Deven grasps my upper arms. “You’re protected here, Kalinda.”

I should be grateful to be standing at the threshold of Rajah Tarek’s palace, but I am too paralyzed by trepidation about what awaits me to thank the gods for my safety.

We scale the marble steps to the main entry, Yatin and Natesa following silently.

The Turquoise Palace is a verdant oasis, everything the lackluster city below is not. Clean white walls glow in the sun. Sapphire, canary, and ruby draperies billow from lofty balconies. Warm air, thick with the perfume of evaporated morning dew and desert flowers, clings to the breeze. Tall silver-plated doors adorned with elephant faces, their gold trunks coiled into handles, mark the entrance. An imperial guard opens the door, and I step into the rajah’s stronghold.

11

Deven guides us past the grand double stairway to an arched doorway. Two imperial guards in dark uniforms with khandas slung at their hips defend its threshold. A thin copper-hued drapery blocks our view inside. My heart trips into a fall.

Rajah Tarek could be waiting within.

I am not alone in my unease. Yatin shifts on his big feet, and Natesa wrings her skirt.

Deven draws the muslin shade. “Kalinda and Natesa, follow me. Yatin, you may go.”

Natesa throws her arms around Yatin’s brawny waist, stunning me with her openness and affection. Yatin pats her head and says, “I will see you soon, little lotus.”

Natesa lets him go, and we enter the receiving hall. Translucent fabrics drape above our heads, lowering the high ceiling and bringing the massive chamber a lavish coziness. A peacock, a bird that I have seen only in books, struts across the carpet, pecking at stray sand fleas. The bird’s eye-catching feathers mimic the brilliant array of colorful floor cushions scattered about.

Deven kneels before a dais raised three hands above the ground, where a stunning young woman lounges on a gold-and-jewel-encrusted throne. She invites Natesa and me forward with the flick of her red-painted fingernail. I am suddenly aware of every granule of sand in my hair and every speck of dust on my clothes.

We pass down the silk-laden aisle. A wide-open balcony behind the dais ushers in ample daylight, which warms the smooth marble floor. The brighter lighting adjusts my first opinion of the lady’s age. Her curves are taut and sinuous, and her skin has the flawless sheen of a rose petal, but her overall look speaks of the maturity and refinement of a woman forty years through her life.

A girl about my age stands beside the lady, propping her elbow against the throne. She is dressed exquisitely. Her ebony hair is tied in a braid, ornamented with calla lilies.

“Will you introduce us, Captain?” says the seated woman, her voice a smoky purr.

Deven bows. “Kindred Lakia and Lady Anjali, this is the rajah’s final viraji and his newest courtesan.”

The kindred, the rajah’s number one wife, is the older woman. Lakia is the deadliest rani in history. The girl, Anjali, must be one of the rajah’s courtesans.

Anjali sizes up Natesa. “So you’re the viraji Tarek traveled far and wide to find.”

“You have it wrong,” Lakia says, pointing a red fingernail at me. “She was claimed to be rani.”

Anjali glances between Natesa and me. “Are you certain?”

“I’m certain it isn’t your place to correct me, Anjali.” Lakia’s voice wields an edge. “You may be one of my husband’s favored courtesans, but you are still only a courtesan. Now, leave me and the viraji alone, all of you.”

Servants so quiet and hidden that I had not seen them flee from the recesses of the hall.

Anjali steps off the platform and struts to Natesa. “I will show you to the courtesans’ wing,” she says. “It isn’t as grand as the wives’ wing, but it’s less dull.” She tries to loop her arm through Natesa’s, but Natesa wrenches away.

“You won’t be the rajah’s favored courtesan for long,” says Natesa.

Anjali smirks and forces her arm through Natesa’s, securing the crook of her elbow. “You will do just fine here.” She leads a stony Natesa to the door, and Deven follows.

“Captain,” Lakia calls, “please escort them to their wing and return here.”

Deven hesitates and then ducks out. I brace myself against the kindred’s hard, glittering gaze and pray that he returns quickly.

Lakia sweeps her gold-embroidered silk sari behind her and steps off the pedestal. “What’s your name?”

“Kalinda.”

The kohl lining her eyes makes them look tapered. “No surname?”

“I’m certain I have one, but I never met my parents.”

Lakia fingers my sandy headscarf and then brushes off her hands. “Remove it.”

I do, letting my hair hang loose. She circles me, and the peacock struts behind me. “I am the kindred. Do you know what that means?”

