She called out for him. “Eyul?”
“Here I am,” he answered, dragging his belt with him through the flap. She knelt in the sand, her eyes bronze in the diffuse light. He tossed the old leather aside, Knife and all.
“Make it good, Knife-Sworn,” she said. He did his best.
Afterwards, as they lay entwined, her head against his neck, she said, “There is another heir.” Her voice sounded breathy, sleepy.
“Beyon’s brother.” He ran his fingers over her thigh.
“Govnan says he’s a powerful mage.”
Eyul frowned. Tuvaini had said nothing of this.
“We could go to the prince, tell him everything.” She lifted her leg to rest on his hip bone. “Perhaps he can help us, help his brother.”
“He’s mad,” Eyul said. “The vizier has already tried to rouse the prince to his duty, to no avail.”
“But he was alive when you left.” Not a question.
“The Empire Mother sought a wife for him in the Wastes. Once he makes an heir…” He knew the vizier intended for him to kill Sarmin. He fell still as he let the idea rush over him, let its bitterness sink in. “It is bad luck to kill the mad.”
“Everyone wishes to command the emperor’s Knife, but that right belongs to just one man.”
“Which man is that?”
She didn’t answer, instead running her finger over his lips. “Emperor Beyon doesn’t know about this woman from the Wastes?” “Not unless the vizier told him.” Which was unlikely, Eyul decided. He thought of Tuvaini, and how he would react to the things Eyul had learned.
“The hermit thinks Beyon can be cured.”
“So that’s what you meant, before.” She shook her head. “I don’t trust him.”
Neither did Eyul, but the hermit had restored some of his sight and saved
Amalya’s arm. Eyul believed the hermit could help Beyon. All he had to do was kill Govnan, and the hermit’s way was clear.
Amalya’s injured arm lay between them. He touched the bandages, yellow with sand. “Is your wound still clean?”
She twisted away from him, looking up at the roof of the tent. “We’ll change the bandages later.”
“Later,” he agreed, kissing her again, and there was no more talking.
Tuvaini took the folded letter from his pocket once more. The handwriting looped across the page, curved and voluptuous. I would like to speak with you concerning the temple of Herzu. Come to my rooms this afternoon. No signature. Perfume on the paper. She’d been confident he would know who had sent it.
Too much doubt had forced Nessaket’s hand. There had been no word from Arigu, of this Tuvaini made sure, and now, with Beyon running off to the sands, Arigu’s fate was even more uncertain. All that remained to Nessaket now was her mad prince, and Tuvaini. She had no choice. He kissed the letter and laughed.
He walked from one end of his room to the other and back again. He wished he could go to Lapella, but this was one thing he could not tell her. In any case, she would not be there; she rarely waited for him at this time of day, occupying herself instead with mysterious female tasks.
So he was left to pace, and had no one with whom to share this moment. The sun lowered in the sky. He’d planned to make Nessaket wait, but not too long. He lit his lantern, stepped out into the corridor and made his way to the mosaic at the end of the hall. He pressed the golden stone that was the eye of Keleb, and the panel swung open. Once inside he pulled the latch closed, listening hard and holding his lantern high. Ever since he’d divulged the secret ways to the Carriers he felt nervous travelling through them, though he’d left out many paths. This one, for example, which ran closest to his own room, he’d kept secret; but that didn’t mean a Carrier wouldn’t stumble across it.
The family history he’d gained outweighed the risk. It wouldn’t be long now.
Satisfied he walked alone, he hurried across a stone bridge and up the stairs to the next storey. After stopping to listen again, he walked down a corridor, slower now, not wanting to be out of breath when he met her. At last he came to the door that would open across from Nessaket’s room. He fumbled with the keys for a time; he didn’t know the feel of the right one. At last the lock turned and he opened the door, just a crack.
He didn’t hear any women’s voices, or soft footsteps, or shutting of doors. Most of the wives, old and new, would be at the fountain at this time. He and Nessaket would have their privacy. Nevertheless he took care in stepping out; being caught here was a good way to get his throat cut, even with Beyon in the desert.
He moved towards Nessaket’s door, listening to the silence. He remembered how once this corridor had run with happy children. Even then, Beyon had dominated, lording over his brothers and sisters in both height and will. They had loved him and obeyed him without complaint. It was foolish of Tahal to rid Beyon of his most devoted servants; the only foolish thing he’d ever done.
The mechanics of his journey had kept him distracted, but now, knocking at her door, Tuvaini’s body tensed with excitement. To be at her door, to be invited to her private rooms, was to stand on the threshold of success. Soon he would preside over a secure, bountiful empire, with a beautiful queen at his side. He would invite the greatest poets and philosophers to court. He would establish a laboratory, where the seers could view the stars. He would build monuments to Cerani greatness all around the world.
The first statue would be of Tahal.
Nessaket let him in and quickly pulled the latch closed. She stepped away, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. He’d never seen her this way, but he liked it.
“My son is ill,” she said, “and my other son mad.”
Tuvaini said nothing. It was better she saw it for herself, though his tongue, body and mind were itching.
“In that family, only Tahal kept his sanity. Even Satreth the Reclaimer drank Yrkman blood and slept with a sword in his bed, though nobody speaks of it today.” Her words came out in a rush. “The line was ever volatile. It is said there has never been madness among the leaders of the horse tribes. I hoped…’
Silence. Sweat gleamed between her breasts. “I could wait for Sarmin to get a son.”
Tuvaini willed his hands to stillness.
“Or I could have another son myself. I still could; I was only twelve when Tahal first took me.” She turned away and wiped her brow with a silk cloth. Her dress tightened around her hips when she raised her arm. Two steps away, her bed curtains hung open, inviting.
Tuvaini licked his lips. “And what do you want?”
She turned back to him, her eyes wild. “For years I struggled to be Tahal’s favourite wife, to make my boys his favourites. I taught my sons the craft of the palace, how to survive with no friends and no trust. Four of them, I had. One died as a baby, I lost one in the succession, and one to the Tower. And then it was all for nothing; Beyon pushed me away.”
He picked his words carefully. “You have allied yourself with the army. Some would call it treasonous.”
She shrugged. “It was something to stand on. If I am tall enough, the emperor will see me.”
“And Arigu?”
She turned away again and wove her hands together.
“Do you renounce him?” he asked, hearing the quaver in his own voice.
Her shoulders tensed. “Yes.”
He moved closer. “An army wants things the palace doesn’t see, cannot see. One cannot trust a sword for long. You are right to renounce him.”
“Yes.” Her voice came out a gasp.
Another step closer. “What now? Another emperor, another child?”
She relaxed, preparing for his touch. “It is the easiest way.” He paused behind her, breathing her scent. “Starting over from the beginning.”
“Tuvaini.” The way she said his name, hoarse and breathless, sent a thrill through his body. “There will be no wife but me, no son but the first.”