expected, and he smelled of ink and sweat.
He patted her hair. “When you are married, you will be safe. No one will dare harm you.”
She didn’t say what she was thinking: I am safe now.
At that moment the Cerani named Arigu stuck his head through the carriage window. He sneered at their embrace before turning to Banreh and speaking to him in his guttural language. Mesema recognised two Cerantic words, but she politely waited for Banreh to translate.
As she settled back on the bench, straightening her hair, he told her, “A Red Hoof woman has joined our caravan.”
At sunset, Mesema walked along the stony ground to where two Felting horses stood side by side. One wore brightly coloured wool braided into its mane; the other showed hooves dyed deep red. The Red Hooves said their horses’ feet were stained with the blood of their enemies, but Mesema knew it was only the dye from shelac berries-the Windreaders used the same dye to color their winter felt. She examined the Red horse. It was docile, so not a warhorse like Arigu’s.
She ran a hand over her Tumble’s flank. How he must hate this heat! Perhaps it was a cruelty to bring him to Nooria. She checked to make sure he had plenty of water. There was nothing else to do; the soldiers fed and brushed him, and Arigu wouldn’t let her ride. Banreh said noble Cerani ladies rarely appeared in public, especially on the back of a horse, but he promised her the prince would let her ride within the castle grounds. It was written, he said.
She worried that Banreh put so much stock in his lamb-skins and symbols. Ink had no honour; ink had no history.
Mesema pulled her shawl around her. Ahead lay grey rock, dead land, except for the occasional scrubby bush. Their path stretched ahead, one plateau after another, lower and lower, until the mountains ended. It looked like water there, except for the colour, a band of white stretching out under the moon.
“The desert,” came a woman’s voice beside her. “The place where no thing grows.”
Mesema didn’t need to look; she knew from the accent that this was the Red Hoof woman. “My mother keeps a Red Hoof spear by our fire,” she said. “She pulled it out of my dead brother herself.”
“I pulled a Windreader spear from my sister’s neck. After she died, I threw it out over the plains.”
“That’s not true,” said Mesema. “No Windreader would kill a woman.”
The Red Hoof did not speak for a while. Then she said, “These men are Cerani, but we are both Felt, the children of the grass. Shall we not be friends?”
“What’s your name?” Mesema looked at her now. She was lovely, with creamy skin, light curly hair and roomy hips.
“My name is Eldra.” Eldra wrapped both arms around her waist and shivered. She didn’t have a warm jacket or shawl, but Mesema didn’t care. A Windreader shouldn’t care if a Red Hoof plunged right off the edge of a cliff. And who was Mesema, if not a Windreader?
“Why should I be your friend, Eldra?”
Eldra smiled. “I can tell you about my god.”
The god of the Red Hooves had come over the eastern mountains to oppose the Windreaders even in death. And their god was dead, if the thralls in her father’s care could be believed. He had passed from this world long ago, so he could speak to his believers only through old stories and songs. He was a useless god, blind, deaf, and dumb.
In the lands of the People many gods were acknowledged. Gods of the herd and harvest, water and winter, all were given their due at the appropriate times; but only the Hidden God kept the fate of the People in His heart. Only the Hidden God watched over them.
“We will not be friends, Eldra.” Mesema turned and walked to her tent. At the flap, she looked back and saw Arigu dropping a cloak around the woman’s shoulders. He talked to her a moment, gesturing with hands big as her head, before leading her towards his tent. With a shudder, Mesema crawled under her blankets. She still had time before she had to give herself to a Cerani man. Time to think, time to learn, and time to stay with Banreh.
Before she fell asleep, she made a prayer to the Hidden God, a living god among many. Her god did not fight for dominance, or to prove Himself to mortals. The Hidden God showed Himself only to those who looked for Him. She looked for Him now, in her heart and mind, because that was the only way she could carry Him into Nooria. As she closed her eyes, she felt the hint of a gentle wind on her face. It was enough.
Chapter Nine
Sarmin crouched by the head of his bed. Here under the shadow of the canopy none of the gods could see him, and the Sayakarva window was far to his left and out of sight. He was more alone than ever when he huddled here. Any guard entering through the door would not find him.
Ten years ago, one such guard had raised the alarm. Sarmin had held himself still, giggling silently, listening to the men shouting to each other as they searched. Not one of them thought to step around the bed. Sarmin had enjoyed the ruse and had hoped the excitement would bring his mother to his room. He didn’t show himself until his window grew dark.
By that time, all the men assigned to his door had been killed. Now Sarmin settled his back against the mattress and brought his knees up to his chin. He wished to think about his bride in absolute privacy. He remembered his father’s wives, all five of them, with their dark scented hair and their soft breasts. He used to sit on the lap of the one called Lana and listen to his sisters learn their songs.
He remembered his sisters. Their gentle, wary eyes and their sweet voices. He remembered how they loved Pelar, his wild-haired, jolly brother. The girls had petted him like a kitten.
He remembered Pelar’s red ball bouncing, Pelar running, Pelar laughing-very different to the ghost who appeared before him now, the ball in one hand, his face solemn.
“No,” Sarmin said to his brother, “not now. Go away.”
A Felting woman. He tried to imagine what she might look like. His mother had been true to her word and sent him another book, this one full of women in contorted, uncomfortable positions. He couldn’t see any of their faces, no matter how many pages he turned. Sarmin fell to one side, staring blankly at the wall.
Pelar bounced his ball.
The door handle turned. It felt early for that, but Sarmin didn’t care. Lost in thought, he rubbed his cheek against the carpet.
Light. A new sharpness of sound. The door had been opened. Sarmin rolled to his knees and peered over the bed. A man stood at the edge of the room, looking to his left and right in consternation until his eyes met Sarmin’s over the sea of pillows and sheets.
Pelar’s ball hit Sarmin in the chest.
Broad cheekbones, a bronzing of the eyes, a stubborn curl to the hair over the left temple. His brother’s shoulders were broader than Sarmin remembered, and he was thicker of stomach than before. And he was no longer a boy. His eyes had grown wary; his hands restless.
Beyon. He looked well. Sarmin couldn’t breathe.
No, not Beyon. The emperor. Lord of Blood. Lord of Dead Boys.
“My Emperor.” Sarmin crawled around the bed to make his obeisance, placing his hand on the soft leather of one imperial boot. Toes moved beneath the leather, and the boot slid from under Sarmin’s grasp. Fabric whispered. The door hissed over the carpet. The latch clicked.
A silence followed. Pelar’s ball hit the back of Sarmin’s neck, quick jolts that drew his shoulders together.
“Come here.” The emperor’s voice didn’t belong in this room where everything was soft, where everything gave, even the vizier.
Bounce.
Steel for steel. I won’t give.
Bounce.
He heard a crunch of stiff fabric. “Look at me.”
