“Citra won’t win,” I say.

“She will. Kalinda may have wheedled her way back into the tournament, but Citra will be champion, and I will ensure she gains the support of your people by giving them proper supplies and care. The refugees are so desperate for kindness they will love her despite her being a bhuta.” I round my hands into fists, nauseated by his cunning. “Once Citra has the refugees on her side, she’ll get rid of the boy prince and reign over the empire with me as her adviser. Bhutas will flock there for freedom.”

The vizier will dismantle the empire and build a new kingdom on its ashes. “What of my people?” I ask, my queasiness spreading.

“The refugees will become slaves to the new empire, and I will turn you and your soldiers over to Hastin. He can execute you as he pleases.”

I swing my fist at Vizier Gyan, but he opens a pit in the ground beneath me with his powers. I fall in it up to my chin, and the dirt squeezes around my limbs, trapping me.

Vizier Gyan stands above me, casting a shadow across his pit. “The duel will start soon. The amphitheater isn’t far from here. If you listen closely, you’ll hear my people celebrating your kindred’s death.”

28

KALINDA

I awake shivering.

Morning sunlight streams through the windows and balcony. My blanket is pulled up to my chin and my limbs are drawn in close to my heart, yet I am cold. I search inside myself for my soul-fire, but my powers elude me. I throw off the covers and stumble to the mirror glass. I try to push my inner light into my hands. They do not glow.

Natesa glides in, refreshed for the new day. She holds out a black training sari for my duel. “Good, you’re awake. You leave for the amphitheater in an hour.”

I swivel from the mirror glass, and even after I halt, my head continues to spin. “Sultan Kuval gave me neutralizer tonic yesterday before the trial. He said it would wear off by now, but I still don’t have my powers.”

“Slow down,” Natesa says, laying out my clothes. “You took something from the sultan?”

“All of the competitors did.”

My legs wash of strength. I rest against the vanity for support. The sultan poisoned me. Am I the only competitor he sabotaged? Or did he drug Indah as well? He would not impair his daughter.

I release a guttural moan. “Citra is going to crush me.”

“You don’t have any powers,” Natesa asks, finally hearing me. “At all?”

Indah and Pons enter my chamber. Pons wears a navy tunic with a low-cut split collar and has recently shaved the sides of his head. Indah sports an aquamarine sari with dazzling gold beading that matches her lip stain. They came dressed in their finest, prepared to represent Lestari well in the tournament procession.

“We came to see if you need anything,” Indah says, smiling. She reads our troubled faces and loses all cheerfulness. “What’s the matter?”

“Kalinda doesn’t have her Burner abilities,” Natesa says, her palm over her mouth in horror.

“I haven’t gotten my powers back after taking the tonic yesterday,” I explain. “I think the sultan’s poison is still obstructing them. Do you have yours?”

“Yes, my powers returned last night.” Indah exchanges a puzzled frown with Pons, and then her eyes go wide. “My injured ankle. I bled the poison out.”

The crocodile bite let her blood. Sultan Kuval gave the same tonic to Citra, but he must have warned her. By now, Citra will have let her blood to revive her powers.

Pons lays a supportive hand on Indah’s shoulder, their frowns abysmal. They believe I have been sabotaged beyond repair.

I press down on my aching sternum. Gods, gods, gods.

“You’re an Aquifier!” Natesa screeches at Indah. “You have to do something!”

“The only way to drain the poison is to let her blood,” Indah replies, her voice regretful. “The recovery process takes hours. She would be in no condition to duel.”

I slump down upon my vanity stool. Without my powers, Citra will bury me. I might as well be defenseless.

“There must be another way,” says Natesa, pacing in front of me. Each time she passes by, my despair drops further.

She stops abruptly, and her chin snaps up. “What if you don’t tell them? Let them think you have your powers. For all you know, the poison could wear off, and you’ll regain them by the start of the duel.”

I would prefer a remedy to bluffing, but Natesa’s strategy may be the only answer. I cannot request a delay. Sultan Kuval will know I am stalling and tell me to concede, as he has done every other time I have protested during the trials. I have no other choice but to go forward with the duel. Whether I win or lose is up to the gods.

“This stays between us,” I order. “Say nothing to Ashwin or Brother Shaan. I don’t want to worry them.”

Indah and Pons mutter in compliance, both tense and anxious.

Natesa throws up her gaze, suddenly aware of the time. “Skies above, you need your hair and makeup done before you go anywhere. I have a reputation to uphold.”

I look in the mirror glass, my sallow reflection staring back at me. “Then you better get started.”

