remarks, an observation without condemnation. “I should have guessed. Your eyes flash when you’re irritated.” She laughs. “Yes, like that. My mother’s eyes do the same thing.”