In Herzu’s temple she had agreed to pass him over for the throne, and she must have known what that entailed. She, after all, had seen the last succession, seen the bodies of those boys in the courtyard.
And yet her eyes grew wet and she looked away.
Could Sarmin have been her favorite? That mad, pacing prince who talked to himself for hours? The one who did not himself care whether he lived or died? Tuvaini recalled his wild eyes, the hair dark against his forehead, the lips that curled into a mocking snarl. “Better run, Vizier,” Sarmin had said to him.
It is bad luck to kill the mad.
“Rise, Empire Mother, and leave me.” Tuvaini settled into his couch. It was much softer than the throne.
She stood with effort, the stiffness of her legs betraying her age. He took no satisfaction in that—indeed, he might yet find some sympathy for her, rediscover his feelings for her in their shared loss and grief. Somewhere inside, he thought he wanted that for them. He held out hope for that. But not today.
She paused, straightening the skirt around her thighs. “Your Majesty, if I may, I have other news.”
He waved a hand. “Out with it, then.” It struck him once again how much he sounded like Beyon.
“I am with child.”
An heir. He had expected to feel joy, but instead his mouth went dry. He rubbed his tongue against his palate before saying, “We shall have to arrange a ceremony, then. A marriage.” They had discussed this; it would be a different ceremony from the usual. Normally a priest of Mirra performed a quick joining of hands in the women’s quarters, moments before consummation. The emperor and his new wife were the only required witnesses. Tuvaini’s wedding would show the court and the empire his new way of doing things: one wife, one heir. It would be large, and public. Already his mind went to the complications, to the concerns of his generals, the disapproval of the priests, the resentment of the nobility in the provinces. Would their wives also expect a new order? Would he cause unrest in every home in the empire?
“I will be queen.” Nessaket interrupted his thoughts. She had the steel to remind him, even now.
“Leave me,” he repeated, and she left, silent and graceful as a snake. Tuvaini watched the sun glide across the calligraphy on the walls. Sometimes, in the birth of morning or the fall of night, he thought he saw faces there, hidden in the swirls and hooks of ink.
He heard Beyon’s wives begin screaming in the courtyard. He didn’t care to wonder what method of torture Arigu’s men had devised.
Mesema searched her body for new marks. Finding nothing, she scraped the blood from her sandals with Sarmin’s dagger. She heard another scream and fell back against the wall as if struck.
After a moment she began her struggle with the silk, forcing the tiny bit of blue-green to cover her as modestly as possible. Her hands shook, making it difficult to fold and tie the slippery fabric.
Chiassa wailed, high-pitched and long, filling the room where Mesema stood as if she were inside it. A cry of fear, not pain, terror, as they approached her. Chiassa, with the golden curls and the funny way of speaking. Mesema sat on the bench and covered her ears. Why didn’t I say yes to Banreh? If she hadn’t moved away from him, if Eyul hadn’t been able to grab her, she might be crossing the sands already.
No. The only difference is that Banreh would have fought, and been killed. She was where she belonged. If she were to help Beyon and Sarmin and honour her promise to Eldra, she belonged in the palace, not running away. And she should be with Beyon, not hiding in another room. She rebound her dagger and tucked it into the edge of her skirt before opening the door.
Beyon paced the room, his hands pulling at his black hair. “Something must be done, Eyul—this is intolerable!”
“That is what they want you to feel, Your Majesty. There are twenty of
Arigu’s men in that courtyard, ten of them archers. They want to draw us out, kill us both.” Eyul leaned against the wall, in shadow, his voice calm. Another scream pierced the air and Beyon flinched. After a moment Mesema realised that she too was standing with her fists clenched tight. Eyul’s cloth-bound head turned her way and she shivered. The emperor’s Knife must not be broken, Sarmin