Chapter 20 Elena
ELENA
Hate endures what love cannot.
—a Ravani proverb
Elena did not remember how she made it back to her rooms that night.
When she woke in the morning, she had only brief recollections, like the flighty vestiges of a dream.
She remembered the cold rain, her chattering teeth.
Dark eyes watching as she walked. Hands, warm and firm; a stern but not unkind voice, speaking.
Elena rose carefully. She still wore her clothes from last night, her sari sticking to her skin like a leech. When she glimpsed her image in the cracked mirror, she froze, breath caught in her chest like a shard lodged between her bones.
Blood crusted her swollen right cheek. The pallu of her sari was tattered, her arms littered with scratches and tiny marks. It was as if she had been attacked by an animal. Torn and ripped apart, left for dead.
For a moment, she did not understand. Pain clouded her thoughts, her memory, but when she saw the lines of red, thin and long, stretching across her neck like a horrid necklace, she remembered.
Samson’s wild, ferocious eyes, the rough crush of his hands on her throat.
You are nothing without a butcher, queen. And I am far worse than that.
A white-hot horror flashed through her body, followed swiftly by anger so intense that her fingers trembled as she touched her neck.
She was going to kill him.
She was going to fucking kill him.
Elena began to reach for her coat, already picturing how she would rip her sword through his neck again and again until the blue leached from his eyes, when the door drew back, and Kruppa entered, breaking her out of her fury.
“You’re awake,” Kruppa said, but Elena heard the unspoken words beneath. You’re alive.
“Where is he?” Elena asked, her voice strained.
“I do not know.” Kruppa sighed. “But word has spread that the Ravani queen has fallen out of favor with the Prophet.”
Elena stilled. Her rage wavered, tamped down now by a slow, marching trepidation. “What do you mean, fallen out of favor?”
Kruppa looked at her, deep lines fanning along her eyes. “It means you are not fit to lead.”
“Me?” Indignation clawed up her throat, nearly choking her. “Me?! He is the monster. He is unfit.”
But Kruppa kept quiet, and Elena slowly felt her anger wither away in the woman’s stoic silence until she felt dizzy, her knees weak. She crashed into a seat.
“Me,” she whispered. Her fingers curled around the wooden frame of the bed as grief and resentment coiled within her into a black, throbbing ball of pain. “Me.”
Kruppa finally spoke. “We saw how he beat back your fire with his own. His holy rage.”
At this, her stomach churned. What had been holy about that fight? What had been right?
“He is a god, greater than you, greater than us. Even those who did not believe in the gods are now clutching their prayer beads. And his followers, they…” She faltered, an anguish so deep wrenching her face. “They destroyed the temple.”
“The bastard,” Elena seethed. She began to rise, but Kruppa shook her head, and Elena found her fury an insubstantial speck compared with the priestess’s sorrow.
“The people would rather align themselves with him than…” She paused, looking away, as if the words caused her pain. Then, in a softer voice, “I am sorry, Your Majesty. Truly. But you have lost.”
Lost.
What a simple word. So quick on Kruppa’s tongue, so quick to ensure Elena’s defeat.
She had lost in a simple skirmish that had evolved into something more, something she could not control. Why had she reached for her sword? Why had she not left, when she had had the chance?
Elena blinked hot tears from her eyes and hurriedly wiped them away in disgust. She should not be crying.
She should be raging. Marching through the city, straight toward Samson, and taking his head for all to see.
But even as she thought it, Elena remembered how easily his flames had cut through hers, how viciously his urumi sang through the air.
His utter, complete control. She knew that if she went now, she would not defeat Samson.
She would lose, again. The people would see her fall, again.
What little trust and loyalty she had gained would quickly vanish like landmarks in a sandstorm.
But I cannot stay still.
The thought, only half-formed, quickly solidified and sank into her bones as if she was buried deep in sand.
She could not stay within the clutches of a monster who called himself a prophet and further jeopardize her standing with the Ravani.
If she did, she would have to live according to his terms. Make herself smaller, lesser.
Elena could already see the confines of her cage, feel the rough scratch of a noose around her neck.
No.
Elena rose with a borrowed strength. Heat thrummed in her veins, her Agni stirring. She was Elena Aadya Ravence. The queen of Ravence.
She was not meant to be caged.
Elena met Kruppa’s eyes and saw the older woman shrink back. “Where is my sword?”
Elena ignored the whispers as she strode toward the command center.
People stared or reeled back as she neared them.
One woman signed across herself, while an older man clutched his prayer beads and averted his eyes—as if merely catching her gaze was considered sacrilegious.
