marry a plainsman. Maybe her father would even let her marry Banreh.

If only it could happen that way… If she fled, the pattern would follow her. It would come after her mother and father and little nephews. The pattern was greedy; she could feel it in her bones. The mage who drove the pattern wanted as much as any man who started a battle, whether it was land, riches, or something else. The difference was that this was a battle most people couldn’t fight. She could, though; Sarmin had showed her that. She could stay here and fight.

Banreh moved his finger over her jawline and Mesema shivered. All he ever had to do was touch her and she melted like the spring snow. She couldn’t let that muddle her mind.

She cleared her throat. “Banreh, I wouldn’t go if they sent me.” He smiled, not understanding.

“I’m staying here to fight against the pattern.”

“Fight against-?” He chuckled and kissed her forehead. “Have you been drinking too much of that sour Cerani brew? You sound mad.”

She blinked and steadied herself. Arguing with Banreh was never easy. “Listen. By staying, I can help the emperor.”

“You mean His Majesty Tuvaini?” He used the voice of her teacher, not the voice of her friend.

“I speak of Beyon.”

“I see. I know you were with him-you had no choice. He was the emperor. But you must forget about him now and go home. If they ever suspect you might be carrying his child, they’ll kill you.”

“We didn’t-”

“It doesn’t matter.” Banreh creased his brow at the pillow on the floor. “These people tolerate no heirs but themselves. Do you know what Beyon did when he became the emperor? He killed all his brothers, right out there, in the courtyard. Some of them were just babes.”

Mesema swallowed, though her throat felt like stone. Sarmin had told her his brothers had died, but not that Beyon had ordered it. Beyon was Cerani, and the Cerani were brutal; even their palace god was cruel. She had seen the great walls of the city and heard the voices of the thousands who lived within those walls. She had seen the riches of the palace and the beauty of the women inside, and as she held the picture of the empire in her mind, she knew cruelty kept it all safe. She remembered how Beyon had wanted Banreh’s head. Perhaps it would have been better for him, and for the empire, if he had taken it. She understood: Herzu’s statue stood in the palace not so they could beg for mercy, but because the empire needed Him.

Banreh’s fingers tightened around her own, and she rested her forehead on his warm hand. Cruelty did not come without its cost. It had made Sarmin sick, Beyon lonely. What would it make of her?

“Go home,” he whispered.

“I-” A twinge drew her eyes westwards: Beyon. It sank through her, skin and bone. He was moving closer.

“What is it?” Banreh looked at the wall. She shrugged and looked away. “What?”

“I can’t see through walls, Banreh.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I saw that look on your face. What does it mean, Mesema?”

She couldn’t show him her finger-she could never show him. Her eyes stung with tears.

“What’s wrong with you?”

She gathered the silk of her skirt in her hand, remembering how her body-slaves had transformed her from a horsegirl into a Cerani bride. What was she now?

“It’s him,” said Banreh, his eyes bright with understanding.

She shook her head no. “Banreh, just kiss me, because I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

His face went still. “But I thought we-?”

“Banreh.” She took his hand in hers, her other hand, the one still unmarked. “You have taught me well-better than you know, perhaps. Let me go now and do my duty.”

He put one hand on her shoulder. The other hand still clasped hers.

She sniffed. “Arigu said it was up to you-”

“This isn’t about Arigu!” He was angry, at last.

“It isn’t about us, either. I wish it were. Oh, how I wish it!” Mesema swallowed. “We are Felt.”

Banreh put his forehead against hers. “We carry on.”

“We are Felt. We carry on.” A chant. A prayer. Their lips met.

She backed away quickly, not wanting to let go, taking in his stained hands, golden hair and green eyes for the last time His green eyes that went past her, to the wall, widening with alarm. “Mesema!”

She picked up the cushion and clenched her teeth. It kept her chin from trembling. “I must go.”

She took another step backwards and her shoulders met with something hard: a man’s chest. A strong man’s chest, but not Beyon’s; Beyon was too far away. Another hidden door in this palace where no wall could be trusted! Before she could run, a thick arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her through a narrow, dark gap. She smelled fire and spice and damp and rot. Banreh darted forwards, faster than she had thought he could, a sword somehow in his hand, but her captor kicked shut the door and it slammed in his face. Banreh pounded on the wall between them; he shouted for her, and he shouted for Arigu’s men. Feathers brushed against Mesema’s cheeks as she pulled her knife free and found her captor’s flesh. He grunted, but held her hard as he moved through the darkness, her feet barely brushing the floor. The sound of Banreh’s pounding grew distant.

The man stopped and for a moment they stood together in the midnight of the hidden passage. His strong arms released Mesema and she blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the dark. If only she could see her way, she could try to run-but she could not even make out the man who stood before her.

“Careful.” The voice came soft, and unexpectedly kind. “There’s a drop.” She turned to face its owner, careful to keep her balance; the echo told her of vast, empty spaces. A small flame shed light, and their eyes met in the glow. She had seen him before: hair like iron, skin like leather-the servant of Herzu she’d passed in the corridor. Then, violence had risen from his skin like heat from the desert sand. Now his eyes were calm, and he flashed his teeth at her in something close to a smile.

She spoke through the tightness in her throat. “What are you going to do to me?” She calculated how close she’d have to get to stick him; he’d stop her before that.

He looked her over, his eyes lingering briefly on the knife in her hand. “I wasn’t planning on doing anything to you.” He lifted a lantern from a hook on the wall and placed the small flame inside. As the light grew stronger she could make out stairs, bridges, and black chasms all around her. It was fitting that the palace, with its golden ceilings and bright mosaics, would contain a place so dark and twisting. It would have to.

“Why did you bring me in here?”

“The emperor has requested you.”

Mesema’s captor did not appear to be in a rush to move on, though she could hear pounding and the yelling of men in the distance. Arigu’s soldiers were of little concern to him; surely she, with her pretty little weapon, constituted an even lesser threat. “I want to go back, tell my countryman-”

“That will not be possible.” He tore some fabric from his tunic and wrapped it around the wound high on his leg.

She watched the blood seep through the cloth, dark in the lantern light, a warning against the future. Her fingers tightened over the gemmed hilt of Sarmin’s dagger. Her vision of standing over the emperor, knife in hand, bloomed in her mind like pain. “I hurt you.”

“Not too badly.” He tied a knot and smiled again, as if they had reached some agreement. “Follow me. Step where I step-there are rockfalls.” He turned, but instead she sank to the floor, where the stone felt cool and solid against her forehead. She did not want to harm anyone. She tried to remember the moment she had thrust that dagger into the man’s thigh, but it had slipped away from her; she remembered only that it had felt right. Would it feel right when she killed the emperor? Mirra! The prayer broke from her unexpectedly.

“Are you well?” He sounded uncertain, though he didn’t seem the uncertain type.

She ignored him and inched forwards. Her elbows met empty space and her head dropped over an abyss. Darkness spun around her, and she could no longer tell whether she looked up or down. She saw nothing, felt nothing when she ran her fingers through the air. Is this what the pattern feels like? The void pressed around her. Is it like this on the inside, with no memories, no fear, no desire? The idea tempted her. She dangled the dagger over the edge. If she dropped it into the chasm, then she could never use it again.

The old warrior caught her wrist and she started. She hadn’t even noticed him moving closer, crouching

Вы читаете The Emperor's knife
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату