When he finally hobbled out and felt the brush of rain on his cheeks, Elena was already heading for the stairs. Ferma hustled after her.
“What did you do to piss her off?”
He turned to see Samson. Smoke writhed from his lips as he drew on a long black pipe.
“I thought you stopped smoking ganja,” Yassen said.
“I use it sometimes to calm my nerves,” Samson said. “Looks like you need it too.” He handed the pipe to Yassen, who raised it to his lips and slowly drew in the sweet, narcotic taste of moonspun ganja. Yassen exhaled; a thin wisp of smoke twisted and dissipated in the air.
“Better?” Samson asked, eyeing him. Yassen nodded. “Good.”
They stood in silence, watching the clouds darken and the guards shift their feet. The rain fell steadily now and gave the mountain an eerie glow. Below the lip of the cliff, Yassen caught a flash of Elena’s gold skirts.
“Interesting thing, fire,” Samson said. “Do you remember the last time we were here together?”
“We met Akaros,” Yassen began.
“And then everything changed,” Samson finished. He chuckled, smoke puffing out. “Funny, isn’t it? That our journey with the Arohassin started in the holiest of places.”
“Maybe it’s not as holy as we think.”
“Maybe.” Samson blew out smoke from his nostrils. “I heard from Muftasa just now. They have a lead. A gold cap saw a woman that fit Maya’s description near the Raja stepwell. We have a team tailing her but…” He took another draw. “This could be it.”
“I’ll go.” He shook his head as Samson offered him the pipe. “When?”
“Muftasa says after Elena’s parade for the Fire Festival. The timing will be better,” Samson said. “People will be distracted by the festivities in the city and the stepwell will be quiet. And of course, it’ll be coronation week. What better way for Elena to begin her reign than to capture a terrorist.” Samson grinned and took one last long pull, then dumped out ash from his pipe. “The world’s changing, Cass. If we’re not quick to change with it, we’ll be stranded.”
As Yassen watched Samson descend the staircase after Elena, he felt something nag him, like a painful thorn from a skorrir. Something Samson had said.
The last time we were here together.
He had answered with their first meeting of Akaros, but that hadn’t been right. Not really. Because the last time they had been at the temple together, Samson had not known. Yassen had been slipping down the steps holding a freshly pickpocketed pod when he had seen Samson standing at the fountain of the Phoenix.
“Give me strength,” Samson had said. “Give me strength to crush their metal hearts.”
Yassen had paid it no mind then. But now he wondered what Samson had meant. And what he had bartered. Because though he was no believer, Yassen at least knew that fire did not give without a sacrifice.
An ache lanced up his arm, sharp and precise. Yassen gritted his teeth. He thought of the inferno, and the deep, ancient pull he felt toward its core. It may have been a hallucination, but the sensation was too visceral to be imagined. A truth lay within the flames, a truth that predated him and the very steps he stood upon.
And it was growing impatient.
Yassen glanced back down the dark corridor. In the sound of the falling rain and the emptiness before him, he thought he heard the fire cackle.
CHAPTER 21
ELENA
Oh, dear lady, why do you look so pale? You glow like the sun, both from within and without, selfless, like the honey a mother drips into her child’s dream.
—fromThe Odyssey of Goromount: A Play
Elena dipped her trembling hands into the basin of the fountain. The water cooled her skin, but when she withdrew them, they still shook. The statue of the Phoenix rose above her, and she could see her reflection in its red eyes.
“Why?” she asked it. “Why am I the only one in our family who cannot hold fire?”
The statue remained silent, like always. Perhaps it did not answer her because she did not believe in the Phoenix as deeply as her mother. Or maybe it was because she did not respect fire as greatly as her father. She was caught in between wanting to believe and being too skeptical to give in fully; respecting fire and being too afraid to hold it for long.
Maybe it’s a blessing you can’t hold fire.
