Chapter 37 Elena
ELENA
The destruction of the Five Desert Wars between Ravence and Jantar became so great that the council finally moved into action.
The Treaty of Borders is perhaps its greatest achievement, second only to its execution of the traitorous Karven king.
The treaty states no ruler shall invade another’s borders without consequence.
But King Harrow of Jantar shrewdly found a loophole.
Seshar was not a kingdom. It had no such protection.
So Seshar fell, thanks to the shrewdness of a king and the cowardice of others.
With trembling hands, Elena loosened her scarf. Faded bruises braided her neck, though the ointment had lessened the pain, and the operation had bleached the color.
“It will disappear in two days,” the medic said.
Elena touched the skin where, the day before, the medic had used a laser to lighten the marks.
Now she skinned an aloe vera leaf and scooped out the gel.
Elena watched as she ground dry sage and lionweed, then mixed it with the aloe and topped it off with fresh lavender buds.
The sounds soothed her. Elena closed her eyes, drifting, when she felt hands at her throat.
“No—” she gasped.
The medic stopped. She gave a soft, understanding smile and gently placed the jar in Elena’s hands.
“Apply it twice a day, for the next three days,” she said.
Elena nodded, weariness creeping into her bones. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to startle like that.”
The medic drew a slow breath. “Make him pay for it.”
The comment, meant to strengthen her, only made her remember his hands on her neck, his wild, naked terror after. Twice, he had attacked her. And she had rescued him nonetheless. Why?
Because I had no other choice. She had accepted his horrors because of his power, because of what he represented: freedom, bloody and vicious. Yet a freedom all the same.
“I wish I could,” she said and left.
The floating islands of Nymia towered above her.
They were great behemoths of stone and rich, dense forests.
Clouds wrapped around their deeply grooved cliffs like beards of old men.
Waterfalls, purple as the blood of Nymia, fell into the sky, and Elena wondered, Had the men who raised their faces to purple rain understood that a god bled above them?
There were seven temples erected upon the floating islands, just like there had been seven petals of the Phoenix’s temple. On the shard named Nymia’s Righteousness, she met Syla.
The king kissed her hand, his eyes lingering on her scarf.
“How are you now?”
Confused. Bitter. Afraid, she thought.
“Tired,” she said.
“I could have him executed for what he did.”
“And let my efforts go in vain?” She meant to sound lighthearted, but sounded bitter instead. “You can’t simply kill a prophet, especially not one as loved as him.”
Syla snorted. “Would they love him if they knew how he attacked their queen?”
She thought of herself lying cold in the rain, alone.
“They prefer the strong. Even at death’s door, Samson Kytuu proved to be deadly. No, they will not abandon him.”
“So what do you want to do with him?”
She avoided the question, turning instead to the pillars.
Fourteen pillars and seven arches circled a stone ground.
At the center, a tall, lone tree grew with eyeless faces in its leaves and tongues upon its bark.
The Seeing Tree. It was a mark of the Cyleoni goddess who valued information and knowledge above all else.
Perhaps that was why Cyleon was heralded for its universities and libraries, its markets of flying books and endless mazes that led scholars to even more mysteries and fewer answers.
A wind sighed through the eaves, and Elena strained to listen.
“What have you heard from your spies, Syla?”
“Spies?”
She fixed him with a crooked grin. “The very ones who informed you of Farin’s edict before it transpired.”
“Perhaps you can tell me first of this amrithi.”
“I know nothing, same as you. But I know it’s something Samson and the Arohassin value greatly.”
“When the Arohassin spoke of it, the Butcher froze like a scholar who found his theory copied by another.” Syla sighed. “I fear they are playing behind our backs.”
“The Arohassin hiding secrets? Is that all your spies have found?” She laughed, harsh and short. “Perhaps you should fire your spies and replace them with Arohassin assassins.”
Syla frowned, quiet.
“I’m sorry. I’m just…” She waved her hand.
“Tired?”
“Exhausted, more like. The Yumi barely gave me anything to eat.”
“They aren’t exactly used to hosting,” Syla said, his mouth quirking. “I’ll have my chefs cook something Ravani. Do you still enjoy bhindi masala?”
She started. “You remember?”
“Remember? The last time I had it, I nearly burned my tongue. Your chef does not understand the meaning of mild.”
