“Why not?” Elena asked.
“I’m leaving for Cyleon the week of the coronation,” he said. “I can’t take it anymore. City is too crowded, and the gold caps are growing too rough. Last week, they seized my friend’s shop and forced him to pay double the rent. Or else they’d burn down his shop and blame rebels.”
Elena stilled. “They can’t do that.”
Eshaant rubbed a hand across his face, wiping sweat. “By the law, they can’t. But the law doesn’t care. The king doesn’t give a shit.”
“I hear the new queen does,” Elena said, and she saw Ferma shoot her a glance.
“Ah, the heir.” Eshaant laughed, a thick, derisive sound that made her stomach twist. “She’s a puppet just like the rest. If she cared, why hasn’t she said anything yet?”
“Maybe it’s not as simple as that,” Elena said, her voice quiet.
“Maybe, maybe not.” Eshaant shrugged. “Either way, I’ll be gone. I hear summer in Cyleon is beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as in the desert,” Elena interjected.
“No,” Eshaant said. “But the desert isn’t kind either. Don’t worry, dealer, I’ll send my regards.”
He dipped his head in farewell and continued on. As Elena watched him go, she felt that same weight slowly sink down her shoulders, like a body buried in sand.I won’t be the same, she thought.
“Don’t mind him,” Ferma said, her voice gentle. “Come.”
They swept through the bazaar, weaving between the shoppers.
“They should be gathering in front of Jasmine’s Tea Garden,” Elena said, increasing her pace.
“They’re already there. Jangir has begun his speech.” Ferma tapped her earpiece when Elena looked at her in surprise. “I sent a few men ahead of us to keep watch.”
Elena smiled. Of course, Ferma had thought ahead. But then, a smaller voice chided her.
You should have too.
Elena pushed back that needling voice of self-criticism and self-doubt. She would need all her wits about her today.
Music filled the square ahead of them. Elena spotted a street dancer, resplendent in her colorful lehenga and choli, twirling in rhythm to a musician playing the ravanahatha. A small crowd watched. Ferma pushed past them, but Elena paused to watch the dancer as she leapt, her face raised to the sun, her limbs long and brown. For a moment, Elena wondered what it would be like. To dance with wild abandon. To fill her heart with song and let it take away her worries, her fears. To be like the desert wind, letting the sounds of the city guide her feet as the ravanahatha guided the woman. Often, when she danced, following the rhythm set by her guru, Elena had to make sure each movement was precise, sharp, full of intention. But this woman spun without pretense. Elena craned her neck, trying to get a better look at the dancer, but then Ferma called for her, and with one last glance, Elena hurried after.
They turned down an alley so narrow she had to walk sideways to get through, underneath arches adorned with crimson flowers, around a corner and then a side street, before she arrived at the dark awning of her favorite spot in the city—Jasmine’s Tea Garden.
Normally, she would have loved to duck inside and savor a cup of tulsi tea, but instead, she turned to the square where a crowd had gathered. It was larger than the last rally, men and women of all ages, Ravani and Sesharian alike. They all listened earnestly to a thin wheat stalk of a man who stood on a raised platform. Despite his size, the man spoke with a deep, booming voice that carried throughout the square, its timbre and richness reverberating through Elena. If she did not know better, she would have listened to Jangir for hours. Beguiled by his promises, captivated by his stories. But then she saw the golden cap on his head, on the heads of those in the crowd, and she remembered whose men they were.
“War is coming, my friends,” Jangir declared. “The Jantari ready their guns and oil their zeemirs as we speak. They defile our walls and call our king a heretic and a fraud. They spit upon the name of our god and wish to quench Her fire.”
Angry shouts broke out around her, the stamping of feet. Elena edged back and felt Ferma squeeze her shoulder, her hand firm and steady.
“Stay close,” she whispered.
“They call his daughter, our shining soon-to-be queen, a whore. They mock our traditions, destroy our outer posts. Just months ago in Rasbakan, five of our soldiers, oursonswere…” Jangir shook his head, his expression etched with sorrow. “Sorry, my friends, I cannot tell you the truth. It is too terrible.”
“Tell us!” someone shouted.
“Tell us what they did!”
Jangir looked up, his eyes sweeping the crowd. For a moment, his gaze met hers. Elena’s heart stuttered. Did he recognize her, despite the disguise? But then he looked away, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“They,” Jangir said slowly, his voice shaking with fury, “they were captured and sentenced to die in a Jantari prison.”
Elena bit her lip as the crowd erupted in anger. It was not true, this she knew. She had been in the war room with her father and the generals when the news of the attack had come months before. A minor squabble. No injuries on either side, no prisoners, nothing to merit a war they could not afford. But her father must have pocketed that report. Spun it, embellished it, and fed it to his blind, foolish followers.
