“Where are your powers, Burner?”

I wedge a knee between us, thrusting her back. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

Citra raises her khanda, confusion crossing her face. “Know what?”

“The tonic I took yesterday hasn’t worn off,” I explain, perplexed by her response. “Your father poisoned me.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Yes, he did.”

“He didn’t tell me,” she replies, stepping back.

“Did you let your blood today?”

“Yesterday evening. My father said it was to cleanse me for battle.”

My mind spins with reasons why the sultan would not tell her, and from Citra’s hurt expression, we come to the same conclusion—he does not trust her to win on her own merits.

“I don’t need help defeating you,” Citra growls.

She sweeps her khanda and cuts my right side. Pain explodes across my abdomen. I bend over, grasping my wound. She kicks me in the knee, and I fall in an agonized crouch, bleeding through my fingers.

Citra kicks me again, in the back. I groan from the bruising strike. “I can win without my powers,” she snarls.

The loss of blood weakens me, but it also tears down the wall between me and my blocked powers. The star of my soul-fire is closer, like a comet blazing in my direction. The poisons are bleeding out.

I push to my feet, suffering the agony of every excruciating movement, and lower my wet hand from the cut. I allow the blood to flow and free me from my poisoned prison. Daggers ready, I strike at Citra. She evades and smashes the hilt of her sword into my lower back. I stumble forward and raise my dagger in time to parry her sword and plunge my second dagger into her shoulder.

She cries in pain, and then again as I wrench out the blade. The audience pours out a round of boos and curses at me. Blood splatters around Citra and me, the iron scent nauseating. I cannot tell which crimson specks are mine or hers, but my powers are returning.

I push soul-fire into my hands. Citra lifts the ground beneath me, plunging me into the air. I am level with the center of the amphitheater, high above the arena.

Citra rises up on another pedestal, her shoulder bleeding. “Now this is a fair fight.”

I throw a heatwave at her, and the spectators gasp. Citra dodges, leaving her teetering close to the end of the pedestal. She throws a cloud of dirt up to blind me. I shield my face from the raining pebbles and lower my arms to the clearing dust.

Citra leaps onto my platform and knocks me down, landing on top of me. I roll her onto her back and push her head over the edge. The audience chants Citra’s name. She elbows me in my injured side. I moan on a fresh wave of pain and roll off her. She hacks down with her khanda, and I grab the blade. Before the metal can cut me, I push forth my powers. The blade glows red-hot, and the heat surges up to the hilt, scalding Citra. She drops the warped khanda, cradling her palm.

As I stand, the Trembler princess lifts more pedestals around us and leaps to the next. I throw a blast of fire after her, and the audience gasps again, enthralled by my rare abilities. The tail of my flame connects with Citra midjump, and she falls short of the pedestal, scrambling to pull herself up.

I jump to the pedestal between us. She forms a foothold, saving herself from falling, and grins at me. The ground beneath me crumbles.

I drop, going down with the rocks and boulders. The sky turns hazy. I hit the ground, and rocks pummel me. I throw up a blast of fire, burning some to dust. A boulder lands, pinning my leg. Something snaps in my knee, and dizziness reels through me.

Citra struts over to me through the falling dust, her face smeared with dirt. I try to tug out my leg, but it will not budge. Citra punches me in the nose. I flop back, the world swinging away to the crowd’s joyous cheers.

She throws off her helmet, kneels beside me, and grabs my face. With her hands on my cheeks, grinding presses through me; chisels hack at my bones. I arch against the pain, agony silencing my cries.

Citra lowers her face over mine. “I’ve been told grating is excruciating. Some say it feels like termites are gnawing away your insides. Your legs, arms, spine, even your skull, are slowly filed to dust.”

She lifts the floor beneath us while I am pinned. We surge into the sky above the dust cloud. “Everyone is going to watch me claim your throne,” she says.

I reach out to scorch her, but my body spasms, little jerks of torture. Citra’s powers grind deep, mining the last of my strength. My sight grays to a sky of granite. My rib cage pokes into my lungs, and my joints crack together like smacking rocks. Soon, I will be no more than dust.

Then I remember—Citra’s skin-to-skin connection goes both ways.

I funnel all of my powers, everything I can rally inside me, and I shove it into her hands on my face. Smoke puffs around us. The scent of singed hair and burned cloth fills my nostrils. She screams and stumbles back to the edge, teetering on the lip of the pedestal.

I place my hands on the boulder pinning my leg and burn myself free. Citra grabs on to my other leg as an anchor, and her weight drags us over the edge.

