The Emperors Knife (39 page)

If only it could happen that way… If she fled, the pattern would follow her. It would come after her mother and father and little nephews. The pattern was greedy; she could feel it in her bones. The mage who drove the pattern wanted as much as any man who started a battle, whether it was land, riches, or something else. The difference was that this was a battle most people couldn't fight. She could, though; Sarmin had showed her that. She could stay here and fight.

Banreh moved his finger over her jawline and Mesema shivered. All he ever had to do was touch her and she melted like the spring snow. She couldn't let that muddle her mind.

She cleared her throat. “Banreh, I wouldn't go if they sent me.” He smiled, not understanding.

“I'm staying here to fight against the pattern.”

“Fight against—?” He chuckled and kissed her forehead. “Have you been drinking too much of that sour Cerani brew? You sound mad.”

She blinked and steadied herself. Arguing with Banreh was never easy. “Listen. By staying, I can help the emperor.”

“You mean His Majesty Tuvaini?” He used the voice of her teacher, not the voice of her friend.

“I speak of Beyon.”

“I see. I know you were with him—you had no choice. He was the emperor. But you must forget about him now and go home. If they ever suspect you might be carrying his child, they'll kill you.”

“We didn't—”

“It doesn't matter.” Banreh creased his brow at the pillow on the floor. “These people tolerate no heirs but themselves. Do you know what Beyon did when he became the emperor? He killed all his brothers, right out there, in the courtyard. Some of them were just babes.”

Mesema swallowed, though her throat felt like stone. Sarmin had told her his brothers had died, but not that Beyon had ordered it. Beyon was Cerani, and the Cerani were brutal; even their palace god was cruel. She had seen the great walls of the city and heard the voices of the thousands who lived within those walls. She had seen the riches of the palace and the beauty of the women inside, and as she held the picture of the empire in her mind, she knew cruelty kept it all safe. She remembered how Beyon had wanted Banreh's head. Perhaps it would have been better for him, and for the empire, if he had taken it. She understood: Herzu's statue stood in the palace not so they could beg for mercy, but because the empire needed Him.

Banreh's fingers tightened around her own, and she rested her forehead on his warm hand. Cruelty did not come without its cost. It had made Sarmin sick, Beyon lonely. What would it make of her?

“Go home,” he whispered.

“I—” A twinge drew her eyes westwards: Beyon. It sank through her, skin and bone. He was moving closer.

“What is it?” Banreh looked at the wall. She shrugged and looked away.

“What?”

“I can't see through walls, Banreh.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I saw that look on your face. What does it mean, Mesema?”

She couldn't show him her finger—she could never show him. Her eyes stung with tears.

“What's wrong with you?”

She gathered the silk of her skirt in her hand, remembering how her body-slaves had transformed her from a horsegirl into a Cerani bride. What was she now?

“It's him,” said Banreh, his eyes bright with understanding.

She shook her head no. “Banreh, just kiss me, because I don't know when I'll see you again.”

His face went still. “But I thought we—?”

“Banreh.” She took his hand in hers, her other hand, the one still unmarked. “You have taught me well—better than you know, perhaps. Let me go now and do my duty.”

He put one hand on her shoulder. The other hand still clasped hers.

She sniffed. “Arigu said it was up to you—”

“This isn't about Arigu!” He was angry, at last.

“It isn't about us, either. I wish it were. Oh, how I wish it!” Mesema swallowed. “We are Felt.”

Banreh put his forehead against hers. “We carry on.”

“We are Felt. We carry on.” A chant. A prayer. Their lips met.

She backed away quickly, not wanting to let go, taking in his stained hands, golden hair and green eyes for the last time—

His green eyes that went past her, to the wall, widening with alarm. “Mesema!”

She picked up the cushion and clenched her teeth. It kept her chin from trembling. “I must go.”

