The Ravani held no warmth toward him, and Yassen couldn’t blame them. He had killed a prominent military strategist. Worked for an organization that sought the kingdom’s destruction. But the real reason for their dislike was far more bitter.
Yassen caught his reflection in the glass and stilled. His pale, colorless eyes stared back. He had inherited them from his father, his hair as well, but his curved nose and high cheekbones were from his mother, his smile, his deep love for the dunes. He looked more Jantari than Ravani, yet he spoke with the rolling accent of the desert. His countrymen did not know what to make of him. Sometimes, he did not know what to make of himself.
“Yassen.”
He whipped around to see Samson climbing up the stairs to the upper level.
“There’s something I need to know.” Samson leaned against the wall. “Your arm.”
Yassen froze. “What about it?”
Samson narrowed his eyes. “Word is that it was burned. That you can’t use it anymore. Is that true?”
“It still works, and I shoot with my left,” Yassen said, flexing his right hand.
But the intensity in Samson’s eyes did not change. “Some of them know about the accident. The Ravani Intelligence, the king, hells—even the generals. They may not know about yourinjury, but they know that you failed to kill King Bormani. The Arohassin burned your name in the sand, Cass. They’re looking for you.” He leaned closer. “I need to know, are you taloned?”
“I am. Your men must have told you about the guards in the port,” Yassen said, squaring his shoulders. “Did that look like a man who can’t fight?”
At this, Samson drew back. He regarded Yassen for a long moment and then turned to the window.
“There it is.”
Yassen looked out and saw, unfurling beneath the clouds, the dunes of his childhood. The Ravani Desert spread out before him, sloping in easy, natural curves. To the west, far off in the distance, the Agnee mountaintops kissed the blooming sky. Somewhere within those mountains was the Eternal Fire, the bewitching power that had beguiled men for centuries. Sons had slain fathers, mothers had killed daughters, in hopes of one day controlling the flames. To conquer the Eternal Fire was to conquer the gods.
The horizon rippled with waves of heat. Toward the southwest, Yassen glimpsed the red, dusty canyons that connected the southern cities of Magar and Teranghar. The hoverpod flew forward, its shadow flitting over thorny brush and narrow valleys. The dunes unfolded and then, in sudden glory, the sandscrapers of the city of Rani rose as if to defy the heavens themselves. Hovertrains zoomed from the city center to the outskirts, carrying tired laborers. Crammed between the pristine buildings and extravagant chhatris were booming bazaars and poorly plotted side streets. As a boy, Yassen had spent hours wandering the city. At every turn, he found himself in a different village—no, a different country—listening to the sounds of the various languages, from the lilting accent of the northern Ravani to the rumbling growl of the Karvenese.
When he didn’t have the money, which was quite often, Yassen had watched the street urchins and learned their ways. He learned how to pickpocket softhearted tourists while he handed them satchels of spiced lotus puffs; how to evade the silver feather guards during their routine rounds; how to use the alleys to his advantage when an officer gave chase.
As they approached the city, Yassen craned his neck to see flashes of familiar buildings and new, developed squares. He could feel the desert heat pressing against the hoverpod’s glass. Yassen rested his head against it. He could almost hear the cacophony: the blare of hovertrains and ring of sky bells interspersed with bellows of merchants and curses of drivers; a city breathing the lives and dreams of three million people, twelve nations, seven districts, and one wayward boy.
And there, rising amid all the chaos, was the grand behemoth—the Agnee Palace.
Sitting high up on a hill, the palace overlooked the city. Its ivory chhatris and sandblasted towers glowed in the morning sun. Marble latticework and fiery red gems adorned its windows. Three twisting spires—one each to look south, east, and west (but never to the sacred north)—stood like stoic guardians. There were no walls around the palace; the hill and the towers were enough.
“She’s a beauty, no?” Samson said.
Yassen caught glimpses of luscious courtyards and fountains. Then they were landing, lowering onto a sunken strip behind the palace.
Samson stood. “Do you remember the Desert Oath?”
“I could never forget it,” Yassen said.
“Good.” Samson grinned. “Ready?”
Yassen stared out the window, rubbing his arm.
“Yes,” he lied.
CHAPTER 7
ELENA
When Ravence was still a young kingdom, sandstorms raged along the borders. Queen Ashara had claimed that her god brought the storms to ward off invaders. This is a lie. When examining the weather patterns of that era, one must note the freak occurrence called Barru. A passing of a comet amplified the northern winds, and thus, the storms. This all goes to show that the Phoenix is a myth and the kingdom a sham.
—excerpt from an opinion piece inThe Jantari Times
Elena sat beside her father in the large golden throne room. Over twenty thousand intricate mirrors shimmered within the walls, reflecting the golden light of the sun. She watched marigold flowers on the ceiling blossom as the sunlight touched them. They emitted a sweet, hazy smell, a tactic Leo used to lull heads of state into a false sense of security. Elena found the smell sickening. She had already decided that once she sat on the throne, she would rip out the flowers. Grind them between her palms and throw them into the Eternal Fire.
