The comment, meant to strengthen her, only made her remember his hands on her neck, his wild, naked terror after. Twice, he had attacked her. And she had rescued him nonetheless. Why?
Because I had no other choice.She had accepted his horrors because of his power, because of what he represented: freedom, bloody and vicious. Yet a freedom all the same.
“I wish I could,” she said and left.
The floating islands of Nymia towered above her. They were great behemoths of stone and rich, dense forests. Clouds wrapped around their deeply grooved cliffs like beards of old men. Waterfalls, purple as the blood of Nymia, fell into the sky, and Elena wondered, Had the men who raised their faces to purple rain understood that a god bled above them?
There were seven temples erected upon the floating islands, just like there had been seven petals of the Phoenix’s temple. On the shard named Nymia’s Righteousness, she met Syla.
The king kissed her hand, his eyes lingering on her scarf.
“How are you now?”
Confused. Bitter. Afraid, she thought.
“Tired,” she said.
“I could have him executed for what he did.”
“And let my efforts go in vain?” She meant to sound lighthearted, but sounded bitter instead. “You can’t simply kill a prophet, especially not one as loved as him.”
Syla snorted. “Would they love him if they knew how he attacked their queen?”
She thought of herself lying cold in the rain, alone.
“They prefer the strong. Even at death’s door, Samson Kytuu proved to be deadly. No, they will not abandon him.”
“So what do you want to do with him?”
She avoided the question, turning instead to the pillars. Fourteen pillars and seven arches circled a stone ground. At the center, a tall, lone tree grew with eyeless faces in its leaves and tongues upon its bark. The Seeing Tree. It was a mark of the Cyleoni goddess who valued information and knowledge above all else. Perhaps that was why Cyleon was heralded for its universities and libraries, its markets of flying books and endless mazes that led scholars to even more mysteries and fewer answers. A wind sighed through the eaves, and Elena strained to listen.
“What have you heard from your spies, Syla?”
“Spies?”
She fixed him with a crooked grin. “The very ones who informed you of Farin’s edict before it transpired.”
“Perhaps you can tell me first of this amrithi.”
“I know nothing, same as you. But I know it’s something Samson and the Arohassin value greatly.”
“When the Arohassin spoke of it, the Butcher froze like a scholar who found his theory copied by another.” Syla sighed. “I fear they are playing behind our backs.”
“The Arohassin hiding secrets? Is that all your spies have found?” She laughed, harsh and short. “Perhaps you should fire your spies and replace them with Arohassin assassins.”
Syla frowned, quiet.
“I’m sorry. I’m just…” She waved her hand.
“Tired?”
“Exhausted, more like. The Yumi barely gave me anything to eat.”
“They aren’t exactly used to hosting,” Syla said, his mouth quirking. “I’ll have my chefs cook something Ravani. Do you still enjoy bhindi masala?”
She started. “You remember?”
“Remember? The last time I had it, I nearly burned my tongue. Your chef does not understand the meaning ofmild.”
