The Emperors Knife

CHAPTER Thirty-One

Sarmin sensed his brother’s arrival long before the secret door swung open. He felt the draw and the power of the pattern, the full force of the design wrapped around his brother’s soul, and the way Govnan’s protections struggled against it. He sat up in his bed and turned to where his brother would appear.

Beyon slipped through. His hair shone like black marble. His eyes, eaglesharp, scanned the room and his hand lay strong on the hilt of his great sword. But he stooped, and his skin looked sallow and waxlike.

Then Beyon smiled, like the dawn sneaking through the broken window, slow and bright.

“Brother,” said Sarmin.

“Brother.”

Beyon had always looked the emperor, broad-shouldered and powerful. When they were just boys, the wives would say, “Look at Sarmin, such a pretty boy.” But whenever they saw Beyon they would use just one word, always: “Strong.” And he had been strong, fighting the pattern these many years. Now he grew tired. Could Mesema keep his head above the quicksand?

Beyon reached for the bed and sat down, but his eyes were elsewhere.



“When I came before, I spoke of bringing you to court.”



“I remember.” Sarmin smiled. How long ago that seemed. “But they have seen the marks on me. Now my court is just two people,”

said Beyon. “You and the assassin. My throne is a crumbling bed in the old women’s wing. Do you remember how we used to run and hide in those halls?”

“I do.” He took his brother’s hand.

“I spent much of the night in the secret ways.”

“You are lucky to know the ways so well, how one leads to the next, like secrets, one after the other.”

“Yes, just like secrets. I hope to use them all the way to the desert.” “They go that far?”

Beyon grinned. “I think so. I’ve heard tell that they do.”

Sarmin thought about Mesema, somewhere in the women’s wing. He could not leave his room—he could not protect her. He imagined her travelling across the desert, free. They could keep going, all the way to the west and the great ocean there.

“My bride—” Mesema. Her face came to him: a good face, with strong lines, like Beyon in her way. She had that look; she gazed at the world as if she knew she belonged to it.

Beyon answered quickly, “I can take her with me.” Their eyes met, and Sarmin saw the doubt there, the hope. Beyon had lost everything, his health, his family, his throne. Mesema was all he had.

Sarmin used to think he had nothing to risk, nothing to lose. He laid a hand on his own dried blood, felt its stiffness rub against his palm. I gave this blood for you, brother, and I will give yet more. “Good,” he replied, staring into Beyon’s eyes. “I have other things I need to do.”

Beyon hesitated, but he was the emperor: he wanted, he needed, and so he took. He put a hand on Sarmin’s shoulder.

“Won’t you come with us? To the desert?”

Sarmin remembered the dizzying space beyond the door.

“I’ll stay. The mages will protect me.” He felt a rush along his skin. Grada would soon leave the city. Sarmin wanted Beyon to leave him in peace so that he could join with her and see the desert through her eyes.

He still had Grada.

Beyon stood, his shoulders more square than before. Good. Mesema would continue to give him strength. Sarmin didn’t need strength, only courage. Courage, and Grada.

“If I should die, brother…” Beyon’s voice trailed away. “You must fight for the empire. It will be yours.”

“And Tuvaini?”

“He is a traitor. Be strong, my brother.”

“I will be strong.” Grada had left the Tower and now she moved through the city streets, covered, unnoticed in the dark. He wanted to walk with her. “You must go, my brother. The Pattern Master watches you.”

Beyon bowed in the manner of equals. “I will see you soon,” he said.

“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.”