“Go to Nooria?”
“I meant, go away from me.”
A sob escaped her, but she caught the second one and held it. “If you don’t hold me right now,” she said, “I will never forgive you, Banreh.”
Movement, and she felt his arms around her, the damp of his sweat and the roughness of his tunic. She laid her head against his chest. “This is the last time,” she said. “I will be braver in the future.”
He said nothing, only smoothing her hair.
“Damn my great-uncle and damn the grass,” she said after a time.
His voice fell soft against her ear. “It’s time to go.”
“Yes.” She stirred against him.
He kissed her where her hair met her forehead. His lips were soft, but the touch of them burned her.
“Don’t.” She opened her eyes and stood up, arranging her hair with her hands. The feel of him radiated through her, even now that the sun bled its full heat into the air. It would have to last. She took a breath and felt the hot air fill her lungs.
The high, pointed tower of the church peeked over the ridge of a dune. She shivered, remembering what Arigu had said about his dead soldiers. She couldn’t fathom how the deadly shapes related to Eldra’s religion. Perhaps the church worked like a sword: a power, to be used by good and evil alike. Mesema understood swords, and she could only grow to understand them better as time passed. But if the god was a sword, the pattern was something else again. Where a sword cut and laid bare, the pattern bound and kept hidden. Much like Arigu.
She didn’t trust Arigu. Worse, something kept her from saying so. Instead she turned to Banreh, motioning towards where she knew the Cerani general waited, putting aside the thudding in her stomach. “Let us leave this place,” she said.
“I think there is someone behind the Carriers,” Tuvaini said. “A man.”
Lapella made no indication that she had heard him. She lay across the bed, turned away on her side, her smooth curves bare for his inspection.
He ran a finger along her hip. He knew she listened. Lapella would always listen to him. “And those who fall ill hear his voice and become his creatures.”
She moved, a slow, oiled motion, turning her face to the pillow, her hip to the bed.
Tuvaini watched her, watched the lantern gleam on her skin. He knew she held tight to his words. She thought he was giving something to her, sharing secrets, making a bond.
“He has touched the emperor, this man.”
Lapella stiffened at that, her fingers knotting in the sheets, then she drew a deep breath and relaxed.
“He plans for the day he will speak and Beyon will follow his will.” Tuvaini pictured Beyon’s face. He wondered when the light in the emperor’s eyes would die. The Carriers were already preparing the ground for their advance, buying favors within the palace walls, even from Tuvaini himself.
Lapella moved to receive him, though still she did not speak, even as she lifted herself.
Tuvaini thought of the enemy’s purchases. Entry through the Red Hall to kill the emperor’s Knife. Access to Prince Sarmin, through the secret ways. Tuvaini had sold them both when the price offered exceeded their value. Though the first time, with Eyul, he hadn’t known the target.
Lapella sighed beneath him and he twisted his fingers within her hair, pulling her head back.
The man behind the Carriers-the enemy-he might walk the palace even now. He had failed once already, and he would fail again.
There had been a moment when Eyul had been locked in combat with one of the Carriers, a moment when it had seemed their intention had changed. The Carrier pretending to attack Tuvaini hadn’t moved to finish Eyul, though Eyul was injured; instead, it ran. Eyul lived. Beyon and Sarmin lived also, occupied with the prince’s wild bride.
Tuvaini need only wait for his moment.
The enemy had failed, and he would fail again. A wild bride, with wild ways.
He would fail again.
Tuvaini, spent, pushed Lapella from him. Sweat ran across his ribs. “He buys favors, but he doesn’t know what he has paid.”
Lapella lay silent, gleaming, soft motion in her hips.
He could hear her breathing now. “He will take Beyon, but I hold the keys to Beyon. And when I choose, Beyon will be undone.”
“What then?”
At last she speaks.
“The empire will be great once more.” A strong empire would defeat the curse at last. Once the Pattern Master showed his hand Tuvaini would strike, and the Cerani would no longer live in fear of his design. They would reach for magnificence, as they had in the Reclaimer’s time. There would be art and song, and trade to be had. The light of heaven would fall once again upon the throne.
Lapella rolled to face him. Already he wanted her again: her ripe curves, her dark curls, the faint scars of the wounds that made her his, the way she bit her lip when their eyes met. She ran a finger down his cheek and a lump came to his throat, surprising him. “I’m afraid for you,” she said.
He rolled over and entered her once more, pinning her hands against the pillows. This time would be even better. He liked to see himself in her eyes. “Worry for the Carriers and their Master.”
Chapter Sixteen
Eyul dreamed of the young princes. He dreamed of blood running across shining tiles, reflected in a child’s dead eyes. In his dreams, the young Beyon spoke to him in the courtyard, though in life he had not.
“Why are we always here?” the child Beyon asked him once. “We are not here. It is a dream.” Eyul closed his eyes to shut away the blood. “I am ill, and so I am always dreaming.”
“I’m tired of this dream,” said little Beyon. “I’m tired of dreaming altogether.” “I’m sorry, my friend; I will try to wake.”
It took days. When at last he opened his eyes, Eyul could make out the blurry faces and hands of those who tended him. As day passed dry thirsty day, he dreamed less and moved about more. Soon he was able to see to his own needs in the morning, so that by the time the female nomad arrived with his tea he had shaved and bathed in the sand. A man could not remain an invalid too long in this harsh land. He wondered if they’d have killed one of their own as helpless as he had been.
Eyul decided he was ready, though he was not sure of the days; at least six had passed since the woman first brought him tea. He dressed in a fresh linen tunic and waited for her, sitting cross-legged on the ground. After a time she pushed aside the tent flap and entered, tray in hand. The light of the desert shot through his eyes, leaving a spiderweb after-image. He covered his face, but the sun had already driven its nails deep. Through the pounding in his head he could hear the woman pouring tea, respectfully ignoring his weaknesses. From prior experience Eyul knew she didn’t speak Cerantic, but she understood one word, and he gritted it out through his teeth: “Hermit.”
“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
