He turned to her, his voice low. “After your speech, we’ll bring you back to the float, and the handmaids will close the curtains. There will be a guard change then. I just checked the schedule. We can slip out, get lost in the crowd.”
“My dress—people will recognize me.”
Yassen looked to where Diya stood by the curtains, dressed in a plain linen cloak. “We can fix that.”
Ferma glanced at them just then. Her tawny eyes seemed to glow. Someone began a song, and she heard parts of the crowd catch on until the melody swelled around her.
We are the chosen,
the ones led by Alabore the Great.
We gave our hearts to the desert,
and our mother swept us in.
Her sweet long curves,
the dips of her valleys
the heat of her flames
gave us a home, a home we say,
to tend and call our own.
Elena hummed along with them, but she did not sing.
Alabore’s Passage led to the White Lotus, a large sculpture sitting directly in the heart of the city, within a luscious, circular garden. At the center of the flower, a fire burned.
Elena stood, exchanging a look with Yassen as the float came to a rest. They descended. Ferma led her to a podium at the base of the lotus. Journalists and their crews waited there, shouting and clamoring for her attention as she approached.
She smiled, allowing it to reach the corners of her eyes. When she reached the podium, she held up her hand, and the city lit up with the chorus of thousands.
Slowly, Elena lowered her hand to her heart, and the crowd hushed. Ferma, standing beneath the podium, caught her eye, gave an encouraging nod.
“My fellow Ravani,” Elena said, “today we celebrate a Fire Festival like no other. For this sun, you will have a new queen.”
Cheers rumbled through the city center, reverberating like heartbeats. In the holos above, Elena saw herself—tall and golden, regal and graceful. At that moment, the sun filtered through the sandscrapers, and the White Lotus was bathed in warm light. Her necklace shone with the brilliance of stars. She understood then why Samson had chosen it.
“You will have a new king trained in the ways of the sword. Already, our southern border is stronger than ever, thanks to the joint operations of our armed forces and the Black Scales,” she said and was met by disjointed sounds of approval. Elena remembered the beggar and his scowl as he called her a Sesharian. The way the gold caps had dragged him away. She leaned forward, gripping the podium. “But, my countrymen, we will not have peace. Not when we kill our own in the sanctuaries of our parks.
“We will not have peace if we burn our own names in the sand.”
A hush fell over the square. Below her, the reporters whispered and scribbled notes. She waited until she had their attention once more and then withdrew the holopod Diya had given her earlier.
“In the park killings, we have seventeen dead Ravani. Seventeen. Shall I read their names out for you?” She opened the pod. “Ajax Rathore, Jasleen Kumari, Kazenia Bo, Hassan Ruim, Huna Vi, Ramila Neuri, Uday Vyseria, Tia Givan, Anthosh Biswan, Yemani Nour, Eshaant Roy—”
And at his name, her voice wavered. Eshaant with his delicious makhana, his good-humored wink when he wheedled a higher tip from her. With his dream of leaving.
Clearing her throat, she continued. She read every name, heard them echo through the square. When she finished, Elena closed her eyes.
She knew the Phoenix did not hear her, but still, as she whispered the words, it gave her solace.
“May they all find peace in the warmth of Her fire,” she whispered.
“So we the blessed few,” came the murmur from the crowd.
She closed the holo, and her voice rang through the streets of Ravence. “As queen, I will try Jangir Meena for conspiring against the throne and opening fire on innocent civilians. His second-in-command, Varun Vehta, will also be tried. Today, Ravence will know justice. Today, I will burntheirnames in the sand.” She looked up at the clear blue sky. “By the Phoenix’s fire, I swear this to you.”
