by S. C. Emmett
“Do you ever cry?” She shook her head as soon as she asked, and dabbed at her eyes again. “No, I am sorry, Third Prince, I—”
“If you continue to address me formally I may break something in this room, Yala.” He did not quite frown, but it was close. “And no, I have not wept since I was thirteen winters high. No…” He reconsidered. He did not quite wish to lie to her. Certainly there were things she must not know, for what woman would want to? But to lie to her was a different thing entirely. “That is incorrect. I wept once more, when the Mad Queen was finally dead and her pyre was embers.”
Yala did turn aside then, and freeing her nose of tear-cargo was performed in the most ladylike way possible. He looked away at the shimmers of heat over the dry-garden, giving her time to attend the duty.
And, of course, since she was his little lure, she asked the question he expected least. “Did you hate her?”
“Of course I did.” The truth did not even hurt as it passed his throat-stone. The Zhaon held it a pad of rai, but in Shan it was a rock. “That was why I wept. The feeling was…too large to be contained.”
“So it must loose itself.” Yala nodded, the spent paper squares wadded in her left hand. Her knuckles whitened. “I am selfish, Takshin. I weep not for your father or your elder brother, may he return to health, but because I am frightened, and alone, and—”
“You are not alone. I am here.” It was so simple as to be laughable, but he would leap and jape like a street acrobat if necessary, to halt that devouring sorrow in her clear, foreign gaze.
“Yes. You are.” Her shoulders came up again, like a kaburei’s anticipating a heavy burden. “Am I wanted, then?”
“Deeply.” His own private joke, she could not know he had already arranged for her safety— except his eldest brother had not yet brushed the endorsement quite yet.
Still, he had other methods if that one failed. Waiting was nothing new, and Takshin found he liked it when the end was so assured.
Oh, he could still halt, he supposed, but he had been set upon this path the first moment he saw her. Or perhaps the moment after. He could not tell, now, when it had started.
It seemed unprincely to try, as well.
“Is it…” She searched his face and he suffered it. What did she think he would seek her for, at this point? Probably something unpleasant, since the Emperor— the word Father was a step too far at the moment— was being washed and wrapped for his pyre and Takyeo was back in his bed again, this time not raving with fever or quietly ignoring everyone in the room, sunk like an ox in a mudhole.
No, Takyeo was dosed unconscious with nightflower while Kihon Jiao mixed pastes and unguents with a light touch, the shabby physician’s expression as remote as his patient’s but considerably more focused. Honorable Kihon had no time for amateurs and any visitor was likely to be unceremoniously disposed of with a curt word.
Where was Yala’s kaburei, and the two noble girls? They should have been with her; she should not be left alone in the receiving-room, though her dress had been changed.
He was not quite sure of his temper if he found further evidence of their neglect. “Where are they? The Su girl, and the Hansei?”
“Fetching a list of necessary items for Honorable Kihon. I thought it wise to give them a task. Anh went with them and shall tell me who stops to gossip.” Now she was brisk again, smoothing her flushed cheeks with her fingertips. “Lady Kue is overseeing the boiling of cloths; I suggested Steward Keh take this opportunity to bar the household to visitors and question every servant.”
“Well done.” Takshin should have thought to arrange such things, but he had been busy with his own tasks, including keeping Takyeo from thrashing before the nightflower took hold and setting the guard upon the Jonwa. The Golden he chose for that duty would not move until he released them, at least he could be certain of that much.
His cursed reputation was occasionally useful.
“I tried to think of more to do, but…” Her chin trembled, just a fraction, and he longed to take her in his arms again. Something— perhaps the tilt of her head— dissuaded him, and caution was called for.
“You have done more than enough.” There was movement, curse it, in the hallway. So much patience, so much waiting for her to arrive at a matter he could solve, and now they were to be interrupted. She was disheveled, he was not much better, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of leverage. “Your kaburei should be here to attend you, but no matter. We shall send for some tea to settle your nerves, and—”
“Takshin. And Lady Komor.” A familiar voice— and there were only one or two visitors who would pierce the Golden cordon around the Jonwa.
