The Fire Queen (The Hundredth Queen #2)(2)

The prince was raised in one of the four Brotherhood temples—which one is a long-held secret. We have trekked across Tarachand from temple to temple, searching for him, but Hastin has been one step ahead of us. This is the third temple we have located too late. Three sanctuaries of the Parijana faith brought down by powerful bhutas, the guides the brethren believe the gods charged to assist mankind.

“What now?” Natesa asks, her tone forlorn.

“What do you mean?” I reply.

“Prince Ashwin is dead.”

“We don’t know that,” I counter. “The prince could be at the final temple.”

“Why should we continue to search for him when he hasn’t stepped forward to claim his throne?” Brac questions. “Either Prince Ashwin is a coward or he doesn’t care what becomes of the empire.”

I gnaw on my inner cheek, locking down my exasperation. Brac is exhausted and frustrated. We all are. Our deliverance from war relies on us locating Prince Ashwin, but finding him is taking longer than we anticipated. We are chasing a spirit, someone we have been told exists but have never seen in the flesh.

“Hastin will own his victory when the prince is dead,” says Mathura. “We’ll find out if the prince survived this attack in the next few days.”

“Until we hear otherwise, we’ll assume he’s alive,” I say, and Brac glances away.

Am I wrong? Should we stop searching for the prince?

I look to Deven for his opinion as a captain, as my guard, as the man I love. He gazes at the burning temple, his eyes pained. Since he removed his soldier uniform and put on a plain tunic and trousers, his attention often drifts elsewhere, lost in thought. Before Rajah Tarek died, he charged Deven with treason and stripped his command for helping me aid the rebels in their attack on Vanhi. But Deven’s only mistake was siding with me.

“What should we do, Captain?” Brac inquires.

Deven flinches into focus, cringing every time someone uses his title. He scrubs a hand over his dark beard. His facial hair is scruffier than when he wore the crisp lines of his scarlet uniform, and the ends of his hair are longer, curling out from beneath his turban. His pause lasts longer than usual for his decisive nature. He has come all this way in pursuit of our new leader, and his hesitancy puzzles me.

“Son?” Mathura presses.

Deven glances at Brac, his half brother, and then at their mother, Mathura. “We’ll continue onward.” Deven points at the Alpana Mountains’ far-off shadowy peaks. “Tonight we’ll camp above the refugee trail in the foothills, and tomorrow we’ll start for the northern temple.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

He registers my gratitude with a short nod, his soft beard grazing my cheekbone. “Stay alert,” he says. “The rebels could be nearby.”

We lead our camels away from the fiery ruins, the stench of death beating at our backs.



Our caravan rides up to intersect the eastward thoroughfare leading to Iresh, the royal city of the sultanate of Janardan. Rajah Tarek’s demise and the bhuta warlord’s occupation of Vanhi spurred a mass evacuation. Over the past two moons, thousands of feet have worn a trail into the water-starved valley on the way to the sultanate.

Ahead of us, a small group of refugees wear more tracks into the land. A mother with an infant tied to her chest with a headscarf plods beside a handcart. Two young men heft the cart that holds their scant possessions and supplies for their journey. A little girl runs alongside them, tapping the spoke wheels with a knotted stick.

The woman sees our approach and orders her sons to halt. As the young men set down the handcart and wipe their sweaty brows, the woman watches us guardedly. Pieces of her braided hair fly in tatters around her sunburnt face.

“Ma’am,” Deven says.

She clutches her infant closer to her bosom. Gripped in one hand, partly tucked in the folds of her sari, she conceals a knife. The new road has brought evacuees in droves and, with them, thieves preying on travelers.

Brac leads his and Mathura’s camel across the road, and Yatin and Natesa follow on theirs. I yank the reins of ours, stopping in the center of the roadway.

“Pardon me,” I say. “Do you have any news from Vanhi?”

The woman squints up at me with cold distrust. “None since the bhuta warlord invaded. My husband was stationed in the palace at the time. Word is the warlord executed him and the other guards.”

My heart beats slower in my chest. By lingering around village water wells, we learned that Hastin boarded up the gates to the Turquoise Palace, locking everyone inside. The people of Vanhi blame Hastin for Tarek’s murder. Few know the truth.

I reach into my saddlebag, and the woman lifts her knife.

“I don’t want trouble,” she warns.

“Neither do we,” I promise.

Deven shifts behind me, his discomfort palpable. We are not safe out near the open roadway.

My fingertips brush the turquoise handle of the dagger in my bag, a twin to the blade strapped to my outer thigh. The daggers belonged to my mother, Rajah Tarek’s first-ever wife. Mathura brought them from the palace for me, and Deven has trained me to wield them well. I depend on my daggers as I once did my slingshot. I bypass the hidden knife, find the object I seek, and pull out my hand. The woman peers at the headscarf.

“For you,” I offer.