“What are the prince’s orders?” I ask.

Rohan trains his gaze on me. “He requests that you join him in Iresh as a guest at the sultan’s Beryl Palace.”

Iresh is the imperial city of the sultanate of Janardan, ruled by Sultan Kuval, whom Rajah Tarek was rumored to despise. During Tarek’s early days of attacks on bhutas, the sultan welcomed refugees into Iresh. Tarek had planned to go after the bhutas who slipped through his grasp after he eradicated those within his borders.

Deven stabs the tip of his sword into the ground and leans against the hilt. “Why does the prince need Kali?”

“Prince Ashwin went to the sultan to seek military aid,” Opal says, “but the prince is an untried ruler. The kindred’s reputation is known far and wide, and the refugee camps are filling. The prince needs her to gain the favor of his people. They need a ruler they know and trust.”

“I’m no more experienced a leader than Prince Ashwin,” I say, drawing back.

“You won your rank tournament and earned their devotion,” Opal replies, her gaze insistent. “The prince believes your endorsement will reassure the refugees and have the added benefit of convincing the sultan to provide troops to unseat Hastin from Vanhi.”

I begrudge Opal’s reasoning but understand why Tarachandians view the prince as a stranger. He has been in hiding all his life. I suppose I can comfort the people until he earns their loyalty.

And then I will walk away from my throne for good.

“I need to speak to my friends alone,” I say, rising.

Opal and Rohan start to leave, but Rohan pauses. “Do you have anything to eat?” he asks. Mathura hands him a bag of dried dates. Rohan licks his lips at the larger supply sack she took the fruit from. “Are those cashews?”

“The fruit is fine,” Opal says, dragging her brother away.

Brac squints at them in the dark as they sit beside their wing flyers and munch on their food. “You know they can hear everything we say,” he remarks.

“I know,” I reply, sighing, “but this gives us some semblance of privacy.”

I glance from face to face, seeking my friends’ cooperation. I have convinced them to follow me this far, but asking them to leave the empire, their home, is a lot to require.

“So now we know where the prince is,” I start carefully.

“I cannot believe he ran.” Natesa’s voice crackles with condemnation. “He left us. He left his people.”

“He went to seek aid, little lotus,” says Yatin. Natesa’s frown fades, charmed by his nickname for her.

“That’s true,” I say, still proceeding cautiously. I will thank Yatin for his support later. “The prince needs our help.”

Brac tips his head to the side in deliberation. “I was the first to call Prince Ashwin a coward, but he’s right to seek aid.” Natesa mutters something snide under her breath. She has adapted to the brothers—Deven, who does not let her boss him around, and Brac, who parched her with his powers the first time they met—but she is less tolerant of Brac. “We should go,” he finishes.

“Absolutely not.” Deven draws an unequivocal line in the air. “The sultan could be using the prince to lure Kali into his borders.”

Brac confronts his brother’s scowl straight on. “The imperial army is disbanding. Our soldiers are running to escape a war they’re ill equipped to fight. We need an army that can stand up to Hastin. The sultan has bhutas in his royal guard. Bhutas can better fight bhutas.”

“No mortal army will stand against Hastin,” Yatin agrees in his low voice. “The fall of Vanhi has proven that.”

“Once we set foot in Janardan, we’ll be under the sultan’s rule,” argues Deven.

Natesa scoffs. “We’re no safer in our borders.”

The same may be true for the Zhaleh. I am hesitant to mention the sacred book—I do not know how much Opal and Rohan know—but Brother Shaan must believe it will be safe in Janardan. I hold my tongue and wait for Mathura to offer her opinion.

She puffs on her pipe and answers, pushing out smoke. “I’ve always wanted to see the sultanate.”

Deven glowers at each of us in turn. I step to his side, tug on his arm, and lure him out of the circle of firelight. He stares down at his dusty boots, distant and tight-lipped.

“This is our best chance at defeating Hastin,” I say.

“I understand . . . I just . . .” Deven raises his beseeching gaze to me. “Let’s be done with this, Kali. Leave the prince to fare on his own. This is his war and his empire. He’ll find a way to defeat Hastin without us.”

“What if he doesn’t? What happens then?” The weight of my throne is tethered to my ankles, weighing me down. Prince Ashwin must claim his throne in order to sever me from mine. “Once the prince steps into power, we’ll be free.”

“What if he’s unfit to rule? He is Rajah Tarek’s son.”

“Not every son is destined to become his father.”

