She pulls back in offense, and Ashwin marches up the plank.

I signal the girls in the forest to come forward. Sarita picks up a child and steps out, undeterred by the giant falcon peering at her with glassy eyes.

“Sarita!” the priestess calls. “Get back here!”

She remains on course. “I’m going to get warm and, hopefully, find something to eat.”

At the prospect of shelter and food, more wards dash after her for the airship. Healer Baka leads two little girls out, her head high. After a tense stare-off with the priestess, even Sister Hetal quits the woods. Their parting prompts an exodus. The rest of the wards and sisters rush for the airship, leaving the priestess behind.

Sarita starts up the plank. “Do you think Priestess Mita will realize she’s excessively pigheaded?”

“Gods as my witness, I don’t care.” I whisk ahead, climbing aboard in search of elusive warmth.

20

DEVEN

Our horse team stumbles up another dune, spraying sand in my eyes. We ascend the slippery rise halfway, and then the catapult mires in the sand and jerks to a halt. From the time we set out this morning, we have intermittently charged across the hot sand and spun our wheels. Like the gods, the desert is no respecter of man.

I urge the horse team up the dune while Yatin and Natesa push the catapult from behind. Our sleepless night slows our ascent, but we trudge onward.

“Come on, come on.” My half plea, half prayer encourages the horses to conquer the sand dune.

Overlooking the landscape, I squint at the sunburnt dunes rolling into the distance. Our troops trek up and down them like organized lines of red ants. I collect my breath and guide our horses and wagon over the ridge to descend the other side.

Sweat trickles into my eyes. I swipe the stream away with my arm, also slick from perspiration, and smear grit across my brow. Soldiers trudge alongside us, their headscarves shielding their mouths and noses from the sun and sand. I pinned my headscarf across the lower half of my face, as did Yatin and Natesa. She was elated to discard the turban this morning and pick up a headscarf in the last village before the desert. There, we united with a legion of imperial soldiers waiting to join our march on Vanhi.

With them, our ranks have swelled to ten thousand men, maybe a few hundred more. Our growing numbers have allayed some of my anxiousness about being discovered, but I am still on edge. The soldier Yatin dispatched with his haladie was reported missing. A gossipy water server alluded to suspicions that the man deserted. But Manas may not be so quick to dismiss his disappearance.

My unit rallies and starts the climb over the next sand dune. On a parallel rise, another wagon becomes stuck. I spot Manas on his horse coaching a team of men to dislodge the wagon. Eager to get ahead of them, I yank harder on the harness. My arms quiver from urging on the horses, but soon we exceed the elevation of the other wagon.

Nearer to the steep ridge, our wheels sink into the sand. The wagon slides sideways down the incline and the top-heavy catapult tips. The horses stumble backward with the heavy wagon, snorting and braying. I dig my heels and skid with them.

Shouts ring out, and soldiers rush over to stabilize us. Hands and backs wedge against the leaning side. Yatin props himself under the shadow of the tilting artillery. Natesa relieves me of the reins so I can join him. My feet slip, but more soldiers help to steady the catapult.

Frozen at an angle, the wagon continues to drift. The men at the back push up and stop the wagon’s descent, but it is still tipping. The catapult will land on them and take out the soldiers in its path downhill.

“We need weight!” I say. “Yatin, jump on the high side!”

He goes around the wagon and climbs onto the catapult. His weight lowers the raised wheels some. Another three men leap on, and the wagon drops onto the sand. The men jump off, and our unit finishes hauling the catapult up and over the dune.

Down in the trench, Yatin, Natesa, and I collapse against the wagon, breathless and sun worn. The same commander that assigned us to man the catapult trots up on his horse.

“Well done, soldiers.”

I wipe my clammy brow with my headscarf, cleaning the grit from my eyes. “Just doing our duty, sir.”

He calls for a water server. Natesa pets the horses, her gaze downcast. She cannot drink without removing her headscarf, so she waves the server off. I down half my cup.

“May I keep this?” I ask the commander. We usually return our cups for reuse, but I want to reserve the rest of my drink for Natesa.

“You’ve earned it,” the commander says, then looks to an officer riding to us.

Gods, almighty. Manas.

Natesa maneuvers around the horses, tending to their bridles. Yatin hovers at the fringe of my vision, his broad shoulders bunching. I let the brim of my headscarf fall to my eyebrows, the cloth still pinned across my lower face.

“Commander,” Manas says by way of greeting, “well done saving the catapult.”

“This is the soldier you should thank.” The commander motions at me.