Elena laughed, and this time, it felt genuine. “And I’m sure yours doesn’t understand the meaning of spicy.”
Syla grinned, though after a moment, his smile shrank into a pensive line and his voice softened.
“My spies did learn something. They confirmed that Jantar means to send a fleet to Mandur. The Yumi general was right. I fear Farin’s ambition knows no limits.”
“The Jantari never do,” she said sourly.
“Have you heard from the general?”
“He’s waiting for my answer.”
Syla sighed. “I do not like the idea of colluding with a usurper. And a Yumi usurper, of all things. But Jantar and the other kingdoms are crying for blood. They believe the Black Scales are behind the attacks and blame them for disturbing their metal trade. It’s a small miracle he hasn’t sniffed you out yet.
Or me. But Farin will want to root out the rebel Sesharians.
He might even give up his fight with the Arohassin in Rani and move south to your stronghold. If we had the Yumi, he’d think twice.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“So what answer will you give General Daz?”
“Not him.” She looked up at the Seeing Tree and its many tongues. “Farin.”
She had thought it over the last two days, chewing the idea until it had hardened into a nugget, then grew into a burden. Meaty and heavy. Fed by the rage that never seemed to leave her bones, the pain she was forced to endure, again and again, by a man who had claimed himself king.
“We give him Samson and the Black Scales.”
Syla started. “Why?”
“Samson thought that by destroying their mines, he could stop Farin. But it only hurt the ones most vulnerable. No, the metal king is not a man. He is a beast, so we will hunt him like one.”
Elena turned to him, her words born like a phoenix rising, hot and vengeful.
“You will propose a deal. Tell Farin that at the council, he will have the opportunity to capture his most coveted enemy. When he asks who, be aloof. You are the master of spies. Tell him it’s someone of the sea.
He will come. And I will surprise him there.
Chandi told me that the Jantari do not know I’m still alive.
When I finally show my face, when the others finally learn of his breach of the Treaty of Borders, when…
” And here she paused, gritting her teeth.
She had mulled over this for some time, trying to find sweetness within its misery.
It was what she had to do. Still, it hurt.
“When I bring the Yumi with me, he will have no choice but to withdraw from Ravence.”
“So you intend to accept General Daz’s offer?”
She swallowed. “Yes. Together, you and I can motion for him to get a seat at the council.”
“You’re sure of this?” Syla eyed her. “Farin is never one to act according to our expectations.”
“Do you know why Farin is targeting the Sesharians?” Her smile was thin, sharp.
“It’s because Samson betrayed him. Samson was meant to be his puppet, ready to offer Ravence on a platter once he came calling.
But the Butcher turned against him. The metal king burns with jealousy and bitter pride.
Bait him with only the idea of Samson’s head, and Farin will come. ”
Syla stared at her quietly, and she saw his trepidation, his slow horror.
He seemed not to recognize her. Her reflection, caught in the wild green of his eyes, was morphed and foreign even to her, and Elena found not fear in this discovery, but a delayed mourning, like soreness creeping into the body.
She mourned the woman she could have been.
She mourned the queen she was to become.
Perhaps this was regret. Perhaps this was retribution from the gods for her lack of faith, for her inability to protect her home. Or perhaps this was her own selfish desire to look fate in the eyes and scratch her fucking eyes out.
“I saved Samson because he serves a purpose. Nothing more,” she said.
“So you would offer him as your sacrificial lamb?”
“Once I am before Farin, I do not care about Samson’s fate or the Black Scales.
I want them out of my kingdom. His death will be of his own making, not mine,” Elena said, each word striking like flint.
“I bring him only like a butcher before the ox he cannot kill. It is up to him to save his people, or himself.”
The sound of a hoverpod made them turn, and she recognized Samson’s Agni drawing close. A roar began to build in her ears.
Syla watched her, his eyes sad. “Do not become like him in your anger, Elena.”
“I am nothing like Samson Kytuu.”
“I do not mean Samson. I mean your father.”
Elena turned away before her face crumpled, her heart quickening with a sudden, shooting pain.
She reached for her Agni, for the wrath inlaid in her bones.
She wanted to drown the ache. But it hooked into her ribs, and when she looked up again, she saw her father falling into the Eternal Fire.
In the near distance, Samson climbed the path toward them.
“I won’t,” she said. “I’ll be better.”