Princess Citra stops before a curved doorway. Stationed on either side of the entry are guards dressed in baggy dark-green uniforms. My longing intensifies to a piercing ache. The Janardanian guards’ postures and strict demeanors remind me of Deven.

“Your chamber is down the hall,” the princess says and then ushers Opal and me through the door.

Brother Shaan rises from a chair near an empty hearth. A smile rips across my face. He devoted his life to the Parijana faith—and to protecting me, the daughter of Rajah Tarek’s first-ever rani.

I hurry to Brother Shaan, and he wraps me in his arms. “My child,” he says, “you’re safe.”

“Anjali attacked us.” I draw away. The wrinkles on his weathered face are permanently creased into a state of concern. “I left ahead of Deven and the others.”

He grasps my cold hands in his warm ones. “You did what was right.”

Princess Citra taps her nails against her leg, her voice short. “Prince Ashwin asked to see Kindred Kalinda as soon as she arrived.”

“His Majesty is in his study,” says Brother Shaan. “I’ll look after the kindred from here. Good night, Princess.”

She bottles her breath, then exhales sharply and marches out.

“Where’s the book?” Brother Shaan asks. I lift the flap of my pack, and he peeks in at the Zhaleh. “And the oil vessel?”

“Here as well.” I nearly forgot the oil vessel was in my satchel. I try not to think about carrying around a vial that contains a thousand drops of bhuta blood acquired from years of Rajah Tarek’s merciless bloodlettings and stonings. Tarek needed to consume the blood before speaking the incantation in the Zhaleh that releases the Voider, but he did not live long enough to start the ritual.

Brother Shaan lowers the flap of my bag. “They’re safer with you. Continue to protect them. We’re beyond Hastin’s reach here, but others will seek them for their advantage.” I would rather give Brother Shaan the Zhaleh, but I can withstand a couple more days watching over it. “And, Kalinda, Burners are not welcome in Iresh. The sultan isn’t prejudiced; he’s an opportunist. Burners are historically harder to control. If Sultan Kuval discovers what you are, he’ll take action against you. For now, your heritage must stay private.”

I have lots of practice hiding my powers to put others at ease, so I see no harm in continuing.

A low voice sounds behind us. “Brother Shaan—oh. I didn’t realize we have visitors.”

I swivel to see a man in the far doorway. Great Anu, it cannot be.

His shiny dark hair is trimmed and combed back, his smooth face beardless. His soft skin is oily, like a freshly molted snake, and his apparel is sewn from the finest silk, purple as a field of irises. The regal man stands tall, perched above the world like a proud bird of prey.

Rajah Tarek is alive.

The rajah’s face lights up, as though he has been waiting for me here all this time. I whip out my dagger and push Brother Shaan behind me.

“Stay back,” I warn.

Rajah Tarek’s smile shrinks, and he closes his book. “I—I apologize for startling you, Kalinda.”

His voice is wrong.

The realization triggers an avalanche of other details that my startled mind only now registers. His chin is softer and eyes rounder. He is a tad taller and thinner than Tarek, gangly and less muscular. His clean-shaven face is young, placing him a year or two under me. And he carries a book that he was reading when he walked in. I never once saw Tarek interested in reading.

Brother Shaan steps out in front of me. “Your Majesty, please forgive the kindred. You’ve given her quite a shock.” He pushes my arm down, lowering my dagger. “You came in before I could prepare her. Kindred, this is Prince Ashwin.”

I stare at the man—no, boy—before me. The longer I gape at him, the more obvious my mistake. He is a twin of his father, but the subtle dissimilarities are apparent enough for my face to heat with humiliation.

“Your Majesty.” I manage a short bow, my guarded gaze firm on him.

The prince steps fully into the chamber, and, on instinct, I raise my dagger. He sidesteps, skirting me near the exterior of the room. “I’ll shake your hand later.”

I tremble at the thought of touching him. The prince notices my disdain, and injury fills his eyes. Did I not tell Deven to give Prince Ashwin a chance? I rush to recover my abysmal first impression. “We traveled across Tarachand from temple to temple, searching for you.”

“We?” he asks, glancing behind me. Opal sits in the chair Brother Shaan vacated, picking dried carob seeds from a dish on the table.

“I had to leave my companions behind with Rohan. They’ll join us soon.”

“Are they all right?” he asks.

