skin, smell the pepper rising into the air. She stopped her work, turned her face his way.
He asked a question. “What did Beyon want with the hermit?”
“The emperor did not want the hermit,” she said. She bent over the fire and lifted the pot to hang over it. “He wanted you. He wanted to know if he could trust you.”
The tie snapped and the poles fell in opposite directions.
“You came to spy on me? For him?”
“I came to assess you.”
You are as brave and obedient as I have been told. Her words. He felt naked under the sun, as naked as the boy in that prison so many years ago. “Then tell me, Amalya of the Tower, did you find me wanting?” He wished he could see her expression.
“I told you,” she said after a moment, “you are loyal to the empire, but not to Beyon.”
He picked up the poles and began his task a second time. He would make her the fool this time. “You do know Beyon is marked?”
She caught her breath. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, the pattern has marked him. Half the palace knows.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Now I’m a liar?” He grunted with false amusement. “He had his bodyslaves killed to keep them silent. And their executioner. Where do you think the links in that chain will lead? Now Carriers walk unchecked through the centre of the palace, attacking the vizier himself. Beyon can’t be trusted.”
Amalya’s voice wavered. “It’s impossible. The Tower has many enchantments, protections over the emperor. Govnan-”
Eyul tensed at Govnan’s name, dropping another tent pole. She continued her protest: “Govnan has done everything he can to protect the emperor, even placing patterns of his own around the palace walls.”
Placing patterns of his own? Eyul cleared his throat. “The vizier already searches for an heir. The-”
He heard a sizzle; untended water boiling over and falling into the flames.
Amalya didn’t move. “Have we failed, then?” Her voice sounded thin, scraped by sand.
He didn’t think she wanted an answer. He stretched the tent cloth over the poles. His mouth tasted sour. He felt as if he’d stuck himself with an arrow. Amalya had believed in Beyon, believed in the Tower’s ability to protect him. He finished erecting his tent and walked around her to pick up the second set of ties. He could see through the bandages that she sat before the fire, shoulders slumped.
When both tents were up, gleaming in the morning sun, Amalya began to finish her work. Steam from her pot wafted past Eyul’s nose, speaking of the barks, peppers, and flowers of her homeland. Her scents. He wondered if he would ever smell that lively, fertile aroma again once he left the desert. He settled down in the sand and watched her silhouette, cut out against the sun, though it sent a bright pain behind his eyes.
She looked over her shoulder. Somehow she always knew when he was watching her, even when her back was turned. Eyul stared down at his fingers, blurs against the lighter-coloured dune.
“I’m glad you told me.” She stood and turned to face him; her shadow fell across his lap. “Have you seen his marks? Is that how you became a Knife with no emperor?”
He shook his head.
“Then how are you sure?”
“I was there when the Low Executioner swore to the word of Beyon’s body-slaves. The vizier was with me.”
“And then he was attacked?” Amalya knelt facing him. Though he struggled to, he couldn’t see her expression.
“Soon after. I protected him…” He remembered the Carrier who’d circled Tuvaini at the fountain and then run away.
“When did you last see Beyon?”
“Just before I left.”
“So did I.” She paused. “He didn’t seem any different.” This was true. “What are you thinking, Amalya?”
She waved her arm. “I’m not sure. Give me some time.”
“The line of the Reclaimer has come to an end.” He took her hand. He remembered what she’d said: that loyalty was the easiest of virtues to subvert. She had been right. “I know every well and oasis between here and the western mountains.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, studying him. “That we should run away?”
“Are you saying the two of us can save the empire?”
She came to him then, close enough to embrace. “What would we do in the west, you and I?” Her breath fell across his lips. He put a hand on her neck and traced her cheekbone with his thumb.
“I don’t know. Go fishing.”
She laughed. “Fishing?”
He smiled at himself, but he was more interested in the feel of her skin under his fingers. “It was the first thing that came to my mind.”
“Well,” she said, resting her head on his chest, “it’s a long way to go for a fish or two.”
“You’re the only woman I’ve ever invited to come fishing with me.” The only woman he ever would.
“I’m flattered. But there is nothing for us in the west.”
“There may be nothing for us in Nooria,” he said.
She raised her head to him. He longed to see her eyes. “There is hope. Beyon remains well. Hope failing, there is death.”
“Shall we go to Nooria, then, and die?” He traced the line of her waist with his hand, from her ribs to the flare of her hips. Was this what he had wanted all along? Had he ever tried to do what he could for Beyon?
She leaned into him. “We will go to Nooria and learn our fates. Together, as we are.”
“If that’s what you want.” Their lips met and held, smoke, pepper and sand. He turned his head to look out over the dunes, but she said, “We’re alone.” She released his weapon belt and let it fall.
“I could be your father.”
“You don’t look like my father.” She kissed the edge of his chin, where his beard grew in sharp and rough. “And your body is strong and lean.”
“Try living in it.”
“Be quiet,” she said, pushing up his tunic. Her mouth traced a jagged scar on his chest.
He let out a hard breath and pulled her closer. She ended on his lap, hand running through his hair, lips dancing over his neck. He pushed the fabric of her robes aside, his hand finding the curves of her skin. Her fingers moved over him, too, running across his old scars and healing wounds. He whispered her name, as he had so many times in the hermit’s tent.
Amalya pushed him onto his back and placed her knees to either side. She touched her hand against his mouth. “You are just like a man.”
“I hope so.”
“Come into the tent.” Amalya scooted away from him and through the flap. Her sandals fell off her feet and lay, small and dainty, in the sand, one on either side of his belt. Eyul fingered the beaded leather. So delicate. He wondered why they hadn’t already broken.
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.”