She took another step backwards and her shoulders met with something hard: a man's chest. A strong man's chest, but not Beyon's; Beyon was too far away. Another hidden door in this palace where no wall could be trusted! Before she could run, a thick arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her through a narrow, dark gap. She smelled fire and spice and damp and rot. Banreh darted forwards, faster than she had thought he could, a sword somehow in his hand, but her captor kicked shut the door and it slammed in his face. Banreh pounded on the wall between them; he shouted for her, and he shouted for Arigu's men. Feathers brushed against Mesema's cheeks as she pulled her knife free and found her captor's flesh. He grunted, but held her hard as he moved through the darkness, her feet barely brushing the floor. The sound of Banreh's pounding grew distant.

The man stopped and for a moment they stood together in the midnight of the hidden passage. His strong arms released Mesema and she blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the dark. If only she could see her way, she could try to run—but she could not even make out the man who stood before her.

“Careful.” The voice came soft, and unexpectedly kind. “There's a drop.” She turned to face its owner, careful to keep her balance; the echo told her of vast, empty spaces. A small flame shed light, and their eyes met in the glow. She had seen him before: hair like iron, skin like leather—the servant of Herzu she'd passed in the corridor. Then, violence had risen from his skin like heat from the desert sand. Now his eyes were calm, and he flashed his teeth at her in something close to a smile.

She spoke through the tightness in her throat. “What are you going to do to me?” She calculated how close she'd have to get to stick him; he'd stop her before that.

He looked her over, his eyes lingering briefly on the knife in her hand. “I wasn't planning on doing anything to you.” He lifted a lantern from a hook on the wall and placed the small flame inside. As the light grew stronger she could make out stairs, bridges, and black chasms all around her. It was fitting that the palace, with its golden ceilings and bright mosaics, would contain a place so dark and twisting. It would have to.

“Why did you bring me in here?”

“The emperor has requested you.”

Mesema's captor did not appear to be in a rush to move on, though she could hear pounding and the yelling of men in the distance. Arigu's soldiers were of little concern to him; surely she, with her pretty little weapon, constituted an even lesser threat. “I want to go back, tell my countryman—”

“That will not be possible.” He tore some fabric from his tunic and wrapped it around the wound high on his leg.

She watched the blood seep through the cloth, dark in the lantern light, a warning against the future. Her fingers tightened over the gemmed hilt of Sarmin's dagger. Her vision of standing over the emperor, knife in hand, bloomed in her mind like pain. “I hurt you.”

“Not too badly.” He tied a knot and smiled again, as if they had reached some agreement. “Follow me. Step where I step—there are rockfalls.” He turned, but instead she sank to the floor, where the stone felt cool and solid against her forehead. She did not want to harm anyone. She tried to remember the moment she had thrust that dagger into the man's thigh, but it had slipped away from her; she remembered only that it had felt right. Would it feel right when she killed the emperor?
Mirra!
The prayer broke from her unexpectedly.

“Are you well?” He sounded uncertain, though he didn't seem the uncertain type.

She ignored him and inched forwards. Her elbows met empty space and her head dropped over an abyss. Darkness spun around her, and she could no longer tell whether she looked up or down. She saw nothing, felt nothing when she ran her fingers through the air.
Is this what the pattern feels like?
The void pressed around her.
Is it like this on the inside, with no memories, no fear, no desire?
The idea tempted her. She dangled the dagger over the edge. If she dropped it into the chasm, then she could never use it again.

The old warrior caught her wrist and she started. She hadn't even noticed him moving closer, crouching beside her.

“Tuvaini's dacarba.” He made a sound somewhat like laughter and twisted it from her grasp as easily as taking a toy from a baby. “This could come in handy.” He put it in his belt and gathered her up.

It was
Sarmin's
knife, but she didn't correct him. “Listen. Don't give that back to me.”

He looked down at her. She felt small and warm in his arms, and his fire-and-spice smell brought smoking besna leaves to mind. Some barely remembered spring evening in the longhouse, far away in both distance and time, came back to her, together with the sensation of being cradled in the dark.

