Chapter 17 Elena
ELENA
During the Five Desert Wars, Cyleon sent military aid to Ravence. Pundits have criticized the emerald kingdom for sending untrained men, but the combined force of Ravence and Cyleon turned the tide of battle against the Jantari in Rasbakan.
The Cyleoni tanker perched on top of a boulder the size of seven grown men, a fly on the hide of a great red beast. That didn’t prevent Black Scales from surrounding the ship.
They crept forward with their guns balanced nervously in their hands.
Five soldiers marched out of the tanker, armed with zingers and saber collars.
Elena inhaled sharply. The Cyleoni had come in their battle gear.
Beside her, Samson stiffened. His hand fell to his waist, and for a wild, breathless heartbeat, she worried he would draw his urumi. Hurriedly, she stepped forward. At once, all heads swiveled to her—like birds of prey spotting a trapped rodent—when a thin, lank man walked down the ramp.
“Queen Elena,” he said.
“Kirri,” Elena gasped. “Phoenix Above, it has been so long.”
She quickly embraced the Cyleoni ambassador, waving back the Black Scales. They eased, but she still sensed the churning energy of Samson’s Agni nip at the back of her arms, unconvinced.
“It feels like an age since your coronation dance,” Kirri said. He was of her height, with long snow-white hair and spidery fingers. He squeezed her hands. “Are you well? Have the Jantari hurt you?”
“I am better now seeing you.” She smiled, though her eyes moved to the armed soldiers and the waiting tanker.
Kirri followed her gaze. “I’m here to escort you to our king. He is already waiting at the rendezvous point.” He paused, looking behind her to Samson and his men. “He requests her alone.”
“No,” Samson said instantly. “We come together, all of us.”
“Unfortunately, you all won’t fit,” Kirri said with an apologetic smile. “We managed to sneak a small tanker past Jantari radars in northern Ravence. I’m sorry, but we only have room for one more.”
Elena glanced between him and the armed soldiers, her sudden relief slowly withering. “Your men, why are they in battle fatigues?”
“A precaution. Jantar has grown increasingly… ornery these days, even toward a fly,” he said. “King Syla wanted to make sure you would be protected.”
“Yours is quite the fly,” she said as she studied the rough steel hide of the tanker.
Armored plates beefed up its sides, and she saw the flicker of shields above the glass panes.
The tanker was outfitted like a war machine, and she wondered if the guns the soldiers wore were the only ones they had brought. Her unease grew, and she stepped back.
“Please, Your Majesty,” Kirri said, gesturing. “King Syla awaits.”
“It’s a trap, Elena,” Samson said.
“I assure you, it is not.” Kirri smiled, smooth and suave. “You requested a meeting. Now our king extends his hand. Are you really going to refuse, queen?”
Elena hesitated. Syla was an ally, her father’s friend.
Surely he did not mean to assassinate her.
Surely these soldiers were just for her protection.
Right? If they tried to attack her, she could burn them—if she was fast enough—but how then would she fly the tanker?
She had the sudden horrible image of the ship bursting mid-flight and plummeting through the sky like a great wreathing ball of flame. The fall—not the fire—would kill her.
“Elena,” Samson began.
She pulled on a practiced smile. “You’ve had a long, hard journey, Kirri,” she said. “Stay and rest. My people will make sure all your needs are met. I’ll go with your men, and by the time you’ve eaten all the sweets Magar has to offer, I’ll be back.”
“I would love to, Your Majesty, but my king needs me—”
“Nonsense.” She linked her arm through his and gently tugged him back, toward Samson and his men. “You are now my guest. I insist you stay.”
Kirri laughed nervously as Samson met her eyes, his expression a mix of doubt and surprise. He gave her a quick, furtive nod. Elena beckoned to Chandi.
“Meet Chandi, your personal secretary during your stay. She’ll see to all your needs. Won’t you, Chandi?”
Chandi bowed stiffly, her eyes screaming bloody murder. “Of course, Your Majesty. A friend of yours is always welcome.”
“You hear that, Kirri?” Elena didn’t let go of his arm as he tried to turn away. “You’re a dear friend. Surely you won’t offend my hospitality and my people by refusing, just as I won’t offend your king by refusing his precious chariot.”
Kirri glanced between her and his men, licking his lips.
He was trapped, and he knew it. Refusing her offer would be seen as a slight—to her, to Ravence itself.
If Cyleon truly was her ally and friend, he could not refuse—unless something had changed.
