Her explanation clears some of my confusion. Obedience to Tarek is not necessarily obedience to the gods. I exhale shakily. If this is true, the freedom it would give me . . .

Mathura pats my hand in a motherly gesture. “The gods mean for you to be the final rani, Kalinda. Defend your throne with every breath of your being.”

Deven steps out onto the balcony, Yatin a great shadow behind him. They must have followed us from the bathhouse.

“Hello, Mother.” Deven kisses Mathura’s cheek. “The viraji has to return now. Where is your cane?”

“I left it in my chamber.”

“Yatin will escort you there.”

“I can walk on my own.” Mathura bats Yatin away, but the bear of a man takes her gently by the arm. She huffs at him, and they shuffle off.

Deven passes me a cloak. “We must go. I overheard Anjali asking a guard about a tall woman in red.”

I do not know what the penalty is for visiting the courtesans’ wing, but since Lakia oversees the wives’ discipline, I imagine that the punishment must be dreadful. “Will Anjali tell?”

Deven helps me into the cloak. “We will know before dawn.”

17

I am less enthusiastic about taking my morning tonic now that I know that it is poison, but I am in no position to quit. Fareeshah’s questioning reaffirmed that I need to be in top condition, so I swallow my dose and try not to think about what I am putting in my body.

Shouts ring out in the corridor. I hide my tonic and jump to my feet, expecting Lakia to charge into my chamber. I spent the night waiting for the consequences of Anjali reporting me, but Lakia has not come. Ranis stream past my door, heading toward the main palace.

I join Manas in the corridor. “What’s happening?” I ask.

One of the ranis rushing by answers over her shoulder. “A Galer is being executed in the courtyard!”

My gut wobbles with unease. Two more ranis hurry past, bringing along children from the older nursery. Manas clearly yearns to go with them, but he is my only guard on duty. He cannot go unless I do. I do not wish to attend the execution, but the Galer could be the same one who killed Manas’s family and destroyed his village. If the same tragedy had befallen the Samiya Temple, I would desire to face the guilty bhuta.

“Let me get my headscarf. It’s bright out,” I say. And, gods alive, I do not want a soul to recognize me and think that I am attending this execution for vindication or amusement. I am going only for Manas’s sake.

I run alongside him down the main entry stairs and out to the front courtyard. Manas and I follow the flow of women and children around the palace to a smaller courtyard encircled by lime trees and guarded by imperial soldiers. Within the courtyard are two rock pilings, long and flat, like altars. The children who came pick up rocks from a mountainous pile of stones set off to the side and stack them on the rock heap nearest Manas and me.

“What are they doing?” I ask.

Manas points to the bottom. “Punishing the demon.”

Fingertips peek out from beneath the piling. Revulsion slams my stomach to my feet. I cover my gasp and back away, making out more bits of skin under the rubble.

“Who—who are they?”

A soldier stationed nearby answers. “That one is a Trembler. He split the desert floor open with a quake and killed a troop of soldiers. The other is an Aquifier. She drowned three guards with her heavy rains.”

I stare down at the nearly buried fingers as I consider the bhuta powers. Burner and Galer. Trembler and Aquifier. Gifts that were bestowed upon four mortals by the demon Kur.

Manas leads me away from the soldier. “This is the punishment for bhutas and bhuta sympathizers,” he says.

A breeze blows toward us from the execution pilings, hitting me with the foul stench of decaying flesh. Clearly, bhutas are not immortal or omnipotent, but I am shocked to see them killed this way. “Why don’t they break free?” I say.

“A bhuta’s blood holds its powers. They are bled before they are stoned, and die from the weight of the rock before they recover from the bloodletting.” Manas speaks with a gleam in his eye, relishing the bhutas’ prolonged suffering. “The rajah keeps a drop of their blood as a token of his triumph over the filthy demons.”

I tug my veil over my nose to block the stench of death. My lips tremble on a realization: this could be me. If these people had witnessed what I did to the carriage floor, they would not have waited for me to explain my fevers.

Imperial guards haul a half-naked woman forward, dragging her limp legs behind her. They drop her in the center of the courtyard, belly down. Shallow breaths and an odd flicker of her eyelashes are the Galer’s only movements. Her wrists have been slashed, where they let her blood and drained away her powers.

The guards pass out stones to waiting participants, adults and children alike. Many of the rocks are stained with dried blood from past stonings. The armed punishers form a circle around the barely moving Galer.

“Is it . . . is it her?” I ask Manas, praying that it is not. I want to leave before the first stone is cast.

