“Do you really believe that?”

Natesa sends me a wry smile. “Isn’t our friendship proof enough of miracles?”

I snort a laugh and enfold her in my arms. “You’re a good friend.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Neither did I,” I say, pressing my cheek to hers. Natesa’s face squishes in aversion at my affection, and I hug her harder. She half-heartedly pats my back in return, drawing another laugh from me.

The door opens, and Indah enters with Pons. Upon seeing Natesa and me together in a private moment, Indah pulls up short. “Should we come back?” she asks.

“No, come in.” I am still in my robe, but I am past worrying about indecency. I am more concerned about how Indah is recovering. I climb out of bed and meet them in the sitting area. Pons helps Indah limp to the lounge. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m well, but it’ll be some time before I can walk unassisted.” Indah leans back in her seat, Pons standing behind her. “My people informed me that there was some confusion as to the rules of today’s trial. I specifically recall Sultan Kuval saying we needed to deliver our package at the gate. He said nothing about us going through. After speaking with him, he has agreed that you finished before me. You’re back in the tournament.”

“What?” Natesa and I say in chorus.

“It wasn’t without persuasion,” Indah says, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Datu Bulan has allowed the Janardanians to fish in the southern seas at no expenditure. Sultan Kuval doesn’t want to jeopardize their arrangement.”

“I—I don’t know what to say,” I stutter out. “You gave up your place in the arena?”

“It wasn’t really mine to begin with. You beat me to the gate. Pons and I wouldn’t have made it out without you. We thank you for that.” Indah beams up at her guard. Affection radiates between them, dazzling and whole.

They’re in love. How did I miss seeing it before? The familiar way they speak to each other, their shared smiles, their intimate supper last night . . . It is so obvious now.

“Thank you,” I say, my heart tugging in envy at their closeness. I wish I had a simple answer for what comes next. I may not feel for Ashwin the way I do for Deven, but if I win tomorrow, Ashwin will be rajah. And I will still be rani.

Indah shrugs off her good deed. “I may have done you a disservice. Citra was furious that her father admitted you back into the tournament. Her anger will bolster her hunger to win.”

I nod, trusting Indah’s caution. “Did you tell Ashwin?”

“I passed him in the corridor and notified him of the change.” I observe her for an indication of his reaction. Was he glad to hear I will remain in the tournament? Indah’s intuitive gaze intensifies on me, reading my insecurity. “He seemed distracted but pleased. He’s worried about you. He was uncertain if you’d still wish to compete.”

Ashwin is worried about whether or not I am willing to continue? I hurt him, and his concern is for me.

He is nothing like Tarek, nothing at all.

“I do,” I promise.

“You better be certain,” Indah says. “Because the people of the Southern Isles are also counting on you to defend your throne—and win.”

27

DEVEN

Someone kicks me in the side.

“Get up,” says a gruff voice.

I turn over on my bedroll, away from the guard’s feet. “Meathead.”

“What did you say?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I mutter.

The guard rounds back to kick me again. I roll out of the way onto my knees and then push off the floor. Manas is awake and gone, as are the other men I bunk with.

“Is Yatin all right?” I ask. “Did he ask for me?”

“He’s alive. Now move.”

The guard prods me out of the tent and into the first rays of dawn. The rain clouds have cleared, and the stuffy morning air sticks to my skin. The whole of camp has been woken. I follow the line of men to the quad. The rank board on the dusky hillside has been altered, but I question my vision in the grainy light. Kali’s name has been added to the board again, and Indah of Lestari’s name is missing.

Kali’s still in the tournament. We have a chance.

Vizier Gyan waits in the quad, flanked by his men. Since today is the tournament, I anticipated the grounds would be mostly clear of guards, but even more surround us. I look to Manas as to the purpose of this gathering, but he frowns, puzzled too.

“We have been informed of a schemer among you,” announces Vizier Gyan.

Manas folds his arms across his chest in defiance. Other men shift on their feet, uncertain who the source is of this early morning roundup.

Vizier Gyan explains, “I’ve been monitoring everything in this camp, including what our visiting healers bring in and take out.” My face turns to stone, shutting in my alarm. “Yesterday during our search we discovered something missing from one of the healer’s baskets. Only one of you was permitted inside the sick tent while he was here.” Vizier Gyan aims his finger at me. “Captain Naik, step forward.”

