Racing the sun, p.20
Racing the Sun, page 20
And collapses.
Falling into the men’s arms, she is kept on her feet, but only barely. The Maharaja hands her over to his sons as he wipes the sweat from his brow, hardly believing what has just passed in this small room. He dares a look at the tapestry, something he had once viewed as harmless, and finds himself grinning—perhaps inappropriately. His wife scowls at him, shooting a look to the girl unconscious in their son’s arms. ‘The poor girl,’ he murmurs.
The Maharanee’s shoulders sag with relief as the last tendrils of darkness rise from Taeng’s body like the smoke of a candle snuffed out. ‘I hardly know what to say,’ she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. ‘Ram,’ she says, with a hand perched at his arm, ‘how did you know to do that?’
Out the corner of his eye, he spies a tendril of darkness escaping the window.
‘When I was younger, an oracle told me that I would face a dead god.’
The Maharanee’s eyebrows shoot up, taken aback.
Meanwhile Karnan leans over his love, an ear pressed to her chest.
The Maharaja flashes that grin at his queen. ‘I was confused too. So I studied everything there is about the gods. There’s not much written on it, unless you go to the Obsidian City of Sarrin.’
Taeng’s hand rests at Karnan’s cheek, making him look up. Her eyes glimmer, their all-white forming a deep chestnut. She blinks back the smoke with a fighting grin. ‘You’re… beautiful.’ Her thumb falls across his jaw as she rests back in his arms.
Easing the girl to the floor with his brother’s help, Ashrit’s head snaps up to look at their father. ‘Sarrin?’ he echoes, incredulous.
Beside him his brother is still.
‘But their people have been cut off from the continents since their empire was overthrown,’ continues Ashrit. ‘How did you get there?’
The Maharaja narrows his eyes, ordering his son quiet. ‘Very carefully,’ he drawls, never able to forget the horrors he had witnessed during his travels to the forgotten land. ‘The seas are littered with monsters for a good reason, my son.’
‘So what does it mean?’ asks Ashrit. Leaving the oracle in Karnan’s care, he stands, ready to approach his father. ‘What was she trying to tell us before she passed out?’ He can’t help his pointing, all thinly-veiled fear gone now that the oracle’s inhuman eyes are not turned on him.
And that’s when they notice it. Notice the tears streaking down Karnan’s blood-smeared cheeks. In, out. In, out. Or—that’s how Taeng should be breathing. Charred in places, her feverishly hot skin is slowly losing its lustre.
But Taeng always survives. Karnan’s light touch trails over the scar at her left arm, the wine-dark red raised under his fingertips. It was a mark she’d shown him only once before, when they’d had a whole night to themselves thanks to a religious festival he’d taken no part in. There are other scars—some he knew he would not see for a long while. Taeng has seen so many places… and Karnan hardly any. He may have sailed a ship about the great island of Ellasí; he might have even saved Hazel from her fate. But he has never had to run from a god. Karnan had always known. Taeng had never tried to make a secret of it from him. And she had seen him. In that last moment—she said he was beautiful.
The slight part of her lips falls. Her bottom lip, once luxurious, is losing its colour. Hair sweaty and gritty and burnt by embers, she is his Taeng.
And she is dead.
The sob rips from his throat before he can stop it.
‘So he can be defeated,’ whispers the Maharaja. At his side, his wife slaps his shoulder to go to her son. He doesn’t lift his head when she reaches the oracle’s side. The burning of flesh lingers in her nose.
‘My child,’ she breathes, placing a hand at her son’s arm.
Karnan rests his forehead against Taeng’s cold shoulder. Cold, so soon. The life in her eyes is glassy, gone. Dead. Only hours ago they had shared kisses, shared whispers of their future. Ideas of running away and finding their own place in this world.
No more.
Across the room, Ashrit wipes the tears from his eyes as their father paces.
‘To keep from the confines of death the god must bind himself to his host to truly claw back to life. Otherwise they’d be fighting the—’
‘Ram!’ roars the Maharanee, tears lining her face. ‘Have you not seen that a girl has just died?’ Her eyes implore him for compassion.