Ashwin comes into my chamber as Natesa finishes painting my lips. Indah and Pons have already left for the procession. Now, nearly an hour after I woke, my hair is braided, my black training sari is pinned on tightly, and my daggers are strapped to my thighs.

I still have no powers.

Natesa gives me a hug. “Teach Citra what a true champion is. I’ll be waiting for your return.”

I squeeze Natesa back in thanks. She bows to Ashwin and then goes into her antechamber. I tuck away my worries and face Ashwin’s nervous gaze.

“Brother Shaan suggested we arrive at the procession together so we appear united,” he says stiffly.

I walk up to him and adjust his stand-up collar. His immaculate scarlet tunic and trousers are handsome. The black scorpion crest on his chest matches his turban. “We are united. I’m sorry, Ashwin. I was unfair to you when you deserved my honesty. I cannot promise you anything. Except that I . . . I would like to try again.”

His face brightens with boyish charm. Is his smile sincere? Or does he see me as a murderess? The playful tilt of his head and the humor on his lips are so like Tarek. I cannot guarantee how close we can become when at times he reminds me of his father. My knee-jerk reaction may never go away.

“So you’ll stay with me after you win?” he asks.

Ashwin’s belief in my ability to triumph today corrodes my lesser apprehensions about us. We do not have time to discuss whether or not he forgives me now. His support of me is enough.

“I’ll consider staying.” That is the best assurance I can offer. First, I must honor my promise to return for Deven, and then I will know if he and I have anything left between us to hold on to.

“I was hoping you would wear this today.” Ashwin hands me his gold cuff. “Brother Dhiren gave it to me. It belonged to his grandmother. She was a sister warrior, like you.”

The square cuff style is one a warrior wears to battle. I turn the piece of history over, running my fingers along the worn edges, dings, and shallow scrapes. This cuff has seen combat and bloodshed. I pray that today it will see victory.

I slip the gold cuff onto my wrist. Ashwin’s wrist looks bare without it.

“I have a good luck charm too.” He lifts a thin chain from around his neck. The oil vessel hangs at the end like a pendent. “I’m wearing it as a reminder of those we’ve lost. Is that morbid?”

It would be if I wore the vial, given it contains the blood of my people, but Ashwin is honoring the fallen. I tuck the vessel back under his tunic. “Protect it.”

Ashwin takes my hand in his and then reaches for my other one. He holds them up and rubs his thumbs over the backs. “Your rank marks have faded.”

On the day I need them most. I will win them back, I vow. But apprehension clamps down on me. Memories from my rank tournament plagued my sleep last night. Blood and screams and death.

Ashwin lets my hands go and skims his knuckles across my cheek. “You’re nervous.”

“In tangles.”

He offers me his arm. “This is your throne, Kalinda. Tarachand is your empire to defend.”

Gods willing, I will represent our homeland well.

I slide my arm through Ashwin’s, and we start off for the procession.

Ashwin and I part ways at the palace gardens. The storm clouds from yesterday have gone, but the sweltering air still scents of wetness. Rohan goes with Ashwin, and Opal escorts me to the line of waiting elephants and extravagant wooden litters.

Elephant warriors ride bareback atop their steeds in showy dress uniforms of plum tunics and loose green trousers. A machete hangs at each warrior’s hip, and a khanda is strapped to their backs, gold hilts glinting in the sun. More soldiers prepare to march alongside us. The dragon cobra emblem of Janardan adorns the soldiers’ tunics and the emerald banners they carry.

Opal pushes a step stool beside the elephant I will ride. A servant stands near the mighty beast’s head, stopping it from moving. I rode an elephant to my rank tournament, but it had a howdah carriage. This elephant is bareback, no saddle to secure myself into.

“Can I ride with the prince?” I ask, motioning at Ashwin climbing into one of the litters.

“It is tradition for the duelers to ride bareback,” says Opal. “Don’t fret. The elephant has been trained to stay in line.”

A couple yards in front of me, Citra straddles another elephant. A green-and-gold training sari displays her toned body and gentle curves, and her shiny dark hair is braided into tiny sections and clipped up in swooping strands. A thin gold-chained crown rings her head, a teardrop beryl gem dangling from it over her forehead. The kohl around her eyes sweeps out to dagger points, lengthening her eyelashes and deepening the severity of her stare.

She smirks, a patronizing curl of her rouged lips. “Afraid of a short ride?”

Nothing is short about the elephant, but I cannot dishonor our hosts’ tradition. Opal steadies the stool as I step to the top. Bracing against the elephant’s side, I hop up onto it and fling my leg over its back; its girth is wider than my stride. I immediately slide forward to its narrower neck and stop myself by grabbing behind the elephant’s ears.