Deven drops his pleading gaze and glowers at his boots. His distrust of the prince is unlike him. He believed serving the rajah was his fate, but that changed when we planned to run away . . . the act that led to his accusation of treason.

Gods, does Deven blame me for Tarek stripping away his military command? I cannot handle yet another toppled fate on my conscience.

Deven’s gentle voice breaks our silence. “I’m worried for your safety.”

I step closer and run my fingers up his neck. I feather the silky locks beneath his turban, trying to remember the last time we kissed. “We’re so close to freedom.” My entreaty sounds like a desperate prayer, but my optimism swells within him through his softening mouth and loosening shoulders.

“All right,” he says finally.

I squeeze Deven nearer in thanks, and his arms come around me. I inhale his calming sandalwood scent, masked slightly by the campfire smoke, and soak in his sweet warmth. As I burrow into his cozy arms, the frown line between his brows eases and his dark eyes soften. For an idyllic moment, the strain between us lifts away.

The brother and sister Galers rejoin us by the fire. “We, ah, couldn’t help but overhear you’ve made a decision,” Rohan says.

Deven lets me go and threads his fingers through mine. We step back into the firelight.

“We’re going to meet the prince,” I say.

“How about we go right now?” Opal suggests.

“Why?” Natesa challenges. “Will you be paid upon our delivery?”

“We aren’t being paid,” Rohan says. “The rebels are on their way.”

Deven drops my hand and stalks to the cliff’s edge. A storm gathers in the distance.

Brac glares at the Galers. “You were followed?”

“We thought we lost them,” says Rohan, ducking his head in chagrin.

My skin tingles with the first ominous stirrings of wind blowing through camp. No one need give the command; we all rush to pack up at once.

“Rohan and I can each carry up to four additional people on our flyers,” Opal says.

Stronger drafts battle us, building one powerful strand at a time. Across the valley, a wind tunnel careens our way, throwing a curtain of dirt and heaving silver lightning bolts. Thunderclaps roll across the grassland valley. The camels squawk in alarm and kneel, hunkering down for the storm.

I walk toward the weather, nearer to the cliff side. Flashes of lightning emphasize the silhouette of a young woman suspended inside a giant wind tunnel. Anjali, the warlord’s Galer daughter.

“Opal,” Deven barks, “take Kali and go.”

I whirl on him. “I’m staying. Anjali has come for me.” I betrayed her father when I took the Zhaleh and ran. I must be the one to face her.

“Kali,” he says, uttering my name with commendable calm, “you have to think like a rani. Protecting yourself is preserving the empire.”

Must the empire come first, before me, before him, before us? Duty would say yes, the empire should be my priority.

“What about you?” I grip his forearm, the force of the whirlwind shoving us back a pace.

“We’ll hold them off and meet you in Janardan.” Deven drops my pack over my shoulder, the Zhaleh within. “Brother Shaan said we could trust these Galers, but be careful.”

Panic takes hold of me. I fist his tunic and drag him close. “Promise you’ll meet me in Janardan?”

“I swear it.” Deven cups my chin, his touch tainted by hand-shaking alarm. Part of me is relieved that he is not composed either. But if Deven is afraid, then we have much to fear. He rubs his thumb across my cheek and steps into the punishing wind.

The camels are frightened by the violence of the sky and scatter. Deven braces behind a boulder with Mathura, and Natesa does the same with Yatin. Brac crouches low to the ground, closer to the storm.

I run for Opal’s wing flyer into the wind’s dusty grip. Opal creates a peaceful air bubble around her like the eye of a hurricane. I throw myself into her safe haven and draw in mouthfuls of clean air.

“Get in and hold on to the navigation bar,” she says.

I grip the bamboo bar, and another wider beam braces my hips. I lie suspended over the ground on a platform. Opal climbs on beside me. A gale catches the canvas wings and tries to rip them off like leaves from a tree, but she holds the wing flyer steady and lifts us into the sky.

A greater squall hurls us back—Anjali is nearly here. Opal fights to level us, one wing precariously close to crashing into the ground. Below, Rohan throws a draft and straightens our lowered wing. Another well-timed gust lifts us higher into the night. I close my eyes, which are now streaming with tears. This would be exhilarating if it was not so terrifying.

Hail pelts us. Beneath Anjali’s wind tunnel, a young woman rides a horse with her arms raised to the storm. Indira, an Aquifier, is conducting the thunderheads. Two bhutas against two bhutas is a fair match, but my friends have a better chance of winning if Opal and I stay.