The Emperors Knife

CHAPTER Thirty-Five

Mesema sat with her back against the wall, cradling Beyon’s sleeping head in her lap. She tried to move her numb legs, to regain some feeling without waking him. She had passed hungry and passed tired. She had even passed beyond embarrassment when, a few hours ago, Beyon showed her where she could urinate into a chasm in the secret ways by straddling two slender bridges. When she was finished, he did the same.

As they waited for Eyul, Beyon fell into a restless sleep.

Above her reached the scaffold used by the artists who had been working Beyon’s face into the vaulted ceiling of his tomb. Either fear or orders had caused them to abandon their trowels and picks and leave the tomb in disarray. Disembodied eyes and the bridge of a nose stared down at her in shades of topaz and amber. Though unfinished, it was a good likeness.

Beyon’s coffin lay before her, as big as two horses and worked in gold and silver. It was the twin to the tomb of Satreth I, behind it. Stairs rose beside Satreth’s tomb, for the common people to view the body of the Reclaimer. At the foot of Beyon’s tomb, workmen had placed the first marble step.

She wanted to leave this place.



Eyul had not returned. Perhaps he had tried to rescue the women. Her idea to kill them had been cruel, but the assassin must have seen the necessity of it. He could not have been so foolish as to risk himself.

She shivered at the trail of her own thoughts. Hours ago Beyon’s wives had been laughing and talking—though they were childless and trapped in the women’s wing, their lives of no significance to the empire, still they had had meaning to themselves and to their gods. They did not deserve to die like that; it was wrong to let them—

—but so much was already wrong, and she could not change the cruel ways of the palace. Beyon should understand that; he walked those ways himself. Nevertheless, he had been strange with her ever since they left Eyul.

But I can understand if he is afraid of me. I am afraid of me too. Beyon stirred and sat up. He met her eyes, then turned away. “Eyul?” he asked, and when she shook her head, he said, “Then we should go to the desert. My men are waiting. I don’t know how many…” His voice trailed off. He stood and straightened his robes.

She wondered how many men had stayed faithful after hearing of Beyon’s marks. Her father had always had to remain strong; he could never betray any doubt or any hint of illness if he wished to maintain his Riders’ respect. She wondered if even Banreh would stay by his side if he showed himself to be weak.

Some of those waiting in the desert could be twice-treacherous, pretending to betray the new emperor, but instead turning upon Beyon. That would be the best way to kill him—to gain his trust, get in close.

Just as she had. The vision reappeared in Mesema’s mind, tracing Beyon’s lifeless form in sand and blood, putting the knife in her hand. It would come to fruition, and soon. She had the feeling of running downhill, speed overtaking her, compelling her feet to rush headlong. She almost turned her arms in a pinwheel to slow down, but instead, through long practice, she calmed herself by counting stitches. Beyon pulled a pouch from his belt and shook the contents into one hand.

“I have honeyed nuts. I forgot about them until now.”

She plucked one from his palm. It was shiny, golden, hard; it barely looked like food. At home, honey kept the consistency of butter, not stone. She popped it into her mouth and rolled it on her tongue, tasting sweet and salt together. She reached for a second, but found herself thinking of Beyon’s wives instead, and no longer felt hungry.

“I can see why you keep these in your belt,” she said. “They’re delicious.”

“They’re not for me. I usually give them to the slave children.”

“You like children?” she asked. The Bright One rose in her mind, though she couldn’t see it.

He frowned, studying the floor, where a god Mesema didn’t recognise held a hammer aloft. She realised with a pang that Beyon did not wish to discuss children with her now that his wives were dead, now that she had told Eyul to kill them.

But he forgot his own nature. He had threatened to behead Banreh; he had made Sahree, Tarub, and Willa disappear.

“Beyon,” she said, wiping salt from her fingers, “listen. What did you do with Sahree and the other body-slaves from the desert?”

“The dungeon.” He frowned again. “Probably still there.”

“With everything that’s happening, will the guards remember they have them?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Mesema imagined the kindly old servant starving to death on the cold floor of a stone cell.

He must have seen something in her expression, for he raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “They could have seen your moon-mark. I did it to protect you.”

“Exactly,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Beyon, listen. I didn’t want your wives to die. Cerana brought me here, and Cerana brought the marks to you and me. Cerana has its terrible gods and the prices they demand. The rules of this game were made long before I started playing.”

“I know that.” He sat down beside her again. “But it’s not just Cerana. The rules of Settu are the rules of the world.”

She thought about her father, surrounded by the men in his longhouse. He and Banreh huddled together over ink and lambskin, planning war and alliances. There was always blood to pay, always a sacrifice. “I don’t know,” she said, but she thought she did.

“You think I’m angry at you because my wives died?”

“I thought, maybe.” Tears welled in her eyes. “It was a terrible thing.” Atia of the haughty eyes, Chiassa of the golden curls, Hadassi of the pouting mouth and her attention to rank, Marren of the wink and the joke.

He took her hands. “It’s true, but not the way you think. If my wives had been kept alive and screaming, I would have gone to save them— not because I loved them; I didn’t. They were my mother’s creatures; all of them spied on me from the moment they came to the palace. But they were my women, and my responsibility. Tuvaini knows me well. He knows what will draw me out.” He drew a breath before continuing, “You were right to protect me from charging in. It’s only… When I heard you say the words, I couldn’t help but think that the palace had corrupted you—that I had corrupted you—and I was sorry for that.”

She looked at their joined hands. “The palace corrupted you as well.”

“I was born to it. Sometimes I think that’s what the pattern is: the palace’s own stink, written on my skin.”

“I don’t think that.”

“You are a good person, Zabrina,” he said, kissing her hair. “I’ve told Eyul to kill many times, and it wasn’t always the right thing to do. I thought fear and cruelty were my best tools, but now I see there are other ways to rule. Tuvaini may well be a better emperor.”

“I don’t believe that. You want to be the emperor.”

He laughed. “Of course I want to be the emperor, but that doesn’t mean I’m a good one. Those are completely different things.”

“I like you better now than when you were the emperor.” That was true.

“Now, maybe, but we’ll see about tomorrow, right?” They both laughed.

“That’s about right,” she said.

“Mesema,” he said, surprising her by using her real name, “it’s all slipping away—my throne, my wives—I can barely feel them any more. I can only feel the end coming.”

She lifted her head and listened.

“Sometimes I tried so hard to be what an emperor should be, but really all I could think of was having a great tomb, like Satreth. Part of me always just wanted to join my brothers.”

I think you will. You will. She pressed her moon-mark to his as she blinked away tears. “Don’t slip away just yet. You have a brother who is still alive.”

The memories came, happier, but fainter this time: Pelar, running with a red ball. Beyon, cuddled with Sarmin and a book, both boys so small they had room to share on one cushion. His sisters, running after a shaggy dog. Laughter. Sarmin swearing his fealty, Beyon’s hand on his head. Mesema on her horse, the wind in her hair.