But the Maharaja continues to pace, his son statuesque beside him. Ashrit cannot tear his eyes from the girl mangled on the floor in his brother’s arms. Her Sylongí skin ripped open, burnt, destroyed. Her now-brown eyes rolled back to the ceiling. Her body already showing the signs of death.
‘If the host is destroyed, the god is destroyed,’ continues his father's mutterings. ‘If Nisha is working with this god to destroy the Empire and at last take it for herself, then she must be stopped. Stop her and stop the god.’ His eyes alight on his sons, before the realisation truly sinks in.
Karnan’s face is hidden in the shoulder of the girl he loved; his howls of agony cleave them in two.
At the door, there is a knock.
‘Doctor Chaudhary, Your Majesties,’ comes the guard’s call.
With everyone so frozen, Ashrit forces his feet toward the door. With shaking hands he unlocks it, pokes his head outside. The pinched, worried face of the doctor searches the prince’s for confirmation.
‘How?’ is the only word the doctor speaks.

The air is so hot she can taste it. It roves over her skin like unwanted hands down her back, her thighs. Now that Rahat and Hazel are travelling together, they move faster, putting their minds to work as they steer themselves in the right direction. Or at least, what they hope is the right direction. Qadira’s been following them for so long she feels they just might have hope.
Considering there is but one day left.
Hazel rides a little way ahead of Rahat, head down with her hands at the reins. For a while now, Rahat’s been thinking of how ill-prepared she has been for this quest. With all the faerie people gone, she hadn’t thought it would affect the amount of creatures roaming the jungle.
Typical, thinks Qadira. Her people were once the finest hunters in the world—no human could best them. Before they turned their bows and knives upon them all.
The creatures slinking through the trees at Qadira’s side were once sport and hunted accordingly. Mortals have no idea of how population culling works; that is, how to do it properly without making the creature extinct.
Flicking her braids over her shoulder, Qadira narrows her eyes in on Rahat travelling slowly behind. The girl’s tired. Her slumped shoulders might even lead to a fall, if she allows herself too much slack. Qadira’s almost tempted to yell to see what the girl might do. But no.
It won’t be easy to take them captive. Or rather, it could be, if she doesn’t let herself think about it too much. But up here in the trees, all there is to do is think. Think of why Rahat went on this quest in the first place. She easily could have demanded Qadira go in her stead; Zehran would have allowed her this. Especially when pressured by Tahir.
Tahir, who only wants to keep Rahat happy. For what reason she isn’t sure—but she knows it isn’t love. Even so, the rajkumari’s life could have been simple. But she left with no aid, had told no one, didn’t pack enough food, didn’t account for being separated, and had never even considered that one of them might be captured by others in the jungle. Luckily enough the kehrasa is following, her scent in the wind warding off any creature that might dare attack them. Pity all their food’s gone.
‘I’m thirsty,’ whines Rahat down below.
No answer from ahead, though Hazel’s shoulders pull rigid.
They ran out of water a while back. Qadira’s lucky enough to have her own water reserves, as all faeries do. It’s something they’ve hidden from humanity for millennia. For if mortals knew the old folk can survive weeks without water, she might be in trouble. Saadi has never been kind with her in the past. Suggestions of execution, torture, depravity… She knows never to doubt his contempt. Who knows what he might do with that information?
Shaking the thought away, she forces the image of bound wrists from her mind. She’d almost lost a finger the last time he’d scolded her for simply existing. That high-strung faerie-killer.
‘Sorry,’ gasps out Rahat, making Qadira’s ears twitch. ‘I know you’re thirsty too.’
Hazel remains silent as she leads them through the thickest parts of the jungle.
Flexing her fingers, Qadira leans against the tree-trunk. The dark bark is nearly the same black of her skin; it makes the threads of magic in her hair spark. Spark, like blue flames so hot humans cannot even glimpse them.
