“Arapikah.” Coming. He uncovered his eyes and tried to meet her gaze, but her face remained blurred.
He tried a second word-“Amalya?”-but the woman shook her head and moved towards the flap.
This time Eyul turned his face away.
He took a swig of the strong, dark tea and let the dimness of the tent soothe his pain. He would have to depend on his tongue today. His words would come out blunt and transparent, but there was nothing to be done about that. Tuvaini was the master of words, knowing when to thrust, when to parry, and when to leave himself open, while Eyul was the Knife, always pointing.
He protected his eyes and looked away as the flap shifted once more.
“Eyul,” the hermit said, as if praising a dog. He was not what Eyul had been expecting. Ten years ago, the hermit had been thin and wasted, with a beard grown past his knees. Then, as now, he’d worn nothing but a loincloth. But this man was more muscular and cast a heavier shadow. He was older than Eyul by at least a quarter of a century, but the way he sank into a squat, with no stiffness or hesitation, spoke of a man far younger. Eyul squinted past the hermit to where shadows played against the fabric of the tent. Two nomads, standing guard.
The hermit smiled. “I suppose you are anxious to get back to your master. Time is running out. Will you make that deal?”
Time is running out for you, perhaps. “Amalya carries a Star of Cerana. She’s not mine to barter.”
“I see.” The hermit ran a finger across his mouth. “Is she Beyon’s, then, or the vizier’s, or do you mean she is her own person?”
“I mean she is not mine.”
“And that’s the essence of it.” The hermit’s eyes were all that Eyul could make out of his face, and they were so coppery bright that it hurt to look at them.
Eyul thrust his fist into the sand. “I want to see her. If she’s agreeable, then I’ll make the deal.”
“I have anticipated you.” The hermit’s eyes turned to the flap. “Arapiki!”
Eyul turned his head to the side again as the desert sun filled the opening, making a show of reaching for his empty knife belt. Island-pepper tickled his nose, and beneath that, blood. Amalya. She settled on her knees between them. Again he wondered how long he’d lain drugged and blind in the tent. Amalya’s generous curves had gone to angles. One arm lay inside a sling. He searched, but her eyes remained in shadow.
He would not leave her here.
The hermit watched both of them. “It doesn’t matter who asked the question you carry. I have the answer, and I need this wizard. Will you trade, Eyul of Nooria, son of Klemet, Fifty-third Knife-Sworn?”
Eyul turned to Amalya. He couldn’t make out her expression. “What say you, Amalya of the Tower, of the Islands?”
Movement, as if she wet her tongue in preparation to speak, but in the end Amalya only nodded. Eyul watched her for a long moment, but heard nothing beyond the wind against the sides of the tent.
“I have to hear you say it, Amalya.” He didn’t speak to her the way he wanted to, because the hermit was there, listening. His words felt rough, sand against skin.
“I want to help the emperor,” she said at last. She kept her head bowed.
Eyul turned to the old man. “No.”
The hermit’s white teeth showed in a smile. “Then you have come here for nothing. What will your master say?”
“I need only my Knife.” Eyul smiled, relaxed now with the rightness of his decision and the presence of Amalya beside him.
“Then I will propose another deal.” The hermit turned and said something through the cloth of the tent. In that brief moment of privacy, Eyul turned to Amalya, hoping for a sign, a word, or a look. But she remained motionless, her head bent low. The hermit turned back to face him. “Your Knife is on its way. It’s… an interesting blade.”
Eyul held his silence until two nomads entered, carrying his Knife between them like a temple offering. They laid it on the mat by the empty teacup and withdrew without a word, just as Beyon’s slaves would have done. Eyul picked it up, remembering how it had burned his hand in the ruined city. A warmth rushed up his arm. Out on the sands, someone sighed with happiness, a long, low breath.
Here in the tent, though, work remained. Eyul pointed the tip at the old man, sighting down the blade, and grinned when the hermit drew back slightly.
“My payment for Amalya will be a sacrifice,” Eyul said, “but you must tell me whom to kill.”
The hermit threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, my child,” he said, still chuckling. “How I wish you had been born to noble blood. You are wasted as an assassin. Of course it is all nonsense, the idea of royal blood, noble blood. Power is a different thing. But it matters to a foolish mind and keeps you from where you should be. And on the matter of where people should be-” He turned to Amalya. “My dear, this is now between me and your friend. Please wait in your chamber.”
Amalya rolled to her feet, showing more strength than Eyul expected, and walked to the tent flap. Just before she passed through, she looked at Eyul and moved her chin back and forth by less than finger’s width. No, she was telling him, but she didn’t want the hermit to see. He jerked his head away, avoiding the sun, knowing how she might interpret it, knowing that, too, would be something true.
When the tent flap fell shut the hermit said, “Amalya is comfortably installed in the caves. You remember how many there are-the Cliffs of Sight have been occupied since before the time of memory. We live among the ancients’ paintings, their offerings to the gods, even their old sandals, and yet the ancients themselves have been swallowed by time.”
“Whom shall I kill?” Eyul asked again, full of doubt now that Amalya had said no. Nomads outside the tent spoke in whispers, too low for him to hear.
The hermit continued instead of answering, “It makes a person wonder. Who were these lords, and did they accept the offerings of the cave-dwellers? It makes a person think about our own gods and goddesses, does it not? Are our offerings, even those of our emperor, in vain? I tell you, I have searched for the truth all these years, and I believe I have found it.” The hermit drew his fingers through the sand, scoring it with parallel lines. “I know how to please heaven and make our empire the strongest in the world.”
“Then you should go to the emperor,” said Eyul.
“Did you go to the emperor and tell him of your journey, Eyul?”
Eyul put his Knife into its sheath, where it belonged. The tent seemed quieter all of a sudden.
The hermit smiled. “I didn’t think so. You were wise. You and I both know Beyon cannot be trusted.”
“Who, then? Tuvaini?”
“Danger surrounds the palace, and Tuvaini plays a game.”
Eyul relaxed, now on familiar ground. “Then let us speak of the danger.”
“Govnan is a danger,” said the hermit. “Govnan of the Tower stands between heaven and the throne.”
“Are you saying that Govnan has put the marks on Beyon? That he-? That Beyon can be saved?” The hermit knew already-the hermit always knew.
The hermit laughed. “You choose interesting words, Eyul. There is more than one way to be saved. But with Govnan gone, there is hope.”
Govnan ruled the Tower, and the Tower shielded the emperor. Each mage was chosen as a child and raised to understand his or her role as a guardian of the throne. How could an enemy arise from the Tower?
Eyul hid his confusion from the hermit. “Then Govnan will be killed.”
The hermit hesitated only a moment then gave the answer that Eyul had travelled so far to hear. “What it means for the pattern to take an emperor is that a new emperor must be found. Kill or cure-but cure quickly; once the pattern has him he will be dead or gone, beyond your help either way. With Govnan removed there is hope for Beyon. His blood is fierce blood, difficult to write upon.” The hermit stood and walked towards the door flap. “Your camels will be ready in a sand’s turning. Feel free to go and find your friend.”