“This—this…” She set down the feather with trembling fingers. A question, pellucid and sharp, cut through the terrible roar of her heart.
Why did my mother study this feather?
There are stories of the Phoenix giving Her feathers to men, Aahnah had told her.Tokens that brought much fortune and power to the holder. But a god’s gift is a strange thing. It always demands a price, at the end.
Had her mother paid that price? Was that why she had jumped to her death?
“I—I need air,” Elena said, rising, when a soldier appeared at the doorway.
“We just received word from the Sesharians. They’ve taken the mines.”
Kirri asked, “And the ore?”
“They secured fifty payloads, sir.”
He sucked in his breath. “Fifty?”
“Fifty.” The soldier smiled. “Looks like the Butcher is useful after all.”
Elena rocked a little, stunned, as Kirri clucked in approval. So Samson had succeeded in the end. They would hail him a conquering hero and call her a contemptuous queen who would not ally with a usurper. They would crown him, glorify him, all because she would not sell her kingdom. It was horribly, brutallyunfair. She had the wild, irrational urge then to return to her desert and be alone in her dunes, away from these men.
To be free—like Yassen had wished. Of kingdoms and gods and dreams of power. She closed her eyes, hoping to find a sliver of that peace, but Elena only found her burgeoning longing to hurt. She only wanted toshake these men and wreak the same misery they had inflicted on her and her kingdom.
She could not leave. Queens did not have that luxury. Ravence demanded her to remain, to stand there with resentment barely hidden behind her face, as Kirri asked for their arrival time in Cyleon.
In the curved glass of the tanker, Yassen’s ghost smiled sorrowfully.
CHAPTER 32
SAMSON
Gods breed guilty heroes.
—a Sesharian proverb
Samson stood underneath the darkened eaves of the palace courtyards as Syla spoke with his advisors. They had counted the ore. Fifty payloads.Fifty.Months’ worth of work, of blood and sweat and prayers. He should have felt vindicated—victorious—seeing the respect in Syla’s eyes and the quiet unease in his advisors’. They feared him, as they should. But his pleasure was short-lived, his pride blunted by the thick shame that roped his stomach and left burns on his skin.
He could still hear their screams.
Four hundred miners. Four hundred of his own kin, trapped by his own hand. Samson looked up at the bright, clear sky and wished the heavens could reflect at least some of his inner turmoil, but the gods were infinite in their cruelty.
The blue hills of Goldor rolled sleepily into the distance, the emerald palace glimmering in the sunlight with a radiance that made his eyes hurt.Clouds pillowed the hills. Above them, the infamous shards of Nymia’s heart rose into the sky, floating islands of trees so verdant, so lush, it felt as if the earth meant to swallow the sky.
There was an unusual warmth hovering over the palace, trapped in by the sensors above, but Samson found it too moist, too sticky. His eyelids were hot and feverish. He wondered if it was illness—or guilt. Perhaps both.
Syla dismissed the advisors and motioned Samson forward. He came, though much to his chagrin. He felt like a summoned show dog, made to run and hunt and come limping back to parade his kill.
I have enough deaths for the both of us, he thought. An involuntary, high laugh escaped his lips.
Syla gave him a strange look. “Are you well?”
I am mad, Samson thought.I am the god reborn.
“I’m all right,” he said dryly.
Syla studied him a moment longer before continuing. “I have received word from Kirri. He and Queen Elena are on their way to Goldor.”
Samson nodded, though his chest heaved. The very mention of her name brought back a flood of bitterness. She would see past his victory and attack him for leaving the miners, for abandoning his people.Butcher, butcher, butcher.If she called him that, Samson did not know what he would do, and the thought frightened him. He pulled at his collar, swallowing his irritation. Skies above, it was too damn hot.