The chirping of birds flurries about them. Yet the closer Qadira comes, the more the birds move ahead—sensing her near and fearing her presence. The flapping of wings whoosh through the trees which shake as they take flight. Hundreds of birds in all colours take to the skies and soar, fleeing the jungles. Up ahead, Rahat and Hazel don’t take notice. They haven’t recognised the warning signs.
Overhead, the clouds cluster. Wind whorls through the trees, forcing Qadira to steady herself against the tree’s thick trunk. The highest branches of the canopy whisper, bending to bring themselves together as if that might help them survive. Below, Qadira catches the moment Rahat glances skyward. The rajkumari’s eyes remain unfocussed as she swivels back to the Asthori.
‘Hazel?’ she calls quietly, making the girl pull her lindélof about.
‘Come on,’ whines the girl, her sunburn smarting, ‘it’s just a little storm.’
But Rahat isn’t convinced. She kicks Prakaash into action, bringing him up beside the Asthori who continues upon Bijalee’s back. There isn’t time to be spooked, Hazel’s look seems to say. This far out of range, Qadira can hardly hear the zapping of their thoughts. The jumble of their minds. Out of doors, her brain has always had difficulty picking up on certain targets. The swirling clouds overhead only make the world more of a jumble.
Her sight clouds, but with a curse she shakes it off. If she allows herself to be fooled like the mortals on horseback, then this is the end. In a place like this you have to move forward no matter what you must do.
As the tree boughs creep together, blocking out the sky, Qadira follows on. Prakaash and Bijalee have picked up speed, though their riders are unsure, knowing the creatures detect something they cannot. A certain darkness rolls through the trees, a ghostly fog creeping along the jungle floor.
Frost meets Qadira’s fingertips high up in the trees and she yelps, only just able to bite back the sound. How she plays this could be the difference between life and death. And like all the creatures before this, these ones should be dead. They should all be.
But her people have not been hunters for years now.
The frost slithers up her fingers with a painful sting. There’s only one thing to do. Throwing herself through the trees, she stays on path. From branch to branch, her feet are nimble. The smoothness of her run, the grace of her turns—she hadn’t realised her tail had appeared, steering her with certainty. The tail balances each movement, keeping her on her feet. A twitch of the ears and she hears each protest of the trees. She can feel the creatures disappearing and hiding themselves, burying deep into the earth in an attempt to escape.
They all know what is coming.
The lindélofs just might keep them safe.
Below, the fog thickens. The trees strangle the light. It won’t be long before they cannot see what lays before them. She’ll have to be quick.
Like sand kicked up in the waves, the fog becomes a tangible thing. The trees become further apart as they approach a field. Most are thinner than the others; a patch of cloud-seeker trees. They won’t take her weight. Qadira leans back as she trails down the branches, analysing her movements. The next tree that might carry her is but eight metres away. She’ll have to jump.
Instincts force their way through her chest. She can feel the cheetah’s nerves racing through her; the power of each muscle, the coil of each intention. She can’t remember the last time she felt so alive.
The kehrasa leaps. Reaching out with calculated hands, she prays to her lost gods that she might make it. There’s no telling what that fog will do against faerie skin, though the mortals racing before her seem unaffected. The horses, on the other hand—their movements are erratic, their glowing eyes wide in terror.
Desperate fingertips grapple for the branches coming closer as she falls through the air. Come on. Qadira’s hands graze the nearest branch. Her heart leaps into her throat as her hand catches the next bough. The bark firm in her hand, she grits her teeth against the jolt of pain in her arm, the pull in her tendons as the momentum shakes her.
Behind her, she can feel the darkness growing colder. There’s no time to waste.
If she were younger, she might have dared to challenge them. If Adilah were by her side, she wouldn’t hesitate. This would’ve been a game. But without her wings and without her whip, she cannot fight against such beasts. At least, not for long.
Qadira steadies her balance once she pulls herself up onto the tree-bough. She can just make out Rahat and Hazel in the distance. But it won’t be enough. Racing on, she’s all too aware of the growing darkness and the way it devours all in its path. But it isn’t the darkness she fears. It’s what lays within.
The bough shakes as she pulls herself to her feet and throws her weight across to the other side of the tree. The cold ricochets through her with each breath. Ahead, they still race.
