The Grace of Kings (67 page)

It was true that, as she walked through the streets of this metro­polis, Mata's men followed her from afar, keeping her in sight, but she knew it wasn't because she was their prisoner. Mata had said that he would take care of her, and he would keep that promise wherever she wanted to be. They were there to protect her, because they believed that the hegemon's enemies might try to harm him through injury to her.

Are they right? Is that how he feels about me?

In truth, she wasn't sure how she felt about Mata either—indeed, she wasn't sure if she knew him at all, even after all this time. He was unfailingly polite to her and inquired after her well-being every day. Whatever she wanted, he tried to satisfy her.

Once, she mentioned that she missed her old home, and a few days later, she found her old hut—which her parents and Mado and she had shared back in the Isle of Vines—in the palace courtyard in front of her chambers: every foundation stone, every wooden slat, every layer of wall-mud was in place, and the roof had been freshly thatched. Inside, every piece of furniture, every dented pot, every chipped cup and bowl and plate had been moved over and placed exactly the way she had left them on the day she set out to search for Mado.

Another time, she made an offhand remark that she found the singing of birds pleasant, and the next day, she awoke to a magnificent chorus of birdsong. Walking out, she found her little courtyard filled with hundreds of cages hanging from tree branches, in which songbirds from every corner of the Islands of Dara were guided by dozens of handlers to sing in harmony.

“When will the announcement of the auspicious day be?” The ladies-in-waiting tittered and giggled. “Do not forget us when you've been formally elevated!” They were sitting around Mira's guest hall, keeping her company as they did their embroidery.

Mira refused to pretend that she didn't know what they were talking about. “The hegemon has been kind to me out of consideration for the service my brother provided to him. I would ask you to not to dishonor him or me with gossip of nonexistent things.”

“So you're the one holding out? Why? Do you want him to promise to make you First Consort?”

Mira put down her hoop. “Do not continue in this vein. I have not been plotting or scheming, as you seem to think. There is simply no fire where you imagine smoke.”

“You should seize an opportunity that all the women of Cocru pray for. The hegemon is in love! Everyone can see that. “

But am I?

She had left the palace in a foul mood. Everyone seemed to want to tell her what she should be doing. She tried to clear her mind by walking about the streets.

Sometimes she thought she saw him as her brother must have seen him: a man elevated above others by his own qualities, a dyran among mere fish. Sometimes she thought she saw him as just a lonely man, peerless, but also friendless. Sometimes she thought her heart ached for him, and if he asked her to join him, she thought she would.

But then she would remember her brother's body wrapped in the shroud. She would remember that Mata had not even recognized her brother's name.

She had dreams in which Mado was alive again:

Sister, has General Zyndu now made the world just and right?

She tried to avoid having to answer, tried to hide from him the fact that the world was still at war, that Mata had not made the lives of men and women in Tunoa better, that Mata had not even known who he was.

But of course, in the end, she had to tell him everything, and as his face fell into stony disappointment, she would wake up, her heart so weighed down with pain and sorrow that it was hard to breathe.

She had come to the end of the row of stalls, and she sighed, thinking she would cross the street and browse aimlessly through the other side.

“Lady Mira, a moment, please.”

Mira saw that the speaker was a beggar wearing a bright-white cape. He smiled at her. “It's been a while.”

She backed up a step. “What are
you
doing here?”

He didn't move. “I have something for you.”

“I don't want it.”

“Mata's guards are watching us from a distance,” the beggar said. “If I move up to you, they'll interpret it as a threat, and I may never get a chance to see you again. Please, for Mado's sake, step closer.”

The mention of her brother's name softened her. She took a step toward the strange beggar. He handed her a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“What is it?”

“It's called Cruben's Thorn. Mata once almost died from it; I'm hoping you'll succeed where the first owner failed.”

Mira almost dropped the bundle. “Get away from me.”

“Mata is too skilled to be killed on the battlefield,” said the beggar. “And so he must die from a blade he does not expect. I ask you to consider this not because of the thousands who have died needlessly in his wars or the thousands more who will die if he is not stopped. I ask you to consider only your brother and whether the Mata you know is the Mata he thought he knew.”

“How can I dishonor the memory of my brother by plotting against the man he died for?”

The beggar chuckled. “Lady Mira, your answer gives me hope, for you have not denied me by recourse to any of the qualities of the hegemon, but by appealing to the memory of your brother. Your heart is not his, despite what others may think.”

“If you don't leave immediately, I'll cry out for help.”

The beggar took a step back. “Peace. Permit an old man just a few more words.

“I always thought your brother the braver man. He was afraid, and yet he fought. He risked his life without the promise of certain glory and the arrogance of long, distinguished lineage. He thought he was fighting for a better world, not one in which a new tyrant simply replaced an old one. Think of your dreams—oh, yes, I know of your dreams, even if you haven't told anyone. Think about what dishonors his memory more: that Mata dies or that Mata sits comfortably on his throne, a throne built on the bones of your brother and others like him.

“See him for who he really is, Mira. That is all I ask.”