We drop fast, clinging to each other. Citra throws out her hands to lift the arena floor to catch us, but she reacts too late. We land, her on the bottom. The impact drives up through her and into me, jarring my weakened bones. I slump off of her. Blood streams out behind her head, and her eyes glaze over with a film of nothingness.

The audience goes silent. My pulse stutters, and my world washes to shadows. I cradle my wounded side and lie back. Behind my eyelids, my soul-fire wanes to a wisp of light. Blackness embraces me with a chill that defies all winter. My insides freeze under the impenetrable cold, and I am beckoned into the night.

29

KALINDA

A cool, soothing sensation wakes me. Ashwin hovers near my bedside and dabs my face with a damp washcloth. Indah stands on my other side and heals my khanda wound with expert concentration. Pons assists her, holding a jug of healing waters. Ashwin slides his hand into mine. Dried blood and dirt stain his jacket.

“Where am I?” I rasp.

“We brought you to my chamber,” he says. “I suggested we go straight to Indah’s boat, but we wouldn’t have made it through the city. Indah insisted we return here so she could start healing you immediately.”

“Kalinda wouldn’t have made it any farther with her bleeding,” Indah replies. “She’s fortunate she’s awake.”

I turn my head and see Opal in a chair, washing her scraped knees. Rohan stands guard out on the balcony. His cheek and chin are bruised. “What happened?” I ask.

“We had trouble getting you out of the arena,” Ashwin replies. “The spectators rioted. Opal and Rohan reached you first and shielded you from the mob. I carried you out, and they cleared our path back here.”

“Thank you,” I say, aware that gratitude cannot fully repay them.

“Rohan thought it was exciting,” Opal says, shrugging. “We don’t usually get to knock people over with our powers.”

Rohan grins. “Our winds flattened the mob like chaffs of wheat.”

“Thank you,” I repeat, extending my appreciation to include Indah, Pons, and Ashwin.

Ashwin lifts my hand to his warm chin. “You scared me into my next life. When I reached you in the arena, you were ice cold.”

“Is Citra . . . ?” I start.

“Gone. We’re no longer welcome in Iresh. As soon as you can travel, we’ll leave for Lestari with Indah and her party.”

“And our people?”

“I have a boat on standby for us,” Indah says. “More are coming for your people. They’ll arrive the day after tomorrow and begin the evacuation.”

“We might have to leave before then,” Rohan says, striding in from the balcony. “Vizier Gyan is coming, and he’s bringing guards.”

I try to sit up, but Indah forces me back down. “Don’t,” she says gently. “You broke your leg, and your side wound is severe.”

“Indah,” Ashwin says, “pack your things and ready your boat. I don’t know what the vizier wants, but after the riot, we must be prepared for anything. Opal and Rohan, find Brother Shaan at the civilian encampment and then help Indah prepare to leave.”

Vizier Gyan’s bhuta guards throw open the door and march inside. The vizier surveys my protectors and barks, “All of you, leave us.”

Indah, Pons, and our guards go, filing past Vizier Gyan stationed at the door. His nose and eyes are red from crying.

“My niece is dead,” he states with bitterness.

“The trial-tournament proceedings are over,” Ashwin replies evenly. “I understand the sultan is no longer willing to offer us aid, so I’ll take my people and go.”

“You’ll go nowhere,” counters the vizier. A guard drags Natesa through the open door and shoves her to her knees.

“I’m sorry,” she weeps, begging my forgiveness. “He threatened to kill Yatin. Don’t give him what he wants, he—” Vizier Gyan hits Natesa square in the face, and she crumples to the floor.

“Leave her alone,” I exclaim. “She’s a servant, nothing more.”

“She proved valuable to me.” Vizier Gyan holds up a book, and my heart retracts in on itself.

The Zhaleh.

“Your servant insisted she doesn’t know where the vessel is hidden.” Vizier Gyan crosses to my bed, the Zhaleh firm in his grasp. Ashwin tries to block him, but the vizier shoves him out of the way and bends over me, his glare frightening. “Where is the vessel?”

“I don’t have it.”

He raises his fist to strike me, and Ashwin calls out.

“Here.” He lifts the necklace from under his shirt, the vessel dangling. “Let us go, and I’ll give it to you.”

“You’re in no position to bargain, boy,” the vizier sneers. “We have your people, your army, and, soon, your palace.” Ashwin balks. Ridicule fills the vizier’s long, cruel face. “Our troops are nearly to Vanhi. I’ll soon join them to deliver the vessel and the Zhaleh to Hastin. Now hand it to me.”