“I hear his wrath is monstrous,” Kirri said, studying her cheek.
Elena inhaled sharply, her mind caught on the wordmonstrous, and she thought of the vicious, seething Agni thrumming within Samson’s veins, the sudden crush of his hands on her throat. But she quickly pushed the sensation away.
“What do you think of Magar, Ambassador?” Elena asked, recovering.
“It is… remarkable in its strength,” Kirri said. “Your people have endured so much and yet retain their spirit.”
“Quite remarkable for refugees, no?” Her eyes slid coolly to him, and to his credit, Kirri gave her a plain, bland smile.
“Your people have always been proud warriors, Your Majesty. Both those born of the desert and the ones who found refuge in it after.” They came to the parapets, and Kirri paused to observe the canyons and the mountains beyond. “Though I wonder, when the council negotiations begin, whose freedom will you fight for: Ravani, or Sesharian?”
Elena considered how to play this. She could not have Kirri signaling to Samson or the Black Scales that her fight, her only fight, was for Ravani freedom. She could not send her army, whatever remained of it, to a foreign island when her own home lay broken. But the Sesharians were her people too, in a way. “My loyalty is to my people. They can come from all walks of life: Ravani, Sesharian, Cyleoni. I will protect and defend them, as long as they wish to call the desert their home.”
Kirri studied her, his face revealing nothing. “Are they your men, Your Majesty? Are they under your control?” he asked, his voice slow and calculative as he watched the shifting shadows. When she did not respond, he trailed his finger over the stone, flicking away dried flakes of blood. “I heard you were badly injured recently, and yet here you are, entertaining an old man. I would fear to think what would happen to Ravence if something were to befall you in this city.”
“I am among friends, Kirri,” she said. “Sometimes, we bicker, but there is great love among us. Rest assured. My people’s spirit and regard for me shall never waver.”
Kirri’s eyes flicked to her cheek. “Unless, of course, they found someone just as worthy of their love.”
Her smile faltered. Elena thought of the old man who had averted his eyes from her, of Kruppa’s pained voice.
I am sorry, Your Majesty. But you have lost.
She had the horrid, half-formed image of standing in the glittering palace hall as another man sat on her throne. For a moment, Elena could say nothing. A deep, bottomless fear slowly bore a hole in her stomach. Ghostlike fingers fluttered across her throat.
“Your Majesty?”
Elena blinked, and the fingers released. She drew in a shaky breath, cool air rushing into her chest as she drew on a smile and faced Kirri.
“I believe your fear is unfounded, Ambassador. Syla could never replace me.”
“I did not mean him but Sa—” Kirri caught himself, just in time. He drew back his hand to hide his blunder, but he had only affirmed what she had feared—that he had heard of her fight with Samson.
She could feel his belief, like the others, slowly slipping from her grasp.
“I apologize, Your Majesty,” he muttered.
“Oh, I don’t blame you. Samson is quite dashing and pretty to look at.” She laughed, and she saw how Kirri eased, his shoulders dropping from his ears. “I admit the people love him. But Samson and his army serve me, Ambassador. And I come on behalf of all of us with a request for you.”
“What kind of request?”
“It’s come to my attention that the Yumi of Moksh have asked for an audience with me, but alas, I do not have the means to go. Could I—with your permission, of course—take the tanker across the Ahi Sea?”
“Moksh seeks an audience?”This time, Kirri did not hide his incredulity. “Is their request founded?”
“It came the morning of my coronation day,” Elena said. “You remember my Spear, the Yumi Ferma?”
He nodded. “Yes. Wasn’t she killed in the Arohassin attack prior to your coronation?”
Elena nodded mutely as she remembered building the funeral pyre and talking to the wind. She remembered Ferma’s body, cold and lifeless, and the fire she had lit.Forgive me, dear Ferma.
“Ferma was the estranged granddaughter of the current queen of Moksh,” she said. “Moksh requests that I—we—bring her ashes to herfamily so that she can be laid to rest with her ancestors.” The first part was true, the second a lie, and yet it was the latter that came easily to Elena. A small part of her marveled at it. How quickly it slipped off her tongue, how quickly it had come to her mind when she had asked Kruppa for her sword. Guilt pinched her throat, but Elena rubbed her skin as she adjusted her scarf. “Now, I must admit, I do have an ulterior motive to see the Yumi, one I’ve already shared with Syla.”
Kirri eyed her, the smile gone from his face. “Let me guess: You wish for them to fight in this war.”
“Clever as always, Kirri,” she said. “Request clearance from your king. We must leave tonight. I will have the ashes prepared by then.”
“But the mines—”