“No need to decide that now,” he said. “The prince must have given it to you for a reason.”

He'd startled her for the second time. “How do you know the prince gave it to me?” The smell of blood on her clothes overcame his scent and her nostalgic moment was lost. She wriggled in his grasp: this was not her father, and this was not the longhouse. This was a strange man, a killer, and she'd been lost in his arms thinking of her childhood. Something in his strength and his stillness had comforted her, something she never would have believed possible when she saw him the first time outside the temple of Herzu.

“I know every weapon in this palace.” He put her down and frowned. “Hurry, now; I have other things to do after this. Too many things. Step where I step.”

Before long she wished he carried her still. The way was dark, the arched bridges narrow and the stairs crumbling, and on either side of their path lay the chasm. A loose stone slipped under her foot and she counted four seconds before she heard its soft thud below her. At times she wished she could crawl rather than walk, but the man moved so fast that she knew she'd soon lose him, and she didn't want to find herself alone in the darkness. She wished they were going to see Sarmin and not Beyon.

They descended a flight of stairs. There was a wall on her left, and she leaned on it with relief before following him down another flight, and another, until at last they stood on some sort of platform. The man scratched something on the wall and a door swung open. Beyond she saw bright colours, sunlight, and something that looked like a bed.

Her captor produced a length of cloth and wrapped it around his eyes. “Here we are,” he said.

Chapter Thirty-Four

E
yul watched the horsewoman sleep. Pale, she was. He could see the blue veins running beneath the skin of her throat. He wanted to press his finger there, to feel the life he'd become so expert at cutting away.

Blood crusted her garments, though it was not her own—not yet, though she would suffer soon enough for taking their side. Men died when they lost; women were punished. It would be so easy to pull the blade over that white flesh, to let her bleed out peacefully in the cool light of day. He put a hand on his Knife. The whispers writhed around the hilt, buzzing at his fingertips.

“No.”

“No.”

“
No.
”

He turned away from her and leaned against the far wall. Since Amalya, he had lost his way. He had killed something in himself where he thought nothing still lived, and with it went all sense of balance, until only the whispers held him now, dead children keeping him true to his oaths.

It smarted where she'd cut him, a long, shallow slice. He hadn't seen her dacarba—she'd surprised him. Something about that reminded him of Amalya.

The sun crept across the floor, lighting Mirra's face in the mosaic of ceramic, stone and glass; Her features came alive in golden hues, a burst of glory before the dark of evening. Eyul grew impatient for Beyon's return, for the time when he could go and hunt Govnan.

The horsewoman stirred and woke, studying the floor a while before sitting up and scanning the room. She looked soft and childlike in sleep, but awake, her face took on angles and edges. At last she looked in his direction and her eyes widened, but she didn't scream.

“I fell asleep?”

He spoke in a low voice, emulating Tuvaini's soothing tone.

“We must keep our voices down. They are looking for us.”

“Who is looking for us?”

“Well,” he said, letting humour colour his words, “just about everyone.” He reached into his robes and she tensed. “Food.” He produced the bread and cheese he'd lifted from the soldiers' hall, wrapped in a piece of old linen. He stepped forwards and put it on the floor, a man's length from where she sat.

She slid across the tiles on her knees and reached for the bundle.

“His Magnificence will return soon, heaven bless him,” he said, although in fact he didn't know where Beyon was; he'd slipped away before dawn to wander the secret ways. It worried Eyul that Beyon could be cut down by a few Blue Shields while he waited here.

No. Govnan would die first, and then Beyon could be saved. He told himself it was so.

Eyul retreated to listen at the door, wrapping the linen about his eyes before stepping out of the shadow. Soldiers' boots or assassins' slippers would signal the same thing. Then, if she wanted it, he would open that white throat.

The horsewoman consumed everything in the napkin and then picked up the crumbs with her fingers. She wasn't dainty. Eyul could imagine Beyon liking that about her.

“My name is Mesema.” She stood, facing him, one hand on the crusted blood of her gown.