I am not given the chance. Guards grab my arms and drag me before the vizier. They pat me down, find the vial in my pocket, and shove me to my knees.

Vizier Gyan holds up the neutralizer tonic. “Did you take this from the healer while in the sick tent yesterday?”

I stare straight ahead, regretting my impulsive choice to steal the vial. Anything I say could incriminate me further and possibly lead back to Kali. The vizier already suspects she sent the healer for Yatin. I will not give him a reason to interfere with her duel.

Vizier Gyan rests his hand on the back of my head. Pain explodes in my joints as my bones grind together, and then it stops.

“I will ask you one more time,” he says. “Did you take this?”

“Yes,” I squeeze out.

Vizier Gyan lets me go, and I fold over. Every bone in my body aches like he reached inside me and rearranged my skeleton. “What did you intend to use it for?”

I intended to pollute the guards’ drinking water during the tournament today.

The grinding pain begins to fade. From my vantage point kneeling, I spot knife scars on the vizier’s inner wrists under his long sleeves. Bloodletting scars. I recognize them from the bhuta executions Rajah Tarek held often. Bhutas were bled from strategically placed cuts so they would suffer from blood loss, weakening their powers. Then they were bludgeoned to death with stones.

“I recognize your scars,” I say. “Do your men know?”

Vizier Gyan’s nostrils flare. He tugs down his sleeves and barks, “Take him to the cell.”

The guards drag me to the one-room hut, my weak legs stumbling to keep up. I am really tired of this cell. Vizier Gyan follows me inside and slams the door, shutting out the guards. I rest against the wall, still recovering from whatever he did when his powers ground at my bones.

“Those marks on your wrists are bloodletting scars,” I say, holding my aching arms against my sore rib cage. “Did Tarek order you executed?”

“Does that delight you, Tarachandian soldier?” he sneers.

“I never participated in any of the stonings. My brother . . . well, half brother, is a bhuta.” The vizier’s expression remains fixed in fury, so I press, “What were you doing in Tarachand?”

“My sister, the sultan’s first-ever wife, and I were on a tour of the rice fields along our border when we were caught in the cross fire between imperial soldiers and bhutas fleeing Tarachand. A Burner killed my sister. I was captured by Tarachandian soldiers. Hastin stopped them before they stoned me to death.” Vizier Gyan tries to bury his sorrow beneath his hatred, but I hear it in his voice, raw and raised like the scars on his wrists.

“You’re working with Hastin.”

Vizier Gyan flicks a speck of dirt off his jacket. “Hastin has grand designs to avenge our people. He desires to punish every last half-wit who hunted down and murdered bhutas. But his yearning for vengeance prohibits him from seeing the breadth of our opportunity. A throne tournament was the perfect distraction to finally strike back. While the prince and the other nations have been in Iresh, I have been moving troops into Tarachand.”

My lungs cave in on themselves. I saw the soldiers near our borders. They must be through by now. “Does the sultan know?”

“Kuval has ambitions to expand his rule into Tarachand. He thinks he can unseat Hastin from Vanhi and then use Citra to browbeat the boy prince into doing his bidding and increase his diplomatic power. But the better way is to secure the Zhaleh.”

Does Hastin know Janardanian troops are in Tarachand’s borders? Will he retaliate? I cannot determine how far the vizier’s deceit has spread, but every unresolved offense since coming to Iresh suddenly makes sense. “You had me lashed.”

“I assumed the kindred would run with you and the Zhaleh upon learning Prince Ashwin punished the man she loved. I had troops on standby to intercept her and take the book.”

“You underestimated her.”

“Every warrior has a weakness,” he counters. “Kalinda will let her guard down—and I will be there. Rajah Tarek’s empire will fall for what he did to my sister.”

His surety unnerves me. He must have a plan in place to take the Zhaleh. “Releasing the Voider will destroy more than the empire. Janardan will fall too. The entire world will be lost.”

“I have no interest in using the Zhaleh as a weapon. Instead of strong-arming Hastin with our armies, I will use the book to negotiate the warlord’s exit from Vanhi. I do not wish to go to war.” Vizier Gyan’s antipathy carries stark honesty. “Kuval intends to send bhuta soldiers into battle, and more of my people will die. Bhutas are resigned to squander our powers or serve under Kuval’s rule. I left my scars as a reminder of my sister’s heart’s wish—to set our people free. I will bring her dream to pass through her daughter.”