How long, she wondered, until her palace on the hill rang with laughter once more? How long until her sands turned crimson from the blood of usurpers instead?
Elena checked her slingsword. Slowly, she ran her thumb along the grooves of the newly minted inscription.
Soon, she thought.
Soon, the usurpers both real and imagined would bend to her.
Powdered crimson plumed above the rooftops, flaring. Somewhere, she heard the quivering notes of a sarangi and the beating of dhols. The music and laughter grew louder as she neared the city square.
A Ravani soldier snapped to a salute. “Your Majesty.”
“Are the men here?” she asked.
“As requested. Though, I get the feeling some are participating more than watching.” He grinned, wiping a red streak from his cheek. “It feels like a lifetime ago since we’ve celebrated like this. And to have the Prophet with us too! Is it true? Can he really heal the burned?”
His look of reverence sent a dark, ugly sensation down her throat. She was not a jealous woman, and yet Elena felt the irrational urge to shake the soldier until the illusion of Samson shattered. Could he so easily command their love? Their belief? She remembered her Ravani flocking to Samson. The vicious bite of their casual indifference as they had rushed past her.
He is not the leader you want, she had wanted to shriek.I am.
But Elena only smiled, tight-lipped. “He is gifted like they say.”
“Then we are truly blessed.”
Blessed, or cursed?
She entered the square and was nearly bowled over by a trio of teens. They laughed, throwing apologies into the wind as they dashed off. Elena lost them in the crowd. A woman on her left shrieked as her friend doused her in crimson. On the far right, artisans ground stones from the canyons into a fine powder that merchants then bagged and sold. A sweets seller twisted sugar sheets into phoenixes and other animals for awaiting children. Dhols beat somewhere in the north. A couple danced, their heads thrown back. When the wife laughed, her husband touched the edge of her mouth, the gesture so tender that it reminded Elena of Yassen, and she was forced to turn away, her throat thick with longing.
What a fool she was, she thought later, for not noticing then. As Elena stumbled, she felt a deep thrum within her navel, like a chord plucked. Her head snapped up. She searched the crowd, but she need not have. Calls broke, gasps, then rushed prayers, shouts. People turned as if pulled by a magnetic force, yet she knew it was no force but a man.
A Prophet.
Samson entered the square. He wore a resplendent white kurta with heavy beadwork and crystals hemming the collar and sleeves. Even from this distance, they shone. A rich, embroidered scarf looped artfully over his shoulder and arm, the blue motifs sprawling across his body like waves. His urumi glinted around his waist, a vicious kamarbandh. Delighted cheers followed him. And though her Agni flared with a sudden heat, Elena felt a cold, visceral shock, as if someone had touched the back of her neck with an icy finger.
He did not look like a humble Prophet.
He looked like a king.
She cursed herself for her simple white-and-gold sari. Though this was not a battle, Elena had a strange sensation that she was already losing.
“Where is my rani?”
The call swelled through the crowd, built. People turned and seemed to recognize her as if for the first time. Elena was pushed forward until she found herself face-to-face with the Prophet.
“There’s my girl. I was looking for you everywhere.” Samson winked. He had lined his eyes with kohl as in the Ravani tradition, and though it had pleased her before, Elena now wanted to rub it away until his eyes turned red. “I have a gift for you.”
Gift exchanges were traditional during Laal Joon, with the unsaid rule of each side subtly seeking to outdo the other. In the middle of the crowd, Elena felt the prick of stares. The charged weight of their questions, their expectations. She would play along, then, for them.
“As do I. Guests go first.”
If Samson sensed the jab, he made no sign. Visha brought forward a small black case. People leaned forward, and despite herself, Elena leaned too as Samson slowly opened the case and withdrew a pair of long golden anklets. Polki diamonds, thick and heavy as tears, dripped down the first tier of intricate kundan metalwork like fresh raindrops caught in aweb. On the second tier, rubies glistened, so rich and dark it was as if the embers of flames were caught inside. Samson held them up. In the crimson-coated air, they glowed. Glorious. Ethereal.
Elena carefully took the end of one of the anklets. “They are beautiful. Thank you… Prophet.”
She began to turn when Samson tugged on the anklet. He pulled her forward, closer. So close she could feel the hot brush of his breath on her nose. Murmurs went through the crowd as he gently took her hand and peeled back her fingers, one by one.
“Let me put them on you,” he whispered.
Before she could respond, he raised her leg and rested her foot on his knee. A man hooted, followed by a fit of laughter that was hurriedly hushed. Elena swallowed. Her cheeks burned. She felt exposed, embarrassed, and yet traitorously, her heart began to beat faster as Samson raised the hem of her sari. The cool air brushed the soft skin of her ankle. Slowly, he wrapped the anklet around her foot, his fingers deft and strong. He locked it into place, then tapped her other knee. Biting back a hot flush, Elena raised her leg. Samson locked the second anklet, but instead of dropping her foot, he looked up, his eyes dark and endless as if to drink her in.