‘What is that?’ comes Rahat’s startled gasp.
Hazel chokes back a scream as Bijalee clears a fallen tree. ‘I don’t think we want to know!’ she cries. Her lips already gleam with purple frost.
Along her limbs, Qadira feels the ice quaking. It’s been years since she’s faced this creature. Her chest hums with fear. Her mind muddles, but she sucks down the scream that crawls up her throat. No matter what happens, she has to protect Rahat. Rahat has to live. Tahir had asked her to protect the girl.
Choking on the arctic air, Qadira forces herself to keep going. Frantic eyes search the jungle for what she can feel lurking below.
Out of the undergrowth and the fog, they emerge. Not one, but three of them, their ivory horns glimmering with liquid gold like blood and their feature-less faces staring forward. Hunched shoulders beneath their robes end in spikes, the creatures slinking along the jungle floor as if they were crawling over it with hundreds of little legs—though Qadira knows, from when she first saw them, that they’ve only six. When they stand on their hind legs to their full height, Qadira hurls herself into the next tree. They sniff at the air and bare their teeth, dripping with ichor.
They know a kehrasa is near.
Racing through the strangled light, the faerie girl would give anything for her wings. With them, she would soar into the canopies and fight her way out of their hold. She would flee into the sky and return home, never to see these beasts again.
If only things were so simple.
Creeping through the jungle, the creatures reach out with their middle arms, carving their claws into ancient bark. Eeries. That’s what these creatures are.
All three follow their scent upward—and lock eyes with Qadira the exact moment that Rahat screams a bone-rattling scream that sparks down their spines. The creatures tear their eyes away—toward the mortals up ahead.
There’s no time to think. Qadira dissolves into smoke and sand, hurtling herself through the darkened canopies. The trees spin about her, so hazy in this light. They’re close. Rahat screams again and Hazel cries out, spurring them on faster. The lindélofs are quick, but the Eeries are quicker.
Throwing herself back together, Qadira appears from the smoke and sand before Rahat and Hazel. They have enough time to yank the reins, urging their mounts to a halt before they can collide with the faerie. But Qadira raises her hands, pointing them away from the creatures trailing them. ‘What are you doing? RUN!’
Rahat glances to Hazel. The Asthori furrows her brow as she cracks the reins, spurring Bijalee into a gallop. Still, Rahat hesitates.
‘Run!’ demands Qadira, her sunstone eyes wild.
When the rajkumari doesn’t move, the kehrasa charges at the lindélof. Neither of them move. Rahat’s chest rises and falls like a hare’s. Eyes wide, she can’t move. She’s in shock. Gods be damned. Qadira thwaps Prakaash’s flank, sending the creature skittering through the trees after Hazel and Bijalee.
‘Seek out water!’ Qadira yells after her. ‘It will keep them away!’
Rahat has enough sense in her to grip the reins and lean into Prakaash’s neck as they disappear into the trees.
The Eeries slither closer. Once again, she is their focus. With each of their breaths, she can feel the cold air of the Lyran Mountains. Their black robes ripple around them like shadowed flame. Her legs tremble. They’ve no idea whether to crouch into a fighting position or flee. The Eeries are within metres of her; it’s already too late. Dissolving again would only turn their attention back to the mortals fleeing.
Qadira searches the nearby trees for anything that can be used as a weapon. Her whip belongs to the Devourer now. The titanium blades crossed over her back will only last her so long against the Eeries. She knew she should have brought obsidian with her—fire glass is the only way to slay these things. Obsidian, and adamant.
Adamant! Fumbling in the belt of her tunic, Qadira’s fingers shake as she reaches for the throwing blades she’d stored away. It had been a stretch to pack them. But you never know what you will face in the jungle.
Four throwing blades tumble into her hand. Four. If her aim stays true, then gods be praised. If not…
Focus, you fool.
Keeping the blades in her right hand, she takes one in her left. The smooth adamant glitters against her skin. Shining, calling for death. She’s not sure what she might have done without them. Yet her legs still quake.