“You’re a rani.”

“I’m the rani.” She stops before me. I can see over her head; I am that much taller than she is. Her bare shoulder has a dark raised scar—a healed stab wound—and a thin white scar marks her jawline. “You will call me Lakia. I am kindred to Tarek and our people, but I will never be kindred to you. I’m charged with watching over my husband’s other interests. Any punishment you receive will come through me.” Her nose turns upward. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“At least you’re of age. Tarek has developed a taste for young girls. Anjali was fourteen when she came here.” She curls her upper lip in distaste.

“How did you know I was claimed to be His Majesty’s wife, and not Natesa?”

Lakia grabs a handful of my hair and speaks into my ear. “I know my husband.” Her breath smells of spearmint, and her skin, of cinnamon oils. She releases my tresses a few strands at a time so that they swing past my shoulder. “His wives have only one trait in common—beautiful hair.” She flicks the last of my locks into my face, and I flinch.

“When will I see the rajah?” I say.

She grips my shoulder, digging in her nails. I withstand her biting grasp, refusing to balk for her amusement. On the back of her hand, I see a single line dyed in henna. A matching line marks her other hand. I do not recognize the symbol. “Proceedings for the rank tournament will begin shortly. You will—” Lakia eases up on my shoulder. “Ah, Captain,” she says as she sails back to her throne.

Deven approaches her dais and kneels. My gaze latches on to him, a steady rock in this torrent of change.

“Rise,” Lakia says. “Tell me about this trouble you had on your journey.”

“We were attacked by bhutas in the lower Alpanas. They killed three of my men and followed us to the desert. I thought we lost them, but the viraji spotted one of them—a Burner—in the marketplace. My men are searching for him.”

Lakia clicks her fingernails together. “Tarek anticipated this, which is why he asks that you reconsider your advancement to the imperial guard. The bhutas will do everything in their power to interfere with the rank tournament and prevent him from crowning his hundredth rani. You are one of the few soldiers Tarek trusts implicitly. He wishes for you to supervise the viraji’s protection.”

Reconsider his advancement? They asked Deven to be an imperial guard once before? Why did he refuse?

Deven bends at the waist. “I’m pleased to serve His Majesty and the viraji.” He straightens, with a glance at me. “I will protect her with my life.”

I hold myself still, hiding my swinging emotions. I am pleased to retain Deven as my guard, but I am worried about how I will keep him at a distance that is safe for both of us.

“It’s settled then. Viraji, you may explore the palace grounds only while guarded, and you are never to leave the gates. Wives are not permitted in the courtesans’ wing, and vice versa. You may not receive or send correspondence with anyone outside the palace walls. Violation of these rules will result in your swift punishment, which I will decide the severity of.” She flourishes her hand, and a serving woman wearing a long black veil appears. “Asha will be your personal attendant. She will show you to your chamber. You will dine with the wives for supper tonight.”

With another flick of Lakia’s hand, we are dismissed.

My servant, Asha, escorts Deven and me from the receiving hall. We have hardly exited when we come upon an older officer in a dark-blue military uniform. Deven stiffens beside me and slows to a stop. The man’s intruding stare combs over me, climbing up and down my body. Asha waits a few paces away with her gaze down.

“General Gautam,” says Deven. “You caught up to us.”

“I didn’t have a carriage to slow me down,” says the general, his smile glib. “I heard there was excitement in the market.”

I know that voice. General Gautam must have been one of the men I overheard in the lower level of the temple. But what does Deven mean that he “caught up to us”? The general was at Samiya after we left? I had assumed that he rode ahead of us with the rajah.

Deven stares past the general, his expression controlled. “We saw a bhuta, nothing more. The viraji is safe here in the palace.”

I question how true that is, given that Deven has been asked to stay on as my guard.

“No one is safe so long as bhutas are in the empire,” says General Gautam. “We should burn the foothills where they hide and be done with them.”

“Then we would be no better than they are,” I say.

The general arches his brows in amusement. “I understand why the rajah claimed you, Viraji. He likes fiery women. The gods know why.” He glances around the hall. “Where’s the other one? The courtesan? A pretty thing. I should like to see her.”

“She’s settling into the courtesans’ wing,” Deven answers. Everything about him is stiff, from his voice to his stance.

“I will be certain to pay her a visit.” The general winks at me.

“Why would you visit Natesa?” I ask.