Daz laughed, low in his throat. “You call them choices. But in both, I am still a prisoner.”
“I told you, that is for you to decide—”
“And what if I ask for your Butcher’s throat? Will you give me that,friend?”
Elena eyed him carefully. “Whatever vengeance you seek, seek it with me. And seek it after the meeting of the council. We have fought long and far to get here, Daz. Do not let your anger tarnish your wisdom now.”
“Wisdom?” Daz scratched at his wrist. “There is no wisdom in this bloody war. It died the moment I killed my sister for the throne. It died the moment you stepped onto Moksh. It died long, long before, when we started playing these vicious games. Can’t you see, Elena? We are not moved by wisdom. We are moved by vengeance. Bloody, cruel, glorious vengeance. You want to revenge your father, I want to revenge my grandnieces and every Yumi who suffered under my sister’s rule. So come off it.Open your damn eyes.”
He stood suddenly, startling her. “You want vengeance against Jantar? Fine. I will come with you to the council. But I seek retribution too. I will fight the Butcher in the Yumi way, in the name of my grandnieces. Grant me that, and you will have my help.”
Elena studied him, her jaw tight. She thought of Samson, of his soft touch and even softer words, of the pure, unadulterated relief in his eyes when he found her. She rememberedherown startled joy when he had crushed her in that suffocating hug. It had been sofreeing, to simply drink tea and not think of subterfuge or manipulation or what came next. Their laughter had rolled out, so warm, so easy, and she thought, for a moment, maybe Daz was wrong. Maybe vengeance was not her Agneepath, but a fork that disappeared like a path in the shifting sands. She looked at Daz, beginning to speak, and then stopped.
Because in his eyes, she saw herself too.
What could one tea do to assuage the months of agony she had suffered? What could one frivolous, achingly gentle night do to soothe the grief of her Ravani? What could one man do to quench her own thirst?
She still remembered the cruel crush of Samson’s hands around her throat. The terrifying cold of his flames as they bit into her. If he had been given the same choice, Samson would have given her up too. He was a monster after all. And if all went to plan, then Daz wouldn’t have to kill Samson himself.
The Jantari would do it for him.
“F-fine,” she said, mustering more conviction than she felt. “You can fight Samson, butafterthe council.”
Daz held out his bloody hand. “On your honor, then.”
It died long ago too, she thought as she gripped his hand. “There is another matter I want to discuss with you. When we appear before the council, I… I want to propose Farin retreating from both Ravence and Seshar. I want us to fight for RavaniandSesharian freedom.”
Daz studied her. “You once told me that you wanted nothing to do with Seshar. What changed?”
The killdoms, the bloodbath, the anger and courage of Maya, the quickness of Tanmay, the cleverness of Ajira. The boy who had dared to show her kindness. Chandi, Akino, Akiri, even Visha. In her bitterness, she had lumped them with Samson and his thirst for power. In her selfishness, she had wanted to crush him, and by association, his home.
She had welcomed Sesharians. As long as they lived in Ravence, they were under her protection. But did she owe them more than that? Was she obligated to free their home, a home she had not seen? Her own was bleeding. Ravaged by war, splintered between faiths. How could she save another when she could barely save her own?
What did she owe Seshar?
“I think,” she said, “I have been the biggest fool of a queen this continent has known.”
Daz barked a laugh. “There have been worse.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe they would have realized sooner that to punish a people for their leader, their god, is not justice. Not truly. My qualms, whatever they may be, are with Samson and Samson only. And my fight for Ravence… It is so much like Maya’s fight for Seshar. Like Visha’s. Like Chandi’s. I would not be here today without the Sesharians. I owe them my life. The least I can do is fight for them, to show the other despots that Seshar is not alone. That she has an ally—a mad, biting, burning one.”
Daz—his expression guarded, closed—dropped her hand. “You are slow, Elena. But at least you have come to realize I’ve been right all along.Ravence and Seshar are the same.”
“I know,” she said, without malice, without anger. “I just hope I’m not too late.”
To this, Daz said nothing. Moments passed, heavy, strained. Elena glanced out the narrow window.
“We will arrive at port soon. I will need you and Samson, eventually, as representatives of Moksh and Seshar. Can you remain…?” She trailed off.
“Civil?” Daz gave a cold, wry smile. “I have spent many suns swallowing my anger before my sister. I believe I can handle a week.”
“Hopefully, we can make the council move in our favor within days.”
He eyed her. “You have a plan.”
“A mad one.”
After she had told him of it, Daz studied her for a long moment, then said quietly: “The council is fickle, Elena. You come to them as an avenger, but some kings will see you as a rebel. Sympathizer to terrorists. Orchestrator of a genocide. Do you think Farin has forgotten the mines you burned? The ships you’ve taken? You are walking into the lion’s den, little queen, and they are ready to eat even your bones.”