Thankfully, it was Mrong Banh, his topknot pulled tight and his face pitilessly worn under bright, storm-tinted afternoon mirrorlight. He had aged all at once from the round, smiling youth of Takshin’s childhood into an elder, and there was even a hint of grey in that hurriedly redone topknot.
“Honorable Mrong.” Yala recovered quickly, and Banh’s gaze was that of a soldier who had survived a disaster, seeing not what was before him but some other, catastrophic scene.
“Oh,” he said, absently, and smoothed his hands down his robe-front. They were inkstained as usual. “Yes. There you are.” As if they had accosted him in a garden.
A distant rumble of thunder broke the hush outside. Somewhere in the palace women were wailing, and the sound rasped at Takshin’s nerves. It was not right, for Banh to look so…
So lost.
“Come in.” How strange. Usually looking at wounded, wandering creatures filled him with a sharp irritation, the urge to strike quickly and put an end to the witlessness. Was this, instead, what pity felt like? “Sit down, and you too, Yala. You look ready to fall over. There must be tea, and both of you must eat.” And now he was a maiden-auntie with children in her care, fussing over tea and cakes when the world had shifted underfoot.
“Eat?” Komor Yala blinked, and some sense returned to her clear, ghostly gaze. Her hand did not relax, though, and she squeezed the rai-paper with its cargo of weeping a little more firmly. “Of course. Yes. I shall attend to that. Sit down— and this time, Takshin, please use a cushion, at least.”
“As you command, dear lady.” He bowed, and the faint trace of her distracted smile was a balm. “Come, Banh. We are commanded to mannerly seating. It is official, then, is it not?”
“It is.” Banh looked about him like an eggfowl searching for a lost chick. “But…how is Takyeo? I came as soon as I…I should have seen…”
Takshin gestured at a pretty triangular table and its attendant cushions. “Come, Banh. Sit.” It was…strange, to hear himself sound so gentle. Komor Yala swayed for the door, a noblewoman’s soft, indirect step, and there were a few drops upon her skirt after all.
They were not blood but evidence of her tears, so Third Prince of Zhaon— or whatever he was now that the ordering of the world had slipped a peg or two— set his jaw, and ignored them.
For now.
WHATEVER MATERIAL AVAILABLE
It would have been better if the girl would weep, but Garan Daebo Sabwone— now Suon Garan-a Sabwone, though Nijera thought it unlikely she would sign her name thus— was dry-eyed, pale, and very quiet. Her tension manifested itself in small ways, though she did not slap at her ladies’ hands anymore and she ate barely enough to keep the furnace of her own life stoked, not nearly enough to fuel new growth.
At least the wedding night had passed without incident, and the king seemed, all things concerned, rather gentle with his new bride. Nijera had feared the worst upon that front after the palanquin episode, but some of her subtle, thankless work among the lords of Shan who attended their ruler was bearing a return or two. They were well-disposed toward her, at least, and a lady-in-waiting who was so conspicuously virtuous and loyal had some small authority that could be exercised to smooth her superior’s way.
The great palace of Shan was not nearly as pleasant as Zhaon-An’s complex,
but it was large, the walls were solid stone, and it had some fine gardens; besides, there were a great many new hangings and pleasant gifts brought to the queen’s apartments, a connected series of rooms around a tiny, gemlike green courtyard bearing the marks of trimmed-away neglect and more than one strange cabinet. It was the custom here to gift a royal bride for many days after her advent, perhaps to ease the shock of transition.
Mirrorlight brightened as Nijera pulled the curtains aside, her heart beating quickly. Every time she performed this duty she was afraid she would find the girl supine and lifeless amid rich tangled cloth upon the great round bed. Sabwone had huddled there the first morning, large-eyed and with tearstained cheeks, though there was evidence upon the sheets of consummation and the king had lingered to drink traditional, honey-thick kouri and hold the cup to his new wife’s own mouth for a token sip. He had even, handsome young thing that he was, attempted to cajole her into drinking more.
