“Sorry for the clutter.” Ashwin tidies up books lying across the table and chairs, clearing a spot for me. “Mint tea?” he asks, gesturing to a steaming cup.

“No, thank you.” I scan the texts stacked everywhere, looking anywhere but at his shirtless torso. “Have you read all of these?”

“Most of them when I was younger. I was lonely without them around—I had shelves full of books in my room at the temple—so I borrowed these from the sultan’s library.”

I scan the heaps of books, marveling at how well educated he must be. “You must have read a lot growing up.”

Ashwin’s tone turns reflective. “Tarek said I read too much. He thought it was a waste of time. But during his last few visits, he requested I read to him. He said it made him happy to listen to me share something I enjoy. He was happy because I was happy.” Ashwin rubs the sad tilt of his lips. “Sometimes I still read aloud to remind myself he wasn’t a total monster.”

I understand why Ashwin romanticizes people. He saw a glimmer of goodness in his selfish father, which taught him not to discount anyone’s potential for decency.

I show him the ink on my fingers from painting last night. “I retreat into my artwork when I need a moment’s peace.”

“You used my gift,” he says, his demeanor brightening.

“I don’t believe I thanked you.”

“You’re welcome.” He waves at a chair, and we sit beside each other at the table. “Tinley and Citra asked me to ban you from the tournament. I won’t, of course.”

Their request comes as no surprise, yet their derision hurts. I fold my arms across my chest, and Ashwin notices the scar on my forearm.

“From your rank tournament?” he says, sipping his tea.

“The duel with your mother,” I explain. Ashwin frowns at the mention of Lakia, and my gaze jumps to his bare shoulder and the tops of scars. “How did you get yours?”

“Rajah Tarek found out I’d been sneaking out of my room to the temple’s roof. He was concerned the villagers would discover who I was, so he whipped me to deter me from doing it again.” Ashwin rests his elbows on the table, waves of remorse rising off him like the steam from his teacup. He twists the gold cuff on his wrist. “My caretaker, Brother Dhiren, was punished for not protecting me. Tarek had him executed.”

I rest my hand on Ashwin’s shoulder, absorbing his guilt as strong as my own. He reaches up and clasps my fingers. This near him, I am aware of his toned arms and flat stomach, his skin warm against mine. He smells of linen and mint, of sleep and fresh tea. His dark hair waves freely around his face, brushing the back of my hand. Ashwin is appealing in a way his father never was. Tarek was vile, but Ashwin . . .

I pull away. “I should go.”

He reaches for where my hand was seconds before. “You don’t want to speak to Brother Shaan? He’ll be back soon.”

My nightmare of Rajah Tarek is foggy now, replaced by the image of his handsome son. “Another time,” I say, and step out the door.

20

KALINDA

I meet my contenders and their parties at the base of the waterfall. Citra and Tinley sling glares my way but stay distant. Off to the side, Pons speaks to Indah. Their closeness would draw attention if he were not her guard. What secret is he relaying to her now?

We surround a lagoon that feeds into a stream. The picturesque cascade does nothing to ward off my nerves. I fiddle with the pleats of my sparring sari, the skirt tucked between my covered legs. My competitors and I are all dressed in warrior apparel and strapped with weaponry. Natesa insisted that I bring both of my daggers and a khanda. I did not argue the added weight of the sword; I must be ready for whatever trial the sultan has prepared for us.

Sultan Kuval stands near the lagoon, Ashwin beside him. He and our guards, Opal and Rohan, are my support. Brother Shaan is still supervising the care of the refugees. Ashwin looks dashing in an all-black tunic and trousers with silver embroidery and a dark turban. I have tried to put the image of him shirtless from my thoughts, but it sneaks back in as he smiles at me from across the audience.

Gods above, don’t get distracted.

“Welcome to the trial tournament,” announces the sultan. “For the first test, each competitor will have five minutes to complete a challenge of valor. To begin, Indah will represent the water-goddess Enki, Bearer of the Seas.”

Indah steps forward with her trident, her dewy skin shimmering in the sunlight, and joins him at the base of the pool.

“Contending against nature requires valor,” the sultan continues, “a total submission to the gods, and faith in one’s god-given abilities. For Indah’s test, she will stop the flow of the waterfall.”

The Lestarians murmur, the pitch of their low voices distressed. This will be no easy feat for Indah. My insides churn like the base of the waterfall. What task does the sultan have planned for me?