Prince Ashwin’s concern causes me pause. “I . . . I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

Remorse flickers across his face. I am entranced by his openness; I cannot recall seeing Tarek regretful about anything. Prince Ashwin turns away from me, and his voice softens. “I appreciate your coming, Kalinda. I was uncertain if you would.”

I frown at his back, desiring to see his haunting face and read his expression. “Of course, Your Majesty. I am here to help you with your transition onto the throne.”

The prince swivels back around. Even after listing their dissimilarities, I am still unprepared for how closely he resembles his father. Don’t be a fledgling. He isn’t Tarek.

“I cannot express how grateful I am that you’re here,” says Prince Ashwin. “I was worried you would decline to come for the tournament.”

I go still, my stomach lurching with unease. “What tournament?”

The prince flashes a startled look at Brother Shaan. “You said you would tell her.”

“Tell me what?” I demand, my voice rising.

Brother Shaan gestures at Opal, a half wave. “You may go now.” She hops to her feet and scoots for the door.

“Tell me what?” I call after her as she leaves. I fix Brother Shaan with an impatient glower. “What is this about? What tournament?”

Prince Ashwin toys nervously with a gold cuff around his wrist. “The sovereigns of the neighboring countries are alarmed by Hastin’s insurgence. They want to see him displaced and his rebel army stopped. They agree we require aid, but not on how much and who will supply it.”

“We need allies,” says Brother Shaan, “but the other rulers are reluctant to risk their manpower and resources without being invested in Ashwin’s new empire. Sultan Kuval offered to host a trial tournament to determine who would be responsible for aiding us. All four sovereigns will submit one female competitor to vie as a representative from their nation. Ashwin consented on the condition that he could select the competitor from Tarachand. Your reputation is hailed all over the continent, and as the current kindred, your continued reign would assure our people’s cooperation.”

“What’s the reward for winning?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“My kindred’s throne,” Prince Ashwin replies with a bright smile that does not warm me. “The champion will have the honor of marrying me.”

“I don’t want to marry you.” Prince Ashwin frowns in hurt. Has he already envisioned me as his wife? I will have to put a stop to that right away. “I don’t want the throne.”

Brother Shaan licks his lips with cautious hope. “You must see the diplomatic advantage the other sovereignties would gain should one of their competitors win. The Tarachand Empire is the largest territory on the continent and has the richest resources. Prince Ashwin has promised to open trade negotiations once he is seated on the throne and offered a treaty of arms in support of lessening tensions. The sultan has agreed to provide bhuta military aid, regardless of the tournament’s outcome. It’s in all our best interests to bind states in defense against the rebel insurgents.”

His diplomatic reasoning does not explain the need for a tournament. “Why doesn’t the prince wed a wife from each sovereign?”

“I recommended that,” Prince Ashwin insists. “I suggested the champion be my first wife, and the other contenders would be my second, third, and fourth wives, according to the succession of their performance in the tournament. But Sultan Kuval felt the strongest alliance should remain solely between us and the champion’s nation. Too many competing agendas would frustrate the purpose for uniting nations, which is to defend against our common threat—the warlord.”

Brother Shaan finishes the explanation. “All Sultan Kuval requests is that Princess Citra has a chance to contend for the throne. Female representatives from Lestari and Paljor will arrive soon to compete.”

“I swore I would never step foot in the arena again.” Of the three of us, only I have fought and killed in a tournament. My memories of the bloody duels dredge up horrors I have struggled to bury. I will not relive them.

“This will be unlike your rank tournament,” assures Brother Shaan. “Each contender will be tested in a series of challenges intended to find the most worthy queen. The final test will remain a traditional match between the last two competitors, a duel to first blood.”

Back home, “first blood” means competitors battle until someone’s throat is slit. But a series of trials would be less life threatening. “What will these trials be?”

“We don’t know particulars,” answers Brother Shaan. “Sultan Kuval will devise them.”

“Then you cannot guarantee this will be different than my rank tournament!” I hear how rancorous I sound, and with great effort, I level my voice. “What happens if I refuse?”

“We haven’t considered that outcome,” Prince Ashwin admits. “You’re the only rani who escaped Vanhi. We have no one else.”

“Then I suggest you get used to the idea of wedding a foreigner.” I storm for the door.

“Kalinda,” Prince Ashwin calls, catching up. “Please—”