Sabwone submitted, but she did not speak. The girl’s silence was worrisome. She seemed to have turned from spoiled brat to wilting reed all but overnight, as if a malignant spirit had crept into her body through sliced wrists and wrapped about her liver, crouching there to devour her humors and block any chance of conceiving an heir.
“A bright good morn has risen.” Nijera greeted the bed and its occupant, and set about her morning tasks. “My queen, would it please you to have breakfast? There is walanir, and jaelo tea.”
“Very well,” Sabwone said, colorlessly, pushing herself up upon her elbows. The king had left before dawn rose stinging pink in the east, and there were unsettling rumors flying through the court. Not from Zhaon, thank Heaven’s great congress of shining gods and the Awakened One, but from the west and south. Even Lord Suron, who visited daily to make certain the new queen’s ladies had all they required and pass a few pleasant words with Nijera herself, bore a faintly anxious tilt to his rather large nose.
That was another worrisome item— the nobles of Shan were reluctant to send their maidens to the palace for service to the new queen. Given the rumors of the Mad Queen’s practices— whispered of even within Zhaon’s borders— it was not entirely surprising, and yet it was a slight to Nijera’s lady.
And that, Nijera found, she did not like at all, especially when the girl was so wan and lifeless. The palace had three housekeepers, and the one responsible for the queen’s quarters was an ironmouthed stick with a leather sudo hanging from her belt. She had not plied it upon any of Nijera’s junior ladies but once or twice looked as if she longed to, and Nijera was already seeking alternatives to that dame.
It would be easier if Sabwone would take up some of her responsibilities. And yet, the girl looked so…
Well, she looked lost, frankly, and somewhat stunned by married life. How had First Concubine Luswone not prepared her child for this? It was not meet to think ill of a royal concubine who had after all plucked Nijera from drudgery and placed her so high, and yet.
She bent to check the coil of freshening incense under her queen’s morning dress; the smell, a reminder of Zhaon, was a blessing.
“Auntie?” Sabwone said, a tiny whisper from the bed. It was the first time she had called her poor cousin thus, and the presumed closeness would have been very welcome under other circumstances.
“Yes, child?” She should not speak so, but habit was very strong. Her inflection was very honorific, though, and it really was not a task to be gentle.
Not when a brat had been so humbled. It was uncharitable of Nijera to think so, but she was past the age of attributing noble motives to herself where none existed.
“How long…” Sabwone had pushed herself up to sit upon the bed, hugging her knees. Her sleeping-shift was wrinkled, and her hair was mussed almost completely from its nighttime braid. “I mean to ask, how long do you think he will visit? Father never visited Mother so.”
Ah. Nijera circled the dress-stand, making certain all was as it should be. “Not that you remember,” she said, finally. The girl was safely married now, and could be spoken to of things a maiden must not hear. “Until his ardor cools, I suppose. Until you are well with heir, such visits are to be wished for.”
“It is unpleasant.” Sabwone darted her small glances, gauging her lady-in-waiting’s reaction in quite uncharacteristic fashion. “You are lucky, to escape it.”
“I am told it can be quite pleasant indeed.” Nijera rather doubted it, but there were songs, rumors, and certain treatises an unmarried aunt of certain age could filch and read without fear of too much damage to reputation.
“For men.” The queen hugged her knees. Her wrists were still bandaged, nia oil rubbed into the healing slices every evening to prevent scarring. “They are all beasts.”
“He is not cruel.” Nijera paced to the bed, her own skirts making a low, decorous sound. “And you are a queen now. It is not so bad.”
Sabwone rested her chin upon her knees. Her cheeks were hollow, and her very fine dark eyes had shadows underneath. “Queen of what, though?” But she shook her head, strings of hair come loose and raveling over her bare shoulders. Shan sleeping-shifts had no sleeves and were much shorter than Zhaon’s modest gowns. “I wish I was home.”
