Elena stiffened. She had half a mind to cutVisha’sthroat, but she forced herself to not rise to her quip. The strategist laughed, dipping her head.
“Blue Star. Queen.”
She left, the doors sliding quietly shut behind her.
Chandi rose. “I’ll deal with her.”
When they were alone, Elena turned to Samson. He leaned away, pulling his hand from her chair.
“She’s valuable, so don’t tear her head from her body,” he warned.
“Valuable,” Elena growled. “Right.”
“Visha’s had a… curious upbringing, but it’s made her a weapon. One of Jantar’s finest. My finest, now.” He finally met her gaze. “And she’s right. We don’t have enough leverage to make the other kingdoms come to the council. Syla and you aren’t enough. We need more. We need to target Jantar’s northern mines.”
“We barely have enough resources as it is, Sam.”
“But with Syla’s men, we will. Think. The mines aren’t just Jantar’s lifeblood, but the other kingdoms’ too. How many of them use Jantari steel? How many of them have been forced to swallow Farin’s exorbitant prices simply because he controls the flow of ore? Ore thatmy peoplemine for him.” Samson paused, and she saw his anger, quick and spiderlike, skitter across his face. “If we take out the mines, Farin will listen.Allthe kingdoms will listen.”
Elena hesitated, and at this, Samson’s face softened. He reached into his pocket and withdrew an earring. It took her a moment to recognize that dark green jade, and when she did, her breath caught in her throat, the memory, the pain, suddenly all too fresh, all too real.
“Is that—” she began.
“Your father’s. I found it in the ruins today.” Gently, Samson unfolded her hand and placed it in her palm. Her fingers trembled, and Samson wrapped his hand around hers to still them. “Think what he would do.”
She knew what Leo would do. He would call on the Phoenix, on his people’s belief. Their faith entangled with their anger, building, burning. They would march with the songs of the Phoenix on their lips. But their god was a lie now. Crushed by the faith of another. How, then, could she call upon them? Whom would they follow, other than their Prophet?
Elena clutched her dead father’s earring. “The Phoenix—”
She was interrupted as the doors slid open and Kruppa sprinted in, out of breath.
“Your Majesty, Your Holi—Blue Star.” She stumbled over her words, gasping.
Elena rose. In their exchange, she had not realized they had already docked. She could see shapes moving beyond the hoverpod, could hear multiple voices rising outside. Loud and furious.
“There’s a fight in the medic tents. The refugees—”
But Elena was already running, Samson shouting for men to clear the way.
Elena hurried to the medic quarters where, already, a small crowd was forming. As she drew closer, she could hear angry complaints, soft cries. A man turned, gasped.
“She’s here,” he hissed.
More people began to turn, make way. Elena slowed her pace. She did not want to seem flustered or disgruntled. Calmly, with eyes fixed ahead, she entered the tents.
Several beds were laid out in rows, each occupied by a patient. To the right, Elena could see the crumbling facade of the overrun city hospital. On her left, a group of people surrounded the bed of a teenager who cowered into his father’s shoulder. A woman holding a bleeding child shouted hysterically as a harried-looking doctor stood between her and the cot.
“Give her the bed!” she cried. “Nothim.”
The doctor held out his hands in an almost pleading gesture. “Please, I need to treat—”
“They’re Sesharians,” the mother spat. “You need to help your own!”
The father frowned, his expression an exasperated combination of indignity and hurt, but before he could speak, Elena stepped forward.
“What is this?” she said.
They turned. The nurse beside the boy made a quick sign of the Phoenix, and the motion twisted Elena’s stomach.
