He managed a smile. Their sins bound both of them to silence. Nessaket would not run to the throne room; she would stay and listen until he let her go. He held the scroll before him, level with his head. “There is an old man in the desert who remembers our history better than the most learned palace scribe. He holds treasures from the library of Axus, taken on the night it burned—papers, documents, books of record, sealed oaths, blood confessions spilled on cured skin.” And one has been stolen for me.
Nessaket approached, a sway to her hips, silks flowing, a memory from dreams on nights too hot for sleep.
“And what does your paper say, Tuvaini?”
“I—” She had never spoken his name before. “I—” He looked to the scroll and its wax seals. His hand shook from wanting her. “It shows the lines of succession, back past the Yrkman incursion. Where we have speculation, it has names; where we have hearsay, it has dates. Fact in place of argument.”
“And what is that to me? Or the emperor?”
“Herzu watches us. May we speak of death, Nessaket?”
She was close, her scents surrounding him. “I married the death of children, Tuvaini. I am no stranger to such talk.”
Tuvaini lowered the scroll, unrolling it. “This page shows the path Herzu has set before me. It tells a tale of failed lines, premature ends, assassination. It shows how, with enough time, the seed that falls furthest from the tree can flourish.”
She took a step closer, her head tilted in question.
“Beyon will die soon, or become something worse than a corpse. And fifteen years’ solitude has broken Sarmin; he could never rule. Let that line end, and the next step is written here.” He pointed at the bottom of the scroll.
Nessaket drew in her breath. “Treason.”
“I do not speak of betrayal. I would never raise my hand against the empire. I love the empire.” He traced a finger down the longest line upon the parchment, reaching his grandfather’s name. “And it falls to me to safeguard the empire.”
She was silent a long time, and he listened to her breathing, watched the light on her hair. She raised her head from the parchment and looked at him, truly studied him, as she never had before. What did she see, he wondered.
“I very much enjoy being the emperor’s mother,” she said at last.
He resisted the urge to wet his lips. “And how did you enjoy being the emperor’s wife?”
“One of many wives.” She turned towards the statue. “It was tolerable.”
“Tahal was a great man, deserving of many honours,” said Tuvaini. “But I am a humble servant of the empire, who has never once asked permission to marry.”
“I see what you mean.” She fingered the pendant that hung between her breasts.
Another silence.
“Beyon has been to see Sarmin,” he told her. “He wishes to circumvent you and make Sarmin his own servant.”
“He will fail.” She dropped the pendant and faced him.
“They were close as boys. Apart, they are easily controlled, but together, they might be difficult.”
“While you are not.” Nessaket showed him a slow, secret smile, and for an instant she was the girl he had loved in the happy days of Tahal: the graceful young girl who danced for the emperor in his private rooms, the boy at his feet forgotten. Tuvaini had always been overlooked. But no more.
“While I am not,” he agreed. “A sick son and a mad son, Nessaket. There is no future there.”
She stepped closer, so close he had to clutch the scroll to keep himself from touching her. “I will consider your words,” she said. “And your offer.”
Tuvaini swallowed. “Nothing could please me more.”
A brief incline of her head and she was gone, brushing past him and to her guards without another word.
Tuvaini lowered himself to the stone and stared up at Herzu’s face. His breathing slowed; his fierce need abated. He gathered himself for his next confrontation. It was as he had told Nessaket: together, the brothers created a difficulty. It was time for Herzu’s fury to tear them apart.
Eyul and Amalya rode through another night. Eyul slouched in the saddle, his mind clenched around the visions the ruins had shown him. Every so often he looked up, checking that Amalya still kept her seat. She swayed as though in her cups, jolting with every footfall.
A chill wind picked up two hours before dawn, snatching sand from the ridges to give each gust a stinging edge. Eyul wrapped his desert scarf in the