“That is only natural.” Had the girl been like this during the journey, Nijera would have thought much better of her. As it was, now she seemed only very young and very small, and it was unpleasant to think Daebo-a Luswone had not prepared her daughter as thoroughly as possible, for whatever reason.
Well, a maiden aunt was left to work with whatever dress-material was available. This was no different. “Come, my queen,” she continued. “Let us morning-bathe you, and attend to your breakfast. Then we shall dress you, and perhaps you might like to see the palace?”
“Hardly a palace,” Sabwone scoffed, but her arms had tensed upon her knees. “You hate me too, don’t you.”
I could have, very easily. Nijera suppressed a sigh. Hatred was best reserved for larger matters than spoiled children. “Of course not. You have been a frightened cat, though, and your claws have gone where they do the least good.” The proverb was no less true for being banal; Nijera paused, searching the girl’s face for any sign of her former temper.
“Claws.” Sabwone’s hand’s loosened, and she examined them with an air of bemusement. “I wish I had some.”
A rustling at the door was junior ladies preparing to enter and attend to their queen. Nijera’s heart hurt, a sudden swift stab of something close to longing. The look upon Suon Sabwone’s face was one she herself must have worn a long while ago, hearing the news that her own marriage was set aside due to her father’s fall from ministerial grace.
Even the Emperor shits in a pot, as the kaburei proverb went. High position was no guarantee of happiness, or even of a tolerably comfortable life. It was best to learn as much early and thoroughly, make your peace with what station Heaven had decreed for you, and set yourself to endure. That Sabwone had not arrived at such a conclusion spoke ill of her parents, though certainly the Emperor of Zhaon and his concubine were far above such things as Nijera’s private opinion.
This princess-turned-queen, however, might not be past influencing. Nijera’s was a position of deep trust, and the child would remember who was patient with both her spite and her sadness.
If she did not, well, Nijera had survived being set aside once, and could no doubt do so again.
“Now what would you do with those?” She smiled, and held out her hands. “Come, my lady queen. Let us ready you for the day. You are to rule the king’s heart, and that will not happen if you are too weak to speak.”
“I do not want his heart.” But Sabwone brightened slightly, and clasped her auntie’s hands, letting herself be drawn from the bed. “But I suppose I should see this palace of theirs. It is not like home.”
It would be useless to admit that Nijera liked Shan much better. Here she was a chief lady, not a useless poor cousin, and at least her days were full of effective action. “No,” she m
urmured, a loyal agreement. “It is not. But we may make it a home, my queen. Come, into your slippers; there is much to be done.”
A SMOOTH TRANSITION
The Jonwa’s largest receiving-room had a table that matched its stature, but its partition-door to the similarly largest of its gardens was firmly drawn closed. Mirrorlight, that soft maidenly dependent upon the sun’s glow, bathed it in soft radiance, gilding every edge and cushion.
“This is grim indeed.” Garan Makar settled his hands inside his brown silken sleeves and glanced worriedly at Mrong Banh. “How many assassins?”
“Three. Held off by a kaburei throwing crockery, a foreign woman, and an astrologer.” Takshin found some little levity in the story. At least, he gave every appearance of doing so, with a sardonic twist to every word. “Not to mention a foreign merchant. In any case, Honorable Kihon is not certain a gut-channel has been breached. It does not smell worse than any other wound.”
“Heaven is with us.” Mrong Banh was ashen, and his hands were almost fists, escaping that status only because he was not, after all, of a very warlike spirit. “I should have seen—”
“If astrologers could see everything, it would leave little for kings to do. Or exorcists.” Makar exhaled, sharply. “And…Father.”
“I am told he was fast slipping into slumber before rousing. He gave a great cry, and blood poured from his mouth.” Mrong Banh darted a glance at Lady Komor, who sat, pale and straight-spined in bright green silk, her own hands folded decorously in her lap. Takshin did not seem to think such a personage should be excluded from this meeting, and though Makar gave the foreign lady-in-waiting one or two considering glances, he did not demur. “There was…there was nothing to be done.”
