Chapter 4 Elena #2
She turned the corner and spotted the white marble steps of a temple.
It was small but ornate, with a tiny courtyard fenced in by sandstone pillars that led to an intricate doorway decorated with carved lotuses and reclining deities.
On the spire, the Phoenix soared above. Her mighty wings spanned around the dome, Her eyes inlaid with a collection of jewels that made Her seem both prescient and formidable, divine and relentless.
Elena stopped.
Samson had told her that the Phoenix was a false god.
A myth, and a lie. The true master and architect of the Eternal Fire is the Great Serpent.
He had torn down the ruins of the high temple in the mountains and already begun erecting a new spire, one with the Great Serpent coiling around it.
This one would go too. What was the use of pitying a fraudulent god?
But Elena ascended the steps, removed her shoes, and ducked into the inner chamber.
Clay diyas flickered in tiny alcoves set into the walls.
A fine rug, threadbare now after suns of use, kissed her naked soles.
Elena found herself pulled not to the Phoenix soaring above, but to the fire that burned within Her altar.
She could recognize its song anywhere. The Eternal Fire’s small child rumbled in welcome.
Every temple fire in Ravence was created from a flame taken from the Eternal Fire, but unlike its mother, this small fire filled the inner sanctum with a gentle warmth.
Elena knelt slowly.
“I…” she began. Her voice rang through the chamber.
All at once, she felt foolish, conspicuous, even though she was alone.
A prayer book sat propped up on a stand.
Elena stared at it—the delicate white pages, the scrawling black text—and her well of bitterness grew more acidic.
She wanted to rip out the pages. Burn all the lies they told.
“Of all the betrayals, yours was the worst.” She clasped her hands around her knees until she could see the gleam of fire against the white of her knuckles.
“You don’t exist. Your stories, your prayers, your songs, all blasphemy.
I know. I know. I saw how the Eternal Fire knelt to Samson.
He is the Prophet called by a god, and you are a false god made by a man.
You made my kingdom a lie. You made my family a mockery.
” She raised her eyes, looking into the flickering ruby eyes of the Phoenix.
“But why can’t I stop believing in you?”
She had tried to come to terms with it. Tried to shift her faith to the true god, Samson’s god, the Prophet’s god.
But even now, kneeling before the Phoenix and Her small fire, Elena could hear the songs sung in Her name.
The lilting prayers, the melodious chants, the music of her childhood, her people, her family.
Her parents had sat before the altars like this.
They had dedicated their lives to a god—and for what?
To learn that She had never existed? That their lives had been a waste?
“I refuse.” She looked away from the statue to the ceiling, pitching her voice to the heavens above.
“You hear me? Samson may be the Prophet, but my family was not wrong. I refuse to believe it. Because my mother believed. She wrote of the Phoenix, your grief, and your rage. And that cannot be a lie. She and my father did not throw away their lives for a lie,” she said, and her voice broke.
She stopped, wiped furiously at the corners of her eyes.
The fire crackled, and Elena stood, glaring up at the Phoenix.
“I will find proof of either your existence or your deception. And you or whatever god will have to confront me then.”
The fire banked, wavering against her sudden movement, and for a moment, Elena thought she saw something in the flames. Eyes, golden and full of hurt. But when she peered closer, they vanished.
I am going mad, she thought.
Shadows flickered on her right, and Elena whipped around sharply. A woman cried out, stumbling. Her thali clattered to the floor.
“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the woman said as Elena knelt to pick up her tray.
She gathered the offerings—sugared almonds, faded and worn apples, ladoos made of foxnuts—and placed them back onto the thali. “It’s all right,” she murmured, handing the thali back to the woman.
The woman made no move to take it. “Mother’s Gold,” she gasped. “It’s you! The queen, in my little temple.” She laughed, taking the thali. “Did you like the mala I gave you?”
It was only then that Elena recognized the woman as the one before city hall. She had changed into a priestess’s garb, with a red sash around her wide waist and an orange dupatta draped over her head.
“Yes, yes.” She shifted uneasily, moving away from the woman. “Thank you. I have to go—”
“Please, take some prasad before you go.” The priestess quickly bent to the altar and swiped a slightly melted ladoo from a platter. She looked at it, blanched. “Sorry, maybe another— Oh! Come, I’ll make a fresh batch. Just for you.”
“I really must—”
“You really must try them.” The priestess grinned. “Even the order at the high temple asks for my offerings specifically. ‘Fetch us Kruppa’s,’ they say, and send a bored novice my way. Come, come!”
Fighting back her annoyance, Elena plastered on a smile. “I would love to, Kruppa, right? But I really must go to…” Her voice trailed off. She almost said she had to go to the breach, and the slip must have made her face contort, because Kruppa’s eyes softened, and she squeezed her arm.
Elena looked away, flushing.
“I was there,” the priestess said softly.
“The day of your coronation, I was there at the temple, delivering my offerings. They wouldn’t let me inside the sanctum, tight security and all, but I heard after how the king…
” She paused, shaking her head. “It was a dark and horrible day. I cannot imagine the grief you must feel, but you have now given us hope. We can make those fucking bastards pay for what they did.”
Elena laughed, a choking sound. “Kruppa, we’re in a temple.”
Kruppa covered her mouth, but a sly grin creeped between her fingers. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, not looking the least bit apologetic.
Elena looked to her and the Phoenix, and something settled in her heart. Not her confusion or regret—those stayed tangled, ensnaring her. But within their cage, resolve hardened. Like a thorn, it cut her skin, ruthless and stubborn, intent on being recognized.
Elena swallowed hard, staring at the fire as if it could dry off her tears.
“Kruppa,” she said finally, “can you help me to oversee funeral rites for the ones we’ve lost?”
Kruppa smiled, gentle. “I will see them across the threshold to our creator, Your Majesty.”
Elena did not respond. She only glared at the Phoenix and the heavens in challenge.
See? she thought. See how we refuse?