“I don’t know if you hear me, or if you’re listening,” she said softly. The Phoenix gazed back at her, stoic and silent. “But I hope you are. I hope you are watching over us all.”
Her father did not believe in the Phoenix. Though he hid it well, he regarded the priests and their god with a certain detachment. And Elena understood him, in a way. She could not fathom how her mother, Saayna, or the order could believe in something unseen so completely, so blindly. How they devoted their lives to a god they could not touch, could not hear.
But as Elena poured more mustard oil into the diya to feed the light, she thought she saw a glimpse of what they saw: reassurance. To know that someone, something, was listening to them. And even if that god was false, even if it turned out the heavens were nothing but cold, distant stars, their belief would live on, warmed by their faith.
“Give me strength.”
Aahnah had been the one who had taught her how to light the diya, how to sing praises of the Phoenix. As Elena felt the warmth of the flame beneath her cupped hands, she heard her mother’s voice. The soft lilt, the measured pauses, the bliss on her face as she had turned to Elena and wafted the smoke over her head.
“You are blessed, my darling,” she had said. “My little girl of fire.”
Elena pressed her trembling hands against her eyes. She thought of her mother, kneeling before the Phoenix in the palace shrine, the fervor in her voice as she sang, the contentment in her eyes, and Elena willed herself to feel the same. “Holy Bird, protector of our realm. Goddess of this world and the worlds thereafter. Help me learn how to hold fire.”
The diya fluttered. The Phoenix gleamed down, silent.
The sky was pitch black as she descended into her garden and approached the fountain. Carefully, Elena turned the stone bird perched on its lip, and the base of the fountain shifted back, revealing marble steps. For a moment, Elena hesitated, hand reaching for her holopod to call Ferma. She planned to meet Varun, then go to the desert to practice the forms drawn in the scroll. But while Ferma may be up for the former, she definitely would not be for the latter.
Fire is dangerous. It’s pure chaos, Ferma had said.You can’t learn to wield it with only a scroll.
But what other option did she have if her father refused to teach her?
Elena descended into the tunnels, yet instead of veering right to the library passage, she turned left. A chill crept beneath the desert, and she pulled her cloak tighter. The scroll rustled within her sleeve.
As she neared the city, the tunnel sloped upward. A metal grate, as tall as a man, covered the exit. Elena peeked out. The alley was dark, empty. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped back and whispered, “As above, so below.”
The sensors clicked and the metal grate rumbled and then parted a mere two feet. Elena scooted through, making sure it shut behind her. She walked quickly, careful not to draw attention to herself or her means of arrival as she entered the Thar district, a large, winding network of alleys, bars, and small firestone squares.
Floating orbs and neon signs lit the wide street as drunken couples stumbled out of pubs. On the corner, she spotted a gulmohar tree. Even in the night, its scarlet flowers burned against the dark sky, like little tendrils of flame.
Elena slowed as she approached the beggar who sat beneath the branches. A thin wisp of smoke curled from his blue lips. He looked up at her with dazed, drugged eyes.
“You,” he said, and then his lips curled back into a snarl. “What are you doing here?”
Elena stopped. Across the street, city dwellers mingled around a pub, oblivious to her presence.
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t belong here, Sesharian,” the beggar cried. He raised a shaky finger. “You and your filthy kind should rot on your island.”
She wanted to retort that she wasn’t a Sesharian, that she was Ravani, just like him, but something made her hold her tongue.
She looked at the man. “Careful, old man,” she said, “Sesharians are welcome here, but I heard there’s no place for intolerance under the new queen.”
The beggar laughed. “The heir is a whore for that vile islander. I heard his men take turns fucking her.”
Her face burned with mortification. Underneath her cloak, the fire in the orb hissed. Elena took a step back.He’s drugged. He has no senses.
Yet a part of her wanted to punch the man, to drag him through the sands for the vile words. Elena glanced around and saw that some of the pub crowd had noticed them, throwing curious glances her way.
“What’s going on here?”
A gold cap was striding toward them. At the sight of him, the beggar paled.
Shit.
“Are you here disturbing the peace?”
The beggar snorted. He met the gold cap’s gaze, but Elena saw how his hand shook as he raised his pipe and took a drag. “What’s it to you?”
