Eldra grabbed Mesema’s wrists. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
“I don’t know what they’ll do to you if they find out,” said Mesema, too low for the general to hear.
“I’m dying anyway.” Tears gathered in Eldra’s eyes. “I heard what he told you. The pattern kills.”
Arigu’s shadow rose and flickered over the canvas. Mesema thought he had turned away and was surveying the camp. She covered her eyes with one hand. The Hidden God truly did not live in the desert. What terrible fate had befallen Eldra, without the guiding hands of rain and shade? And she herself-? Mesema gasped and ripped open her own nightdress, but she saw only the blue marks of her veins beneath pale skin. “Why-?”
“My bad luck.” Eldra tried to smile.
Mesema hugged Eldra, her throat burning with sorrow. Eldra patted her back. “I’m going to heaven.” But no matter where she was going, her hand trembled.
Mesema held on, her eyes squeezed shut. She wanted to go back to the morning, when they had picked the prettiest beads for their hair, back to when they had eaten figs in the light of dawn, before the pattern came, but there was no going back, no going home, and there was no saving Eldra. She looked back at Arigu’s shadow, but he’d moved on. “I’ll take you to your church,” she whispered.
“No. You will go to your prince-”
“No!” Nooria was a place of evil. She knew it now for certain.
“You must promise me-listen!-you will go to your prince and help him stop this pattern.” Tears continued unabated down Eldra’s cheeks, but her voice came steady and sure. “Promise me.”
A promise to the dying held the sanctity of a promise made to the gods. Mesema sniffed and wiped her cheeks. She had been unkind when Eldra was scared and alone. Even after that, try as she might, she hadn’t liked her as much as she could have. And then there was Banreh. Mesema owed Eldra a kindness. She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry.
“I promise.”
“Good,” said Eldra. She turned and slipped a tunic over her nightclothes.
Eldra was leaving. Eldra was dying. Mesema could do nothing but watch.
Before going through the flap, Eldra kissed her on the cheek. “You will be a wise and brave princess,” she whispered. Then she was gone.
Mesema fell onto her side and lay staring at the walls of the tent. She heard nothing extraordinary, no threats directed at Eldra by the soldiers. She wondered where Eldra was now; mounting her horse, maybe, or disappearing behind the first dune. She buried her face in the desert sand. She heard a familiar sound, a saddle, creaking under a man’s weight, and then laughter.
A short cry rang out: a woman’s cry, frightened and sudden. Eldra.
Mesema shot up. Outside her tent, shadows moved, and men shouted. She listened, frozen with fear, too frightened to look.
She thought of Banreh. We are Windreaders. Our spears are coated with the blood of our enemies… Ever victorious…
The tent flap moved, and she screamed.
A young Cerani soldier peeked in, his brown eyes narrowed.
“The general says to stay in here. Hide. Don’t come out for anything.”
She wanted to ask about Eldra, but her tongue had turned to stone.
He left, and Mesema took a deep breath and counted her fingers. Her mother had taught her counting when she learned to sew. She missed the feel of the hard bone in her hand, the tension of the thread as she pulled it through the wool. She thought of the designs she used to make: three stitches and then a cross for a bundle of wheat. Five circles for a flower, caught at the tips.
The shadows stilled. Voices lowered to a murmur. She could not bring herself to go outside. Four and five, catch. Four and five, catch. She’d just counted her fingers for the seventh time when Banreh poked his head inside. Something in his eyes made her afraid to ask.
“You should get dressed and come out now.” He used the intimate tone.
Mesema pulled on her clothes, kneeling on Eldra’s empty mat. Something terrible had happened; she knew it in her stomach and behind her eyes. She crawled out and stood up in the bloody light of the setting sun.
“Mesema.” Banreh came and stood at her side. He always knew just where to be. He took her elbow and steered her to the left, where the horses stood over their barrels, and further on, where the scattered crates and tents of the camp gave way to the dry sea. There, in the trough of a wave of sand, Arigu stood by Eldra’s horse.
Mesema walked closer, though her feet were as lead.
“Where-?” And she saw her: Eldra lay in the sand, an arrow rising from her chest. It looked just like the spear that had risen from Jakar’s.
“No!” Mesema cried. Banreh took her hand.
“Why did you kill her? She was going away!” Mesema started towards Arigu, but Banreh held her firm.
Arigu looked down at Eldra with a tired, sad expression.
“Why would I kill her? I liked her well enough.”
Banreh squeezed her hand. “Horsemen came-I saw them, Mesema.”
“He more than saw them; he took Jouhri’s bow and knocked one clean off his horse. Not an easy shot.” Arigu nodded at Banreh and then jerked his head towards the north. “Man’s over there.”
She studied both their faces. They didn’t know about the patterning. Someone else had killed Eldra. It was a cruel joke of the desert gods, to kill her twice.
“Why?” Mesema knelt by the still body. Someone had closed Eldra’s eyes. Her hands, though, were still splayed across the sand. Mesema crossed them over her abdomen in the way of the Windreaders. The familiar smell of wrongful blood rose around her. She’d forgotten that smell until now. Mesema arranged Eldra’s braids and touched the beads she’d placed at their ends. The arrow, of white wood topped with bright blue feathers, was strangely beautiful. She worked one of the feathers free and kept it in her hand.
Banreh answered the question she’d forgotten she asked. “I think they mistook her for you.”
“For me?” Assassins? Was that why she was kept inside the carriage, while Eldra rode with Arigu every night? She remembered thinking how she and Eldra looked like sisters. How nobody ever told her-or Eldra-why she was there…
Realisation brought anger. “You wanted her with us in case the emperor found out about me. You knew she might get hurt.” Banreh seized her shoulders, but Mesema didn’t stop talking. “I suppose, since you didn’t like her religion, that it was all right to let her die.”
“Guard your tongue,” said Banreh.
“She knew you didn’t care for her.” Mesema looked into Arigu’s black eyes. She saw anger there, but also pity, and that made her look away.
Arigu spoke. “This is an empire, little girl. Affection is costly.” With a look at Banreh, he added, “You can’t let it change things, no matter what you feel.”
Mesema clutched the feather against her palm, felt the hollow spine snap beneath her fingers. “You play with lives.”
“I am not playing,” Arigu said. “In twenty or thirty years, when your son cuts his brothers’ throats, talk to me again about the value of life. Talk to me again about affection.” He pivoted on his heel and walked away.
Mesema said, “I hate him. People are nothing more than instruments to him, like needles for sewing.”
“Did your father not use you?” said Banreh. “And does he not care for you?”
“That was for the sake of our people. You know it well, Banreh.”
“And Arigu does what he does for the sake of the Cerani people.” He sounded right. He always did.
Banreh stepped out before Eldra’s horse. “What is its name?”
She hesitated, knowing his mind. But it was the Felting way. “Crimson.”
“Crimson,” he repeated, drawing his blade across the horse’s throat, “lead your rider Eldra to the lands of summer.”
When the horse went still, Banreh and Mesema gathered what straw and rags they could, covered them with lamp-oil, and sent Eldra to the next life.