She considered him, this strange man with eyes that trapped the sea. She was good at reading people. Instinct told her that Samson was lying. Not about all of it, but some of it.
“When you asked for my hand, you said you would help me hunt down the Arohassin, and yet you bring one of their assassins into my palace. I ask you for your true intentions, and you dance around the answer.” She nodded at the door where her guards stood. “One shout, and they’ll take your head off. Or maybe I will. You’ve seen me in the field.”
She leaned back, all pretense and subtleties gone.
“So I’ll ask you again, one last time, what are you really here for?”
Samson did not answer right away. But when he spoke, his voice was soft. “I’m not proud of the things I’ve done, or of the men who died while I stood by, voiceless.” He slipped off his ring, a small signet ring with what looked to be a family crest of a serpent. “But I made an oath to the owner of this ring. To be free, and to free the men who have suffered at the hands of oppressors.
“I don’t want to live under Farin’s boot. And if freedom means marrying you, leading my army with yours to protect this kingdom, I will. But for your sake, and for the sake of the hundreds of Sesharians you’ve welcomed, I will seek peace first.”
He slipped the ring back on, quiet. This time, he did not meet her eyes, and so Elena knew he spoke the truth. Telling a lie took confidence; speaking the truth meant unearthing pain. Before, he had brazenly met her gaze with a look of amusement, even pride, but now he busied himself with spooning sugar in his tea. Whoever had given him that ring had also given him a burden.
Elena knew something of the pain of burdens.
“Well,” she said, her voice gentler, “You’re brave to risk the anger of Farin. Here I thought only the Ravani did that.”
“I told you, I’m a fast learner.”
She smiled at the thought of Samson kneeling in a haldi ceremony, bewildered by the song and dance and the gallons of rose-scented milk dumped on his head. “You didn’t flinch when you had to put your hand in the flames.”
“That’s because I know a few things about fire.”
“Oh?” Elena spooned more sugar in her tea. “Like what?”
“Fire brings life. Domination. Reverence,” Samson said thoughtfully. It caught her by surprise. “But it’s an insidious power. It can destroy you from within if you’re not careful.” And he looked at her with such intensity that for a moment, Elena wondered if he knew her secret.
“I’ve seen how fire can tear apart its followers,” he continued. “The Ravani know all this yet continue to worship the Phoenix. Others call it madness, but I think your people have tapped into an ancient force that no other nation understands.” He paused and looked out at the desert that lay beyond Palace Hill. The rain shimmered over the dunes like silver. “Ravence has survived because it knows what it means to burn. It knows loss, yet its people continue to believe.”
“‘Faith is stronger than any king,’” she whispered, quoting the scriptures.
Samson nodded. “Your father knows this. He puts up with the Fire Order because he needs the image of myth and divinity to ensure his power. He sits in the flames to keep your people in line.”
Elena let out a low breath. “I can’t hold fire,” she said. The words tumbled out before she could stop them. She had never admitted this to anyone; only Ferma and Leo knew. Shame and relief colored her cheeks, but to his credit, Samson only shrugged.
“Does it matter?” he asked. “It’s all a show. You just make the people believe you can hold fire, and they’ll worship at your feet.”
“Maybe,” she said. Appearances and deception were the first rules of any statecraft. Honesty, when used strategically, was a finely edged knife. “But if the Prophet were to hear you, you’d be the first to burn.”
Samson laughed—a deep, booming sound that leapt to meet the rain. It was a type of laugh that did not often frequent the palace halls. Elena felt herself warming to it.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” she said. “I meant to test him, but he cleverly did not take the bait.”
“He can handle himself,” Samson said. His laughter subsided, and he looked at her with a faint smile. “Give him a chance. Will you?”
Elena glanced out at her garden, at the darkening sky. A breeze whispered through the trees. Beneath the hill and beyond, the dunes sprawled out into the deep desert.
Her desert.
Elena rose, and Samson rose with her. She led him to the door, and when she offered her hand, he kissed it, his lips lingering against her knuckles.
“Think about it,” he said and bade her good night.
Long after he had gone, she touched the back of her hand. It wasn’t the kiss that had shocked her, but the heat of his lips burning against her skin.
The next morning, Elena joined her fiancé and father on the terrace looking down on the capital. Ferma and the royal guards stood behind them while Yassen waited in the wings. There was a mark beneath his brow where she had hit him, but otherwise, he looked composed. Oddly, she felt relief at that, but quickly pushed it away. He did not deserve her pity.
A wide sea of reporters and civilians jostled at the base of the hill. Some projected holosigns displaying the royal family. Others waved tiny flags. Most regarded them silently. She could feel the weight of their gaze, the guarded look in their eyes.