Not long ago they had showered her with flower garlands and praise as she had stood on the hall steps.
That day, she had wanted to fling off their love and wallow in her self-misery.
What she wouldn’t do to feel that devotion again.
Kruppa was right, she thought bitterly. I am carrying the black plague of the godless.
She drew her scarf tighter and bounded up the stairs.
Guards at the door started at her appearance, but she swept through and pushed back the doors with a loud boom.
Chandi looked up from the holopanel. Akino froze at his worktable littered with urumis. Visha lowered a metal contraption and gave her a cold, hard smile. But Elena gazed past them all as Samson slowly swiveled in his chair and met her eyes.
“Elena.”
“Samson.”
She sauntered forward and winced inwardly as her wounds smarted, as if a reminder of being so close to his Agni. Samson rose, his face stoic and cold.
“You’ve recovered,” he said.
“You’ll have to try harder to put me down.”
His mask did not slip, but she caught the small twitch of his lips.
“Undoubtedly so.” He paused, and in the awkward silence that followed, Elena felt for his Agni.
She searched for that familiar presence of heat, so ruthless and self-assured, and found it less.
It was as if his Agni was… tempered. Like a shobu made to heel, it felt contained.
No bracelets of fire adorned his wrists.
“I—I wanted to apol—” he began and frowned. “I… Well, I wanted to check on you. Kruppa, Visha”—at this Visha gave a snort—“the others were worried. The people were worried. Yesterday went too far.”
Elena smiled at him, thinking, What utter bullshit, you snakeskinned bastard.
She dropped her hand to her waist and drew her sword. Akino gasped. Visha sprang to her feet. Chandi loosed her urumi, and the metal sound of it scraping against the floor filled the space. Only Samson remained still, his eyes narrowed.
“Have you come to lose again?” he said.
“No,” she said. And then Elena Aadya Ravence did something she had sworn never to do.
She knelt.
She knelt before the Prophet and laid down her sword.
“I have come to apologize.” Her voice, strong and reverberant, rang through the hall. “I doubted your legitimacy. But I was wrong. Yesterday, you proved to me and everyone who you really are.”
She raised her eyes.
A butcher.
“A Prophet,” she said. “Our Prophet.”
At this, everyone stilled. Even Samson’s mask had fallen, his face stricken and confused, his mouth slightly agape.
“You are no monster, Samson,” she said, and she saw him tremble, a quick movement across his chest and shoulders.
He closed his eyes. Swallowed. And she knew then what he felt because she had seen that movement before.
When she had forgiven her father, he had shown a similar release.
To be forgiven was to be freed. Absolved of whatever sins you had inflicted on the other. But Leo had deserved her forgiveness.
A butcher like Samson did not.
Elena swallowed her shame and fury and softened her voice. “I—we—are of Agni. And it was foolish of me to think of you as my enemy when you and I are the same. I—I am sorry.” She dropped her head. “Forgive me.”
Silence stretched heavily through the hall. She felt the weight of their gazes, but Elena did not look up. She stared hard at the floor, and when she finally heard movement, when she finally saw his boots fill up her vision, she allowed herself a small, private smile.
Slowly, she raised her head and met his dark eyes. Samson watched her with something akin to wary pleasure, like a man who had found his lost falcon back on its perch, deadly and beautiful and perfect.
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because you once asked me how far I would go to save Ravence, and I told you I would go far enough.” She immersed herself in the memory, of the spinning roses and Farin’s calculating gaze and Samson’s fierce voice.
She allowed her promise to show on her face.
“If saving Ravence means swallowing my pride and working with you, I will do it. I am not above my country, Sam. Just as I know you are not above yours.”
This time, the smile she gave, tight and full of hurt, felt true.
“People like us do not regret,” she said quietly so that only they could hear. “We only move forward to take what is ours. And if that means being roughed up now and then, so be it. Besides. I got you too, didn’t I?”
Samson laughed softly. “Yes, you did.”
“Then let’s put this behind us,” she said. “We have two weeks. In two weeks, let’s change the power play. Let’s make Farin crawl to us, begging on his knees. Let’s show Syla what a refugee army can do.”
Slowly, Samson grabbed her shoulders and raised her to her feet. Around them, the others stirred, not sure what to make of this sudden reconciliation. Samson held her a second longer, his calloused fingers warm against her shoulders, and then broke away.
“Come. We’re already drafting the plans. Chandi can fill you in.” He drew a chair up to the table and looked back her. “I could use your firepower.”
And at this, he smiled shrewdly. She returned it as her blood drummed in her ears, and she thought, clear and fierce and full of fury:
I will be your ruin, Samson Kytuu.