Donning a steely expression, Indah steps on the placid edge of the lagoon and floats on a mist across the pond, stopping outside of the spray where the waterfall feeds into the pool. I allow myself to enjoy the tranquil sight of Indah in her element, anxious as to how she will force nature to bend to her authority.

A gong rings, and the sand timer is turned upside down. Indah’s five minutes begin.

The Aquifier holds out her trident in front of her with one arm. As she raises the weapon, the streaming water above us narrows. Her arm gradually goes up, and the waterfall shrinks. When the flow is half of when she started, Indah’s feet break the surface of the lagoon. Her arm shakes to maintain her grip on the trident. The cascading water pushes her down, but her weapon continues to hold the falls up. She submerges to her knees.

My amazement at her feat so far leads me to cheer silently. Come on, Indah. Succeed against nature. Against the sultan. Against this arduous trial. Enki, strengthen her.

Indah grasps her trident across her chest with both hands and raises it to her chin. The waterfall is nearly gone; the rock face glistens with dampness. In one last exhibit of strength, Indah jerks the trident above her head, and the remainder of the cascade seals off.

Her arms give way, and Indah plunges under the surface. The water gushes down on the lagoon in an explosion that sends us viewers back a step.

The gong sounds, signaling the end of her time.

Indah breaks the surface, the waterfall gushing around her. The audience applauds, and her party shouts her name in congratulations. Indah swims to the bank of the lagoon. Using her trident as a staff, she pushes to her feet. Sopping wet and grinning, she reminds me of a bird after a bath. I cannot help but smile. Pons hauls her against his wide chest in a hug, soaking his clothes.

“Indah advances to the next trial.” Sultan Kuval’s announcement ends the Lestarians’ celebration, quieting us all, and he goes on. “Princess Citra will now represent the land-goddess Ki, Mother of the Mountains. For her trial, Citra will sculpt a stairway into the cliff and climb it to the top.”

The crowd mumbles about the complexity of the challenge. I presumed the sultan would give his daughter a less complicated task, but building a staircase to the rise of the cliff and scaling it in five minutes will not be simple.

The princess, however, is undaunted. Citra blows Ashwin a kiss and glides to the cliff to the right of the waterfall. Her impervious arrogance astounds me. Did her father forewarn her of the challenge, or is she impossible to intimidate?

The gong sounds, and the sand timer is flipped over.

Citra throws out her hands, and a stairway forms in front of her, etched into the stone wall. She starts to walk up the cliff, building more staircases to climb. The princess pushes herself into a jog, and stairs materialize to match her swift pace.

Halfway up, Citra throws out her hand to create another staircase, but nothing appears. She skids to a stop on the edge of the last stair, her arms windmilling. Sultan Kuval freezes, and the people gasp. I press down on my pounding heart while Citra continues to teeter. As she falls forward, she carves another staircase before her and lands on it. The audience releases a collective breath.

The sand timer is nearly out. Citra has done well so far, but I would not be sad if she failed her timed test and was eliminated.

Before catching her breath, Citra stares up the cliff, searching for the summit. She pulls herself up and doubles her speed, carving steps beneath her as she sprints upward. More zigzagged staircases guide her to the top. She sets foot in the palace garden high above as the gong sounds.

Applause fills the basin. Citra leaps down the wall from switchback to switchback until she lands on the ground. She strides over to Ashwin, her hips twitching, and offers him an orchid she picked while in the garden above. He accepts her gift with a bow.

A girl darts away from the viewers and slams her arms around Citra in a hug. I recognize her from the declaration ceremony as Citra’s younger sister Tevy.

“Princess Citra advances to the next trial,” Sultan Kuval declares, puffing out his chest.

Indah slow claps beside me. “What a surprise,” she drawls.

“What do you mean?” I question.

“Who do you think stands to gain the most from a union with Tarachand?”

“Every sovereign stands to gain something.”

“But only one shares the largest border with the empire. Should that border close to refugees . . .”

I wish Ashwin were near enough to hear, but he is still raining praise on Citra. “The sultan said the border will remain open,” I say.

“Things change. Do you have a friend by the name of Brac?”

A thread of worry spools at the back of my throat. “Yes. Why?”

“Pons heard something on the wind before the trial started. He said the sultan intercepted a letter that arrived for you this morning. Brac and his mother have been held up at the border and cannot get through. Sultan Kuval has barricaded all roadways leading into Janardan.”

“Are you certain?” I glance at the sultan. He beams proudly at his daughter.

Indah follows my gaze, and her brows crimp downward. “My informants are trustworthy. And so am I.”