I bow. Manas’s stare bores into me with the severity of the afternoon sun.

“You’ve crossed this desert before,” Manas remarks. I nod, my head still lowered to conceal my eyes. “What’s your name?”

I need a name. Any name. I blurt out the first one my mind latches on to. “Chitt.”

“We’re missing an officer, Chitt. You seem to be the vigilant sort. Did you see an officer depart from the troops yesterday?”

The soldier was an officer. Gods alive. No wonder Manas put out a report for him. I coarsen my voice so he will not recognize it. “No, sir.”

His horse paws at the sand, digging trenches that I feel in my chest. Soldiers continue to advance past, many slowing to get around us.

“I could use another man to replace the missing officer,” Manas says. “I admire your dedication, Chitt. I’m promoting you to captain. Come with me.”

I mangle a guffaw, cramming it inside me. Manas is promoting me to captain. I was his captain and commander. For him to advance me—or in all actuality, demote me—scalds. Regardless of his arrogance, at any moment he will discover who I am. Natesa and Yatin need time to vanish into the troops.

“No, thank you, sir.” I lift my chin.

Our gazes meet, and Manas’s eyes fly wide open. He leans down and pulls off my headscarf. While he bends over me, I drop my water cup and slug him in the nose.

He swings away, cradling his injury. His fingers come away bloody. Manas crushes my headscarf in his fist. “Seize him!”

Soldiers rush in around me. I do not struggle as they apprehend my sword, wrench my arms behind my back, and bind my wrists. Natesa and Yatin are gone.

Run and don’t look back.

“Commander,” Manas snipes, grasping his talwar, “this is Captain Deven Naik, a conspirator for Prince Ashwin and Kindred Kalinda. This man is a traitor.”

The commander falls all over his words. “He—he said he was from the south. He was wearing a uniform—”

“Enough!” Manas rides to his side, both astride their horses. “Did he have any companions?”

“Two men, one large and one small.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, General.”

“Good.” Manas draws his talwar and plunges the curved blade into the commander’s belly. His whole body twitches, blood blooming around the wound. Manas wrenches out his weapon, and the commander keels over, plummeting off his horse to the sand.

Manas sheathes his talwar and points to the closest unit of soldiers. “Find Captain Naik’s accomplices!” They obey in haste. Manas leans over me, his head impeding the sun. “I should’ve known you were skulking around when we caught the Galer boy. That filthy vermin begged for his worthless life.”

Rohan did no such thing, but I bottle a retort. Manas will not bait me.

Soldiers haul Yatin over to us. Also robbed of his headscarf, my friend walks with his shoulders back. His size must have given him away . . . or maybe not. I interpret his stubborn, set jaw. Yatin was caught intentionally. He let the soldiers find him to give Natesa more time to escape.

“Where’s the third man?” Manas demands.

“No sign of him, sir,” answers a soldier. I do not miss Yatin’s fleeting smile.

“Keep looking!”

The men dash off to search, but Natesa is clever. And with the extra time Yatin’s capture provided her, she will not be found.

Manas smirks down at me. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, Deven.” I close my mouth, unwilling to grant him the satisfaction of agreeing. “Bring them.”

The soldiers tether our bindings to the commander’s horse and shove Yatin and me after their general. We slog up and down sand dunes, grime blowing in our eyes and mouths. I stumble to my knees, and the horse drags me until I find my footing again.

Ahead, far past the furthermost soldier and wagon, a haze distorts the sweltering horizon. The smoggy film marks the beginning of a mirage, the gods’ presumed doorway to paradise. But not even the illusion of a fictional haven can close the pit in my stomach.

As we near the front of the troops, the air holds a leaden tang that bleeds on my tongue. The heaviness accompanies, or originates from, Udug. I can feel him near. His presence sticks to me like cobwebs, snagging on everything and itching my skin. We gain on a large unit of soldiers hoisting an elaborate litter. The draperies are closed, sealing its rider in the dark, but pungent bitterness pours from it, tangible as smoke.

Manas calls for a covered wagon to halt and opens the rear door. Opal shelters her eyes from the sunlight. Dried blood covers her bound wrists. Manas could have restrained her with snakeroot or fed her neutralizing tonic to dim her powers, but cutting her is crueler. Her shoulder is wrapped with a bandage, and burn marks the size of fingerprints dot her arms. Yatin and I are impelled inside with her. Manas slams the door and casts us into darkness.

“Opal, are you all right?” I ask.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” she whispers. “Tell me it isn’t true.”