the waves. Mesema touched its textured sails, rubbing the thick paint with her marked finger.
“Clouds,” she said, “I thought these were pulled by clouds.”
But clouds were painted upon the ceiling. These ships travelled the waters, she realised, and the sails were made of cloth. The white curtains of her bed were designed to match these great sails.
“Well… goodbye,” Lana said, ducking her head slightly before turning to the door.
She nearly collided with Beyon, who smiled. “Hello again, Little Mother.
I’m sorry about all that.”
Lana stood straighter as they clasped hands. Mesema found herself looking up at her now.
“It is good to have you back, Bey-Bey.” Lana’s voice even sounded deeper and louder in the emperor’s presence.
Beyon turned his smile on Mesema. “Do you like it?”
“My room? Yes. I’ve never seen the great ocean.” She remembered her wedding dress, Eldra’s feather and her secret resin. “Will someone be bringing my trunk?”
Lana glanced at the emperor and then back to Mesema, shocked. “The emperor does not deal with such things!” she said. “I’m sure someone will bring your trunk.”
“It’s all right, Lana,” Beyon said, kissing her on the forehead. “I’ll talk to you in a bit.”
Lana made a little curtsey and left the room. Mesema hadn’t wanted to mention Sahree in front of Lana, but now that they were alone, she stepped forwards. “Your Majesty—”
He lunged and grabbed her around the waist, hands rough against her skin, one thumb moving beneath her silk wrappings. He pressed his mouth against hers so tightly that he flattened her lips against her teeth. Mesema stood still, arms numb and limp at her sides. Through the open door she could hear women murmuring and the swish of silk. Then, just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, Beyon let her go. He stood back, and their eyes locked.
Mesema saw the man she had met in that tent in the desert, with Banreh crumpled at his feet: fearsome and terrible, a spoiled boy elevated to godhood, beyond anyone’s reproach. She gathered herself. “Beyon, where is Sahree? My maid-servant?”
“She might have seen your finger.” Not an answer.
“She didn’t. I was careful.”
His eyes narrowed at her. “Even while you were sleeping?”
“Is she dead, Your Majesty? What of the others? Tarub and Willa?” “That is not your concern.” He stepped forwards again, and she cringed.
He frowned, and she saw a trace of the other man she’d touched, the boy with the honey-cakes in his pocket. “Very well. I will take my leave.” Mesema knelt and pressed her forehead to the silken rug. She kept her position for the count of thirty stitches. She couldn’t hear the emperor move. His slippers were soft, the carpet, soft, but her finger told her he watched her still. At last he left the room, but he lingered nearby. Soon the smell of jasmine told her somebody else had entered. She sat up to see the dark-haired woman from the hall smiling at her from the doorway. “Hello.”
“Hello.” Mesema tried in vain to fix her silk.
“I’m Hadassi.” She had the black hair and golden skin of the Empire Mother, but she didn’t have the same piercing look. The Empire Mother
saw so much that Mesema was already afraid of her dark eyes. Hadassi’s eyes were dull and wide as she looked Mesema up and down, and her lips formed a pout. “Third wife.”
“I’m Mesema.”
Hadassi took a step forwards, looking around the room. “This was Tahal’s mother’s room. Nobody has lived in it since before Nessaket came.” “It’s a beautiful room.”
Hadassi took a seat on the floor. “Mine is better.” Her dress shimmered in greens that made her skin seem to glow. Amber gleamed from her neck and wrists. In the palace everything beautiful was made even more so, until the eye became tired, jaded.
Hadassi took Mesema’s left hand, the unmarked one. Her brown eyes crinkled as she smiled. “You are to be fifth wife?” Another wife, blonde, appeared in the doorway, wary and watchful.
Mesema shook her head. “No.”
“But he likes you, no? You have been with him?” Hadassi waved at the second woman, who entered and took a seat next to Mesema. “This is Chiassa, second wife.”
“You are concubine?” Chiassa didn’t speak Cerantic as a native. Her hair suggested eastern origins. “You go on cushions with emperor, heaven bless?” It struck Mesema that both women had asked the same question—were they genuinely curious, or worried, or had someone instructed them?
Snakes, Beyon had warned her. Arigu had gone to great lengths to bring her across the mountains and