She was safe. Little else mattered at that moment. He dropped the Knife and went to her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t want to leave you in danger.”
“You killed both of them, blind. I’d hate to see what you’d have done if you could see.” She pulled at Poru’s quiver. “Can you see these? Bright blue. What kind of bird-?”
“Those fletchings are reserved for the royal family.”
A pause. “Beyon?”
“I don’t know.”
She drew in her breath. “So these were assassins?”
Eyul knew all the assassins of Nooria. There were few enough of them. “No, palace guard, but dangerous men. I should have died.”
“Then why-?”
“I don’t know.” He considered it as he pulled on his clothes and knife belt. His head ached from the light; he felt as if his teeth were vibrating from the pain. He picked up the Knife from the sand and slid it into its sheath. “It’s afternoon. We might as well start moving.”
After breaking camp they mounted their camels. He noticed Amalya no longer had any trouble commanding her beast; she did not need him for that. The horses Eyul let loose. They would follow their noses to water. Eyul and Amalya set out towards Nooria, leaving Bazram and Poru in the sand.
Chapter Nineteen
Three days. Three days, and yet she lived. Mesema folded her hands in her lap. Riding in the carriage without Banreh or Eldra there dulled her mind and spirit, so, to keep herself sharp she concentrated on remembering the pattern, savouring her own fear; other times, she thought about embroidery. She would hold herself in one position for hours on end-anything to keep herself disciplined, for she would need discipline, to go to her death with dignity. If news of her death travelled to her father, she would not want him to be ashamed. And if she lived…
If she lived, she would need discipline, just to keep on living. She shifted on the bench. The muscles of her back complained with every jolt and bounce of the carriage, and her rear ached. The felt padding she had complained of so much back in the grasslands would be a blessing now. Her neck felt stiff, too-these were minor complaints compared to what had happened to Eldra, or even what Banreh suffered every day, though she told herself she didn’t care about that. She maintained her position, counting stitches in her mind.
The caravan slowed and stopped. She could hear the men talking, low and scared. They had found something, but what?
Perhaps it was time. She smoothed her hair and straightened the beads around her neck. She would look well for this.
She waited. She did not fan herself, or squirm, but kept still, listening to the voices of the men and the nickering of the horses.
Banreh appeared at the carriage window. She looked away from him, at the opposite seat. She didn’t want to see his eyes.
“What is it, Banreh?” She used her father’s tone, formal and clipped.
“We have come upon the emperor’s camp,” he said. “We have been commanded to stop here.”
She imagined the emperor, frail and sick, being carried on a litter to oversee the destruction of those who plotted against him. “Very well.”
Banreh said nothing else but waited near the window as if expecting her to speak. Finally he urged his horse forwards, beyond the carriage.
Stupid thrall. He values words far too much. Mesema closed her eyes and took a breath. She would be brave. Every woman must be brave eventually. She realised she’d made fists in her lap and relaxed them, placing her hands loosely on her knees.
She waited.
The air grew heavy. She couldn’t breathe, but she remained still. She heard women’s voices, giggles, and it made her sad for Eldra. She cocked her head, listening.
The door swung open, revealing a wizened, dark woman with chestnut eyes. Her gaze ran down Mesema’s body, taking in her clothes and jewellery. Mesema sat straight in her seat, resisting the urge to bite her lip.
Four men ran towards the carriage, carrying large sticks wound with fabric like great scrolls. Mesema jumped back, startled, but the men paid her no attention. They stood on either side of the old woman and unwound the scrolls, creating red screens made of silk which they held aloft, forming a corridor. The corridor led to another, and another, each held up by four men, leading to a place she couldn’t see.
The woman watched her, smiling. “Come, come,” she said in Cerantic, motioning with one hand.
Mesema slid off the bench and down the steps. The woman took her arm and led her between the swathes of fabric, turning here and there until finally she walked through a tent flap-or at least it had looked like a tall tent flap from the outside. Inside, it resembled a small house. The red walls slanted towards a high, round ceiling of white. On the sand, rugs and cushions offered comfort for her sore body. A sleeping mat and a large tub full of water occupied one end. Oil lamps provided light and scented the air with lavender.
This tent was not for her; this was someone else’s tent, where she would wait for the emperor’s judgement.
The old woman touched her arm and pointed to the tub.
“Wash first,” she said.
“I speak Cerantic,” said Mesema. “You needn’t speak to me that way.”
The woman nodded, grinning. “I am called Sahree. Now you take off your clothes.” She pointed at the tub again. “You have sand ground into your skin, like a nomad.”
Mesema almost asked why the emperor should care, but she held her tongue. Her fingers worked the lacings of her blouse as she looked around the tent once more. Two other women, both young, had come in behind her. When she looked at them, they giggled and huddled together. One had blue eyes, but she didn’t look Felting. The other looked Cerani.
Mesema’s heart gave a twinge when she thought they might have been her friends, had things been different. If Arigu hadn’t been such a liar and Banreh such a fool.
When she took off her blouse, the women exclaimed in laughter again. Mesema burned with humiliation and began to undo her skirt.
Sahree must have seen the expression on her face, for she tapped Mesema’s shoulder and smiled. “This is good,” she said, pointing to her chest. She motioned to the blue-eyed woman, who stepped forwards and put her hand right over one of Mesema’s breasts. “Good skin. Tight,” she said. An odd compliment, Mesema thought; Cerani might not be the girl’s native language, but the message came across in any case. She nodded encouragingly at Mesema.
Mesema tried to smile back, but her body had begun to shake. Would the emperor be looking at her chest? She wondered where Banreh was, and if he were still alive.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Sahree. “It’s just some soap and a brush.” Her eyes betrayed a hint of impatience. “Willa, help her.” With that, the blueeyed girl took Mesema’s arm and eased her towards the tub.
Mesema climbed in while the young women exclaimed over her thighs and buttocks. The water felt cool against her skin as Sahree cleaned her with gentle hands and rubbed soap into her hair. She hadn’t been washed like that, by another person, since she was a baby. It made her think of her mother. When she climbed out, the younger women dressed her hair. As their soft fingers unwound her tangles, tears ran down Mesema’s cheeks. She missed Dirini and Eldra.
“No, no,” said the Cerani girl, the one Sahree had called Tarub, “don’t ruin your eyes.”
Willa fetched a wet cloth and pressed it over Mesema’s face.
“Better,” said the other.
“Now for the difficult part,” said Tarub.
Mesema panicked: what did they mean, the difficult part? She calmed her breathing. She was a princess. She would not scream, or be frightened, but she did push the cloth away. She wanted to see.
They laid her back onto a cushion and held her legs apart as Sahree gave her a gentle smile. “We need to be sure you are a maiden. Please forgive.”
“It will just take a moment,” said Tarub, grasping her hand. A few seconds later, when Sahree’s fingers found their way inside her, Mesema squeezed Tarub’s hand so tightly that she feared she’d injured her.