Manas cranes his neck to see the woman’s features, but her stringy hair covers most of her face. “I cannot tell.” He collects a stone and joins the circle of punishers for a closer look. I fall back to the fringe of the courtyard.

A guard raises his sword, signaling the first line of executioners to step forward. The participants shuffle in, surrounding the Galer and blocking my view. The guard lowers his sword in a blur of silver. The people release their rocks. Each thunk crushes my empty chest. The Galer makes no cry of pain, no plea for help.

Anjali joins me on the outskirts near the lime trees, glaring at the gruesome scene. We are both removed from the execution, far enough away not to dirty our hands but close enough that the brutality will sully us forever.

Manas shuffles closer to the front of the line, stone in hand, and a movement from above grabs my attention. Tarek and his advisers watch from a balcony, drinking from gold chalices and congratulating each other on the bhuta’s capture.

A forceful wind stampedes into the execution yard, grabbing women’s veils and knocking off men’s turbans. Lime tree branches clap above me. I clutch my headscarf and shield my eyes from the dust-strewn wind. Children bury their faces in their mothers’ skirts. The sudden gale silences all but the sky’s almighty breath. As quickly as it came, the gust vanishes, and a thin voice speaks.

“We will not relent.”

Gooseflesh ripples up my arms. The Galer is speaking. She still has power in her drained veins. The punishers back away, and I look at her, partially buried in stone.

“Anu will curse you.” The raspy voice surrounds me, as though it is laced to the air.

From above, Tarek’s advisers gape at the Galer’s might even while dying. The rajah’s smile disappears.

“Bhuta, it is you who is cursed,” Tarek shouts, his voice carrying half as far as hers. “You are a demon. A soulless child of the Void.”

“You know what we are, Rajah Tarek,” the Galer responds, “and you will be slain for your lies. Anu sees the darkness in your heart. You cannot hide from the sky.”

The Galer’s solemn vow freezes my heart.

Tarek’s face reddens in the morning sun. “Finish her,” he commands, and storms inside.

I turn away, but not fast enough to miss the sight of the guards dropping great stones on the Galer, followed by the grisly crush of bone, and then the bleak silence of a sky without wind song.

I flee from the courtyard, down a stone path into the gardens that stretch between the palace and exterior wall. Manas will not like my leaving him, but he needs time alone as well. From his disheartened glower, I could tell that the Galer was not the one who killed his family.

You cannot hide from the sky.

The Galer’s eerie promise chases me. Her death discolors everything, washing the brightly hued oasis to grays. The Galer spoke with her powers, yes, but also with an authority that lingers like frost in my bones. She used her final breath to threaten the rajah with revenge, not from her people, but from the gods. I do not know the source of her powers, but to my ears, she did not speak like a soulless demon.

A stitch in my side and the rising morning heat force me to slow to a walk. I catch my breath and turn down a path shaded by neem trees to escape the sun. The pathway winds to a dead end and a meticulously maintained stone tomb scored with vines of blooming clematis. I read the plaque.

YASMIN. TAREK’S BELOVED FIRST QUEEN.

I touch the door of the tomb, still cool from the shade of the massive banyan trees standing as sentinels on either side. The gravel at my feet has been disturbed. Someone has recently gone inside to visit the rani’s remains. I am not tempted to look within. I do not trespass on the dead.

Branches rustle behind me. I revolve and gaze down the path, where dappled sunshine is breaking through the leafy cover. No one is there, but Mathura’s warning of sabotage blares through me. I slip my hand across my lower back, reaching for the dagger tucked along the indent of my spine.

A twig snaps nearby. I do not wait to draw my blade. I swivel on my heels and dash into the trees. Urgency pushes me through the thicket. Hopping over mangled tree roots and dodging low branches, I pray that this leads me to the palace faster than the pathway.

The trees end. I run out onto a trail and slam into someone.

Deven catches my arms. “Kali?”

My breaths ring ragged in my ears. I clutch my chest, trying to pull more air inside.

“I’ve been looking for you. Manas said he saw you run into the gardens.” His gaze roves the trees for danger. “What are you doing out here?”

I have no proof that I was being followed. All I have is my fear over Mathura’s warning. I straighten and recover my breath as I say, “I’m all right.”

Deven’s voice roughens. “We haven’t found the Burner yet. You shouldn’t explore the grounds alone.”

Alone. The word echoes through me, hollow and desolate. I rest my palm in the center of Deven’s chest. “I’m sorry I worried you,” I say.