And the beggar turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Mira alone with the bundle. Without unwrapping it, she could feel the rough handle and the sharp, thornlike blade.

Some want me to marry him; others want me to kill him. They all think they can use me. My only worth to them is my proximity to
him
.

But I don't even know who he is. How can I decide what
I
want?

Mata led his guards to the house of Jia, just outside of Çaruza. He would avenge this act of rebellion and treachery by the ruthless Kuni, whose ambition couldn't even be contained by the threat to his family. Jia and the children would pay for Kuni's sins.

But a middle-aged woman stood at the door of Jia's house and refused to let the guards in. She held up a jeweled pin in the shape of the chrysanthemum arms of the Zyndu Clan and asked to speak to Mata Zyndu. As the pin was clearly old and precious, the guards did not force their way past her but sent a report back to the hegemon.

Mata went up to the madwoman.

“Do you recognize me, Mata?”

Mata Zyndu stared at her. In her lined face he could see shades of Phin Zyndu and of himself.

“I am your aunt, Soto Zyndu.”

Mata cried out in joy and opened his arms to embrace her. Since the death of Phin, he had been plagued by dreams where his uncle rebuked him for his failure to give family loyalty its proper place. He was the last of the Zyndus, alone and filled with guilt. The sudden appearance of his aunt seemed to him a sign from the gods, a second chance for him to do right by his family.

But she pushed him away.

“There has been far too much killing, Mata. You're consumed by aggrieved pride. All your life, you've held to certain ideals about loyalty, honor, just deserts. When the world turned out not to be quite as black and white as you would like, you decided that the world must be remade.

“You are, in your own way, a lot like Emperor Mapidéré. You are both men who, because one path is not smooth, declare that the entire garden must be paved over with flagstones.”

Mata Zyndu was stunned. “What kind of comparison is this? Have you forgotten our family's history?”

Soto shook her head emphatically. “You're the one who misunder­stands history. Because decades ago Gotha Tonyeti buried alive twenty thousand men of Cocru under your grandfather's command, you believed you had to drown twenty thousand men of Xana, men who were not even born when that atrocity happened—”

“I had to appease an angry god—”

“Excuses! Do you think your grandfather never killed an innocent? Do you think his father fought only honorable wars? Do you want to see your outrage repeated in twenty more years on the boys of Cocru? Blood always begets more blood—”

“The joy of our reunion is spoiled by your harsh words, Aunt! How did you survive?”

“When Grandfather Dazu died, I locked the doors of our house in the country and set fire to it so that I could follow him to the afterworld. But the gods had other plans for me, and I survived, unconscious, in a space formed by falling stone beams and columns. I have hidden all these years, living in obscurity, trying to atone in some small measure for the sins of the men of the Zyndu Clan.

“I came to serve this family because of the compassion of its lord and lady. I wanted to see if the great lords can take another path.

“You once called Kuni your brother, yet now you would do violence to his wife and children. Ambition has made you mad. Stop this, Mata. No more.”

“Kuni Garu has killed just as I have,” Mata Zyndu said, his voice equal parts grief and rage. “I've done what I could to restore order to the world and to bring glory to the Zyndu name. Kuni is a mouse who steals my table scraps. He is unworthy of your protection. Come back to the palace with me, Aunt, and live in splendor again.”

But Soto shook her head. “If you harm a woman and her children in vengeance, then no valor will ever cleanse you of that bloody stain. I'll not allow you to soil the Zyndu name in such a manner. If you wish to harm them, you must kill me first.”

Soto gently closed the door in Mata Zyndu's face. It would have been easy for Mata to smash the door open with his bare hands, but he stood in front of the door for a long while without moving.

He thought back to his childhood with Phin, to the tales Phin told of his heroic ancestors. He thought of Princess Kikomi and the death of his uncle. He thought of the happy drinking parties he had with Kuni and his friends. He thought of Mira and Mado.

Finally, he turned around and gazed across the beach, across the dark sea, to the invisible isles of Tunoa beyond the waves. He sighed and walked away with his guards.

“Lady Soto, would you come and have some tea with the mistress?” Steward Otho Krin asked.

Once she had revealed her identity, of course Jia could no longer permit Soto to be treated as a servant. Soto had tried to ignore Jia and continue her work in the house, but the other servants treated her as a great lady, and Soto had to concede defeat. She now lived as a guest of the Garu household, Jia's companion.

Soto followed the steward through the halls. The children were taking a nap, and it was pleasant to sit in the courtyard, filled with the sweet smell of plum flowers and the buzzing of industrious bees.

Otho brought the tea set. He knelt, placed the tray on the table, gently touched Jia on the shoulder, and whispered to her. Jia put her hand on his for a moment. He stood up, smiled at her, and respectfully backed away from the two.

“Soto, did Mata reply to your request that I be allowed to visit my parents and my father-in-law?”

“Not yet. Right now, he's preoccupied with the wars between the Tiro states.”

“But we can both guess that the answer is probably going to be no. The smart thing to do is to continue to keep me and the children as prisoners and bargaining chips right here.”