“And I you,” said Sarmin, inclining his own head the same way.
And yet Beyon paused by the secret door, his finger tapping the stone. “Eyul told me of a city that rose from the desert-a city just like ours, except that in the place of my tomb there was a Mogyrk temple. He saw strange things…’
It came in a flash, the pattern laid over Nooria, the desert city a map of things past and things to come. More than ever, Sarmin wanted Grada by his side. “You must go, brother.”
Beyon slipped away and Sarmin leaned back against his pillows, reaching out for Grada in his mind. She moved along the riverfront now: in the low light of dawn, the fishermen hauled their nets and serving women filled their barrels. Where Grada walked, her feet sank into cool mud. She directed her gaze to the white flowers floating on the surface of the water. They were precious and delicate, the sort of thing you didn’t expect to last. It made him feel braver.
“Do not be afraid, Grada,” he said. “I know what you must do.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Eyul stalked the dark corridors, watching the guards, searching for the ones who looked indignant or grieved, the ones who turned away, their mouths tight, when the subject of burning the former emperor arose: the ones who showed hate in their eyes when they saw Eyul, believing him to be Beyon’s killer. His task was to find these men and tell them when and where to honour their oaths.
It was not easy; most were reluctant to share their true thoughts with him. He had to avoid the ones who were shaking and frightened, though even they might turn to Beyon’s side when the time came.
Beyon had not revealed his plan; he had only told Eyul to send half of the loyal men to Mirra’s place in the desert and leave the other half here, in the palace, ready to turn on their fellows and Tuvaini. So to every other man Eyul told the path through the secret ways to where the river ran down the mountain at the edge of the desert. After three days he had sent a total of fifty-three men through the dark passages. Not enough to take back an empire.
Perhaps, as the days went by, Tuvaini’s leadership would create more men who were loyal to Beyon. He wondered; Tuvaini could come across as a good man, concerned and pious, and he did care about the empire. It was just as Amalya had said. Caring for the empire meant different things to different people. Tuvaini felt that meant he must lead. Eyul felt that he must not.
How odd it was that Beyon had turned to him, of all the people in the palace: the man who had killed his brothers. And he had meant to do so even before Tuvaini’s betrayal; weeks ago he sent Amalya to sound him out. Beyon had never been a friend, but he had known better than Eyul himself what it meant to be the Knife.
In the last hours Eyul had told Beyon about the city that rose from the desert, and how Pelar’s demon had directed him to the temple. He told him about Tahal’s otherworldly visit. He told him of the dead girl in the sand, and how two palace guards had tried to kill him. He told him Amalya was dead, and that only four mages remained in the Tower.
He held back that he had killed Amalya; he held back the voices in the emperor’s Knife; he held back his meeting with the hermit, and the deal he had made to kill Govnan. He did not want the Carriers to learn these things should Beyon lose his battle against the pattern-marks.
He turned a corner and came upon another guard standing alone. The feather on his blue cap tilted forwards sadly as he contemplated his hands. Eyul settled back against a dark wall to watch him. Finding the loyal men took time, time they didn’t have. He wanted to kill Govnan now, but he must attend to Beyon’s tasks first; Amalya would have wanted it.
How he longed to draw the Knife across the old man’s veins, taste the blood as it sprayed in the air. His throat almost hurt with excitement to think of it. This thirst for a kill was something new. It was ugly, but part of his soul now. He would have his revenge, and then the hermit could work his magic.
Soon now, soon.
The Blue Shield guard looked up and registered Eyul’s presence. His lips curled in disdain.
Eyul moved forwards.
At dawn Tuvaini rose from his chair and called for his body-slaves. He looked through his window at the courtyard where a few White Hats leaned in the shadow of the wall, their heads bent in conversation. The tiles spread out bare and white from their boots to the palace door. A quick movement caught his eye, but it was just a slave-boy, running after a ball-one of Beyon’s favorites, always playing when there was work to be done. He would not want to throw his ball in the courtyard once the pyre was lit. If it ever were lit.
Almost four days, Eyul. Where are you?
Tuvaini extended his arms so the slaves could remove his robes and wash him with scented water. Their gentle, slow touch made him impatient. He was neither their child nor their lover. He kept his gaze on the soldiers until soft hands drew fresh clothes over his nakedness. He fingered his blue sash. All his silks were simple, unassuming. He needed a tailor.
Dressed and perfumed, he opened the doors to the adjoining room where Azeem waited, forehead to the carpet.
“Did Eyul report during the night?”
Azeem shook his head, eyes down. They had had the same exchange every morning.
“Rise, Azeem.” Beyon persisted like a stone in Tuvaini’s slipper. He poured some water and let its coolness soothe his throat. A night without sleep had left him parched and dizzy.
“I will see Donato, then I would see the potion-master. What is his name?” Tuvaini knew his name well enough; he had purchased from him poisons aplenty, but Azeem did not know that.
“Kadeer, Your Majesty.”
“Kadeer.” Tuvaini lifted a date from the golden breakfast tray and brought it to his nose. Biting into it, he said, “Yes, I’ll see him, too.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
Tuvaini smiled. He could afford that much for Azeem.
“The Empire Mother waits upon your attention, Magnificence.” Tuvaini chose another date and bit its dark flesh. “Does she,” he murmured. Nessaket of the flowing robes and dancing hair waited on his whim. He let that roll around in his mouth with the sweet fruit. “Let her wait. Come with me, Azeem.”
He had walked the emperor’s path to the throne room countless times, first with Tahal, and then with Beyon. Azeem walked beside him now, playing his own former role as faithful servant. Tuvaini hoped Azeem would be more faithful than he had been. He warranted watching.
On the dais the throne sat, tall and gleaming. He ran his fingers along the cool armrests and looked out over the room. Slaves hung tapestries and leaned soft pillows against the wall. Closer, at the foot of the dais, Arigu knelt in obeisance, waiting for him. Tuvaini waved Azeem off to fetch Donato.
As the great carved doors closed behind Lord High Vizier Azeem, Tuvaini said, “Rise, General.”
Arigu rose to his feet, but kept his gaze low to the floor. Tuvaini smiled. Everyone, from his slaves to his generals, was wondering how much he would remain the same, how much he would hold to his former habits and promises. “Why have you come, old friend? Is there a problem?” Arigu should be on his way into the desert by now if he wanted to get to the horse tribes before winter.
Arigu raised his eyes, concern painted on his face. He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I wanted to express my regrets at the terrible loss of your cousin, and pass along my best hope that Beyon will be captured.”
“I pray the same to Keleb, good General.”
“Our gods are strong, my Emperor, stronger than any other that might try to insinuate itself in our land.”
A look passed between them.
“You speak of the Mogyrks.”
Arigu had the feel for the common people-he always had. It was something Tuvaini lacked, but he could appreciate the value of a little rabblerousing.