Unless Syla had turned and this was indeed a trap.
Elena watched Kirri carefully, assessing his silence.
How are you going to play this? she thought.
If he refused her now, he would reveal Cyleon’s true intentions.
But if he accepted, he would become a hostage, leverage she could use if Syla’s soldiers were for more than just mere protection.
Finally, Kirri bowed deeply. This time, his smile lacked the smoothness from before.
“I would not dream of offending you, Your Majesty. I will h-happily stay.” He turned to speak to his men, but Chandi stepped forward.
“Come, sir,” she said. “Let’s get you a nice warm meal, yes?”
The Cyleoni soldiers stiffened, one even curling his hand around his zinger, but Kirri shot him a glare. “See to it that the queen is treated well.”
When he was gone, Elena turned to the soldiers. “Let’s go.”
“Wait, Elena, you can’t—” Samson began.
“You’re coming with me. It seems like a second seat is available now.”
He paused, and then a slow smile spread across his face. “It seems there is.”
They followed the soldiers into the tanker and settled into their seats. As the ramp closed, Elena leaned toward Samson.
“When we see Syla, let me lead,” she whispered. “I’ll broach the topic of calling for the council.”
The smile on Samson’s face faltered, a quick slip of his lips, but then he righted it. “Right. Of course.”
“Samson—”
“You lead,” he said as the tanker began to lift. “You’re the queen. I’m but a humble servant, aren’t I?”
The soldiers did not speak to them as the sky darkened, though Elena felt their careful eyes tracking her every movement.
She glanced at Samson. He warily regarded the Cyleoni, his Agni flickering in errant jerks like a snake, twisting on itself.
She could see it better now, feel its shape.
With all those lessons, all that time training beside Samson, she had grown to almost anticipate the flare of his Agni.
Electric and sulfuric, like lightning. The intense vehemency of his desire charged through his sword.
Samson turned to the soldier closest to them. “Your king—”
“Hush!” the soldier whispered fiercely. The others grew taut as they scanned the windows.
“What—” she began, but then she saw a shape darker than the night itself move.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shimmer of their shields.
The tanker dipped, gradually, carefully.
It was then that Elena realized the shape was a ship, a thopter of some sort, long and missile-like with black wings that fluttered soundlessly.
Liquid limbs grew out of its stomach like the legs of a bug, made of reflective panels that seemed to drink in and refract its surroundings.
The limbs flailed, tasting the night.
Her heart thundered as Elena focused her strength, her desire, her palms warming. She could feel Samson prepare too. If that thopter detected their tanker…
But then the legs curled back, finding nothing but empty air, and the ship flew on to resume its ghostly patrol.
When it was gone, the soldier beside her relaxed, wiping sweat from his brow.
“What was that?” she whispered, afraid to raise her voice.
“A Jantari phantom,” he rasped. “They’re geared to hear the vibration of voices. They usually patrol the airspace around Rani, but I haven’t seen one this far east before.”
“So the shields…” She glanced out the window, grateful to see their shimmer. “They’re hiding us.”
“Cloaks, not shields.”
She regarded the soldiers anew, this time wondering if Kirri had been honest. Perhaps they were for her protection.
This was the first time she had heard of or seen a Jantari phantom.
What other ships had the Jantari created for their invasion?
How many more weapons would she come across?
With a sickening feeling, Elena realized the depth of her ill-preparedness.
They had regained Magar but remained in the dark as the Jantari pillaged and razed her country.
Elena caught Samson’s gaze. Slowly, he tapped his belted urumi. Then his lower stomach. His gaze was steady, assuring. They had their Agni. They had the power of the gods.
But hours later, when the tanker began to descend, she still could not shake off her sense of foreboding.
The pines rose to greet them like tall, silver ghosts. They were deep into the Agnee mountains, far more north than she had been in a long time. The tanker lowered into a small clearing. When she stepped outside, Elena caught a glimmer of dawn dusting the upper peaks of the trees.
The soldiers quickly covered the tanker with a tarp.
“This way,” one said.
They followed him through the forest, up a dirt path that led to a hoverpod hidden between two thick pines, camouflaged with green paint and leafy canopies. The door opened as they approached, and Syla strode out.
The Cyleoni king was dressed in battle fatigues: dark black jacket with long trousers made specifically to hide knives. He looked older than what Elena remembered. More haggard. But his eyes still held the same sharpness she had seen since childhood.