His escort, one of the royal guards, looked startled. Yorbel thought he wasn’t used to being spoken to by the luminaries he conducted through the palace. Yorbel had never understood that—people were people, no matter their rank. The worthiness of one’s soul had very little to do with one’s employment or economic status. It was surprising how often people conflated righteousness and wealth. Yorbel had met plenty of rich assholes.
“He fares as well as could be expected, Your Eminence.”
“And that is?”
“He mourns his brother. He fulfills his duties. But . . .” The guard hesitated.
“You may speak freely to me,” Yorbel said. “I merely see a soul’s future. I have no more power than anyone does to influence your destiny. You shape your own fate.” He meant the words kindly, even though he knew they sounded pompous. There was a reason he didn’t deliver the daily words at the temple—he wasn’t as good at talking easily with people as some augurs, even though he tried.
Glancing up and down the corridor, the guard confided, “He wasn’t ready to replace his brother. Rumor is he doesn’t want to. Rumor is he delays the search for his brother’s soul because he doesn’t want to take the throne. He doesn’t want to admit his brother is dead and gone.”
“He has a heart,” Yorbel said. “May Becar always have leaders whose souls are as human as their bodies.” He’d always liked the boy. Dar had a streak of kindness and compassion that was unusual in one who had grown up surrounded by the backstabbing intrigue of the royal court. Privately, Yorbel suspected his brother, both before and after he was emperor, had protected Dar from the worst of it. Being thrust to the forefront had to have been a shock, even without the grief aspect.
“Yes, but it won’t be long before the nobles begin to see his love for his brother as a weakness they can exploit. He needs to be coronated, and fast. Or else”—the guard lowered his voice—“there are rumors that a faction in court wants him declared unfit to rule, on the basis of his delay in finding his brother’s soul’s new vessel. It’s said they’ve already selected the next empress.”
Yorbel placed a hand on the shoulder of the guard. “Then here is a new rumor for you: Emperor-to-Be Dar does not delay. He has dispersed twice the number of augurs as is customary. Late Emperor Zarin’s soul has proven elusive. But he will be found, as fast as is possible.”
The guard’s face lit up in a smile. “That’s a good rumor to hear and to share, Your Eminence. Thank you. We—the majority of the palace guard—are fond of Dar. We’d hate to have to kill him.”
A door opened, and the emperor-to-be popped his head out. “And I’d hate to be killed. Glad we’re all in agreement. Your Eminence, please join me.”
Flustered, the guard dropped to his knees and began to sputter apologies.
“You’re a good man,” Yorbel told him. And added: “Have no fear for your rebirth.” He walked past him as the guard began to cry.
Yorbel shut the door behind him.
“Even I know you aren’t supposed to tell people their fates like that,” the emperor-to-be said. He sounded amused, which was good, since he could have chosen to report Yorbel’s indiscretion to the High Council of Augurs.
It was a sensible law, designed to protect augurs: all readings were private, by request only, and for a fee. Otherwise, augurs would be overwhelmed with constant demands. Besides, it was unethical to read someone without their consent. But Yorbel also believed in providing comfort where he could. He had not been given his gifts to hoard them.
“He needed to hear it,” Yorbel said, as he took in the state of the emperor-to-be’s rooms. Pillows had been shredded and tossed, but every fragile ornament—glass flowers in a priceless vase, the exquisite pitcher that held amber-hued wine—was untouched. From all appearances, it looked as if Dar had thrown a very controlled temper tantrum.
Dar saw him observing the pillows and said, “I was redecorating.”
“Of course, Your Greatness.”
“Shouldn’t that be ‘Greatness-to-Be’? Oh, no, wait, don’t tell me—you’re going to say that greatness has nothing to do with my rank and everything to do with the state of my soul.”
Since that was precisely what Yorbel had been about to say, he smiled instead.
“I can tell you, Yorbel, the state of my soul is not good. If one more noble pretends to care about the comfort of my