The Emperors Knife - By Mazarkis Williams Page 0,112
fetched Mesema from the Wastes.
But who were they?
She sat next to the vase, the pillow dropping from her hands. She remembered Arigu’s deceptions, and Eldra’s death. She remembered how Nessaket had mocked her son the emperor, telling him he was slow—slow to understand that there was more to fear besides the pattern and its Master.
Beyon was not, as he claimed, the final authority in the palace. Others—the Pattern Master, his mother, Arigu—wrapped strings about him and pulled, and when they were finished with him, they would get rid of him, just as they had his brothers.
And then what would happen to Sarmin?
Mesema grabbed her pillow from the floor and hurried down the hallway, looking for her ocean-painted room.
Sarmin sat on his bed, running his mind across the pattern-threads like a musician would bow his strings. Meeting Mesema—his bride—made it difficult to concentrate.
He’d lived with his five books since he came to this room. They told him of the empire, statecraft, the gods, war, and how to behave at court, and now he had a new book, that made his skin feel hot. But none of his books spoke of love. He thought of the poets who had come to his father’s court. With the women cleared from the room they would sometimes speak of their hearts, though Sarmin couldn’t recall the words they had used.
He wanted Grada. He recalled the closeness of her, the intimate touch of her skin and her mind. Mesema’s lips invited him, but he knew Grada, muscle to bone. Was that love? He hadn’t been able to answer Mesema on that point. It disturbed him, a flaw in the design.
The diamond that was Grada’s soul hid in the Tower, but he felt it gleaming at him from across the city. He concentrated, moving lightly along the pattern’s threads, bypassing charms of ice and fire set to protect the Tower’s residents from intrusions such as his.
“Grada.”
“Prince!” Surprise and relief, followed by hesitation. “You need me?” A flash of a white room, simple clothes, more than she’d ever had, but nothing too rich, nothing that felt wrong to her.
He felt foolish. “No, nothing—”
“What of the pattern? Have you freed more of us?”
He sent a simple thought, a negative.
She fell quiet, occupied with something. Her hands moved and pulled— weaving, perhaps—but so late? He could move into her, watch from behind her eyes, if only it didn’t feel like invasion, him sliding into her as she had slid her knife into him. “It is late. Forgive me.” He began to turn away.
“Prince!” Her hands went still. “What have you learned?” With those words she lifted a weight of stones from his chest.
“I will tell you.” He told her of Mesema, of her pattern-mark, and of the church that rose from the sands. Sometimes he told her in words, other times he grew tired and instead offered images, scraps of ideas, and the tinge of questions that ran along the edges of his mind.
When he finished she was quiet, though her thoughts were turning. Then she opened her own mind and showed him her room, the door ajar and the ladder leading down, the streets of the city, loud and dark, and at last, the Low Door, the one he had never seen before, that led out to the desert sands.
“I can be a knife hidden in your sleeve. I can help you,” she told him.
Chapter Thirty-One
Sarmin sensed his brother’s arrival long before the secret door swung open. He felt the draw and the power of the pattern, the full force of the design wrapped around his brother’s soul, and the way Govnan’s protections struggled against it. He sat up in his bed and turned to where his brother would appear.
Beyon slipped through. His hair shone like black marble. His eyes, eaglesharp, scanned the room and his hand lay strong on the hilt of his great sword. But he stooped, and his skin looked sallow and waxlike.
Then Beyon smiled, like the dawn sneaking through the broken window, slow and bright.
“Brother,” said Sarmin.
“Brother.”
Beyon had always looked the emperor, broad-shouldered and powerful. When they were just boys, the wives would say, “Look at Sarmin, such a pretty boy.” But whenever they saw Beyon they would use just one word, always: “Strong.” And he had been strong, fighting the pattern these many years. Now he grew tired. Could Mesema keep his head above the quicksand?
Beyon reached for the bed and sat down, but his eyes were elsewhere.