“Get a bucket, quick!” one of the villagers barked. A scuffle ensued, and a woman rushed forward with a bucket. Poppy traced her hand in an arc. The spring shot higher. A hollow, tinny sound filled the air as the stream drummed on the bottom of the empty bucket.
When it was filled, two more villagers came forward with containers. Holding her breath, Poppy maintained the flow, until not one but six buckets had been filled. When her knees grew soft and her vision blurred, she forced herself to stop. The spring burbled as it seeped back into the ground. Poppy’s skin felt clammy; she’d run on the edge of using her mortal energy.
“Poppy, you did it!” Hasan shouted, running into the square. He grabbed her shoulders, grinning ear to ear. “I knew you had it in you.”
“It only took a little bit of blood,” she deadpanned, though it had taken a lot more than that?—humility, connection, and sacrifice on her part. But she hadn’t gotten here alone. She had failed multiple times on her own, and would have remained a failure if others hadn’t helped her: the widows, Harithi?—even Samina’s brutal honesty had contributed to this moment. Most of all, Poppy owed this moment to Hasan, who had been given multiple opportunities to cry off, and had stayed true to their deal regardless. Despite her failures, he believed in her?—perhaps more than she deserved.
She would not let Hasan down. She wouldn’t let any of these people down. She would become vicereine, and then she would change the fate of this island.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bitter Reunion
Hasan held Poppy by the shoulders. Beneath his touch, she trembled?—with excitement, or maybe exhaustion, or perhaps both. She had done it?—no, she hadexcelledbeyond any expectation he had had of her. Her breakthrough today had allowed her to tap into a much deeper, controlled level of her daivyakhi. The villagers murmured and stared, the respect in their eyes a shallow reflection of the reverence taking root in Hasan’s chest.
Poppy had come a long way from the cowed woman she’d been at her engagement party. Nor was she the haughty, demanding maharani she’d been in the cells. In front of him was a lady who had humbled herself to learn about others, who could summon springs and save lives. Another rush of fierce pride ran through him. He blinked. When had Poppy Sutherland become someone he admired?
Grumbling rippled through the crowd as it parted for a newcomer. A man in a wrinkled gray suit pushed to the front, his usually tidy black hair mussed, as though he’d run to get here.
“Hasan?” Zeyar asked, bewildered. “What are you doing here? Is that Poppy? Why isn’t she at the house?”
Hasan whirled away from Poppy. “Zeyar!” He laughed, still giddy over Poppy’s display of daivyakhi. “You’re back early! Oh my gods, Zeyar, you would not believe?—”
Zeyar caught him by the arm, dragging him away from the banyan tree. “Hasan, you shouldn’t be here.” His eyes flashed, darting from Hasan to Poppy to the crowd.
Hasan inhaled, his mood deflating as he remembered he’d done this all behind his brother’s back. He had opted to beg forgiveness over asking permission, and now it was time to get on bended knee. He squared his shoulders. “I have something to tell you.”
“We’ll talk,” Zeyar said, hustling Hasan along even farther. “But right now, you need to go back to the safe house. Quickly.”
Zeyar had managed to steer them back to Hasan’s car. Hasan opened his mouth to protest?—Poppy was still back at the tree?—but a chorus of screams cut him off. Lightning quick, he darted around Zeyar and sprinted back to the banyan tree.
“Poppy!” he shouted, pushing through the crowd of villagers. They stampeded past, and he doubled over, coughing from the dust they left in their wake. When he straightened, he spotted her, still standing by the banyan tree. “Poppy,” he called again, but she didn’t turn her head. Her gaze was locked on the lithe figure approaching her from the other direction: Montrose.
Though he’d come out the victor in his brawl with Samina, Montrose looked like hell. On the right side of his face, he sported a black eye. On the left, scabbed-over nail scratches marked his once-perfect ivory skin from cheek to collarbone.
“Poppy!” Hasan yelled once he finally caught up to her.
She turned to him at last, her wounded gaze searching his. “What is this? I thought we had a deal.”
“We do,” he said. “It’s an ambush! Zeyar must have been tailed.”
He reached for his dagger, but he’d given it to Poppy. Opening one hand, he hurled his good arm forward and sent a ball of flame at Montrose’s head. Montrose ducked, scowling. Hasan shot another jet of flame his way. The arm of Montrose’s uniform caught fire; he stripped his jacket off, tossing it to the ground.
“Zephyr, control your man!” he shouted, stomping on the jacket until the flames died.
Hasan didn’t know whom Montrose was addressing until Zeyar seized him, wrapping his arms around him tightly. His gunshot wound throbbed from the pressure, but he struggled anyway.
“What are you doing?” Hasan kicked backward, making contact with Zeyar’s shins, but Zeyar didn’t let him go.
“He’s giving us Paranjay,” Zeyar said. “Stop it! Stop.”
Hasan froze, his mind racing as he processed Zeyar’s words. “You bartered with him behind my back?”
In front of them, Richard lunged at Poppy. She flung herself at the knife discarded at the base of the banyan tree, but Richard seized her first, arms wrapping around her waist.
“No!” she screamed, thrashing. Her eyes met Hasan’s, and the look of raw betrayal took his breath away. “You said you’d help me!” Her voice broke. “I thought you believed in me.”
“I do!” Hasan said, frantic, twisting in Zeyar’s grip once more. “I didn’t do this, I swear. My brother?—”
