“Please, take some prasad before you go.” The priestess quickly bent to the altar and swiped a slightly melted ladoo from a platter. She looked at it, blanched. “Sorry, maybe another— Oh! Come, I’ll make a fresh batch. Just for you.”
“I really must—”
“You really must try them.” The priestess grinned. “Even the order at the high temple asks for my offerings specifically. ‘Fetch us Kruppa’s,’ they say, and send a bored novice my way. Come, come!”
Fighting back her annoyance, Elena plastered on a smile. “I would love to, Kruppa, right? But I really must go to…” Her voice trailed off. She almost said she had to go to the breach, and the slip must have made her face contort, because Kruppa’s eyes softened, and she squeezed her arm.
Elena looked away, flushing.
“I was there,” the priestess said softly. “The day of your coronation, I was there at the temple, delivering my offerings. They wouldn’t let me inside the sanctum, tight security and all, but I heard after how the king…” She paused, shaking her head. “It was a dark and horrible day. I cannot imagine the grief you must feel, but you have now given us hope. We can make those fucking bastards pay for what they did.”
Elena laughed, a choking sound. “Kruppa, we’re in a temple.”
Kruppa covered her mouth, but a sly grin creeped between her fingers. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, not looking the least bit apologetic.
Elena looked to her and the Phoenix, and something settled in her heart. Not her confusion or regret—those stayed tangled, ensnaring her. But within their cage, resolve hardened. Like a thorn, it cut her skin, ruthless and stubborn, intent on being recognized.
Elena swallowed hard, staring at the fire as if it could dry off her tears.
“Kruppa,” she said finally, “can you help me to oversee funeral rites for the ones we’ve lost?”
Kruppa smiled, gentle. “I will see them across the threshold to our creator, Your Majesty.”
Elena did not respond. She only glared at the Phoenix and the heavens in challenge.
See?she thought.See how we refuse?
CHAPTER 5
SAMSON
We will rise, like seeds buried. We will rise, and even the metal blades of the Jantari will bend to our fury.
—fromThe Lament of Seshar: A People’s History
The inferno purred to him as Samson watched the smoke-clogged horizon warm to an acidic orange. Even the sun couldn’t break through the smoke of his flames. He didn’t know whether to take that as a sign of triumph or an omen.
They’re watching, the inferno murmured.
He turned his attention to the cage. It was a rudimentary perimeter made up of barbed wire and steel rods and Black Scale sentries. Set outside the city with the ruined wall towering behind it, the cage had the quality of a chained and ruined beast. The Jantari soldiers within watched as he drew closer. Some were sitting, others pacing, a few sharing a Rysanti-made cigarette that smelled like wet sulfur, but they grew still at his approach. Their eyes, pale and shrewd, pierced him. It brought an ugly memory, one of sand and dirt and screams ringing through salt air whensimilar eyes had watched from the beach, but Samson pushed the memory away as he joined the Black Scales.
Chandi glanced over as he neared. Still dressed in her black battle fatigues with her skull-hand tattoo wrapped around her throat, she looked like a shard of the black obsidian that lined the beaches of their island.Like a fang of the Great Serpent, he had joked with her once. Poised and always ready to strike. But Chandi had looked at him then just as she looked at him now, her eyes unpeeling him as if she knew whatever uncomfortable truth he was hiding beneath.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“And a warm hello to you too, Commander.”
“You pushed yourself enough today. Go rest. If your Agni—”
“I’m all right, Chandi,” he said firmly, though his body ached, and a tremor was already beginning to build up his arm. “I’ll go after this, I promise. I just wanted to see them.”
“To gloat,” she corrected.
He grinned. “Maybe we should send a holo to Farin.Greetings from Ravence. Signed, your beloved Sesharian pets.”
Chandi said nothing, but a patrolling Black Scale chuckled. Samson, biting back a smile, surveyed their prisoners.
“How are they?” he asked.
