“Are you sure?” he asked, setting the cup out of harm’s way.
“Do you mean, am I sober?” she said with a wry snort. Too sober. On the Marid, she had been thinking only of a night’s distraction, an escape from dreams. Now a dozen doubts and questions chased their tails inside her head.
“That too. Are you?”
“Sober enough. Sure enough.”
“Will you stay here?” she asked later, lying beside him in the dark. The party had finally ended and only crickets sang in the garden now. “When this is over?”
“I don’t know.” His fingers twined absently in her hair. “The desert is beautiful in its way, and I could find work. I’ve never been good at settling down, though. Even in palaces. Especially in palaces. What about you? Will you be a spy forever?”
“What else is there for me?”
“You could always become a mercenary.”
Isyllt chuckled. “Some would say I already have.” Her humor faded. “I don’t know.” Resting her cheek on Adam’s chest, she studied the wide empty room. She could make a life here, even if it was a lonely one. What else did she have anywhere else?
She wished she could blame these doubts and fears on the ghost wind, but they were too familiar for that. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER 19
News spread though the palace quickly, and through the streets of Ta’ashlan. The empress was holding a grand audience. Merchant families vied for invitations, while poor neighborhoods chose their most respected elders to attend and bring back news. Families of servants connived to sneak into the palace. Audiences like this meant free food and drink, as well as gossip and the occasional costly keepsake.
Isyllt spent the three days waiting and pacing. She would have left the palace, stares and whispers be damned, but Asheris kept her close. Despite her smothering boredom, she was forced to agree that crowded streets might not be the safest place. Though a bullet would have been more interesting than another day of studying the plaster.
The morning of the event, Asheris came with gifts: a new coat of figured silk, white on white, and a jeweled band to hold her veil in place. “You won’t be in the crowd in the apadana tonight,” he said with a rueful shrug, “but that’s no reason not to look your best.”
“I’m beginning to feel like an embarrassing mistress. Kept veiled and hidden away in opera boxes. You don’t even take me to the opera.”
He bowed apologetically. “It’s been a dreary season. We’re not missing much.”
Her eyebrows lifted slowly. He was too dark to show a blush, but he had the grace to duck away from her gaze. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t my intention when I brought you here.”
“At least no one has tried to kill me in…” She counted on her fingers. “Nine days.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll give them another chance.”
She took his hand, pressing her narrow palm to his to listen to the resonance of magic beneath his skin. “How are you feeling?”
“Dawn was…unpleasant,” he admitted. “But your spell holds. It will last through tomorrow—with any luck, we’ll be gone from the palace by then.” He pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “Be ready by Maghrevi. I’ll come for you at the bells.”
Adam lingered in the doorway after Asheris had gone, studying her with narrow eyes. “You care about him,” he said at last, when she cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Of course. We’re friends.” For all their honesty, the words slid too glibly off her tongue. “But that isn’t what you mean, is it?” She sighed and sank onto the edge of the bed. “I know better. It’s just—”
Adam’s mouth tugged sideways, not quite a smile. “You don’t know where to find nice men?”
Isyllt chuckled. “Or what I’d do with one if I did. It’s easier, isn’t it? Knowing there’s something standing between you, something that isn’t your fault?” Knowing that no matter how you loved someone, you would never come first in their affections. Never be what they needed.
Adam didn’t answer, but meeting his tea-green eyes was like looking into a mirror. Isyllt was the first to glance away. “Are you coming with me tonight? We could find you something to wear—”
He pushed off the door frame, and a predatory look sharpened his face. “No. I have another idea.”
Asheris found the empress in her dressing room that afternoon. She sent her maids away when he knocked, standing before her tall mirror in only a shift, her hair a wild cloud around her face. Fresh paint gleamed on her nails and she fanned her hands to dry them.
“Is everything ready?” she asked.
“All the extra security is prepared.” The Indigo Guard and imperial soldiers were in charge of true security, the kind that stopped knives and bullets and malicious spells. Asheris had also made sure that a group of courtiers and senators were warned—in a vague way—of Ahmar’s schemes against the empress. All of them were prepared to keep the Asalar away from the throne tonight, with conversation, feigned argument, or spilled drinks. He didn’t trust the priestess not to make a scene if it would further her ends.
“Good. I sent a note to the temple, implying that I was inclined to be generous, and to arrange a meeting several days from now. That should give you time to be away from Ta’ashlan before she learns that my generosity is not what she expects.”
“So you’re really letting me go?” He’d half expected some delay, some urgent need that would keep him in the palace.
“I’ll make the announcement tonight.” She turned away to inspect a tray of jewelry. “Which necklace?”
“The rubies,” he said, glancing at her dress to confirm the choice. He picked up a collar dripping with ruby chips—all too tiny or infinitesimally flawed to be proper mage stones, but still a fortune’s worth. And still capable of holding magic; he whispered a ward into them as he draped the necklace across Samar’s collarbones, breathing in the henna and rosemary of her hair.
“Thank you.” She drew a deep breath, shoulders squaring, and the gems threw crimson sparks. “I’ve made arrangements, supplies and such. You can leave in the morning, if you choose.”
“Samar—” She was shutting him out, she and Siddir. It pricked him as sharply as Ahmar’s curse. He glanced down at her stomach, soft and sloping beneath the thin fabric of her shift. If she had gained any weight, it could doubtless be attributed to too much lokum, but that wouldn’t last. “What are you going to do?” he asked softly.
She winked, but her smile was strained. “You’ll find out tonight. I hope you’ll forgive me before you go.”
“Forgive you? It was my idea. And you’re protecting both of us by sending me away.”
“That’s not why.” Her mouth twisted sideways and she brushed his hand, a touch and gone. “You’ll see.”
Asheris arrived as the sunset bells faded, resplendent in silk the color of rust. The petal-cut skirts of his long coat flared and glittered with every step, sewn with bits of turquoise and amethyst. Isyllt’s opals and marcasites sparkled too, cold as frost beside his warm tones. Despite their eye-catching combination and the bustle of the palace, no one gave them a second glance as Asheris led her through the halls; his spell of obfuscation tingled against her skin.
They passed the great apadana through a servants’ corridor, and Isyllt glimpsed a vast hypostyle, taller than the Pomegranate Hall, a blaze of chandeliers and pale marble. A crowd had already gathered, voices rising like a din of birds. Asheris didn’t take her inside, but instead turned onto a narrow staircase and down another corridor.
“You can watch from here,” he said, stopping beside a plain expanse of wall. She never saw the seams until he touched a concealed latch and a panel slid open. “It’s not the opera, but court always has its share of melodrama.”
The alcove was nearly the size of a theater box—a cheap one, at least. An elaborate soapstone carving screened the front, but if Isyllt stepped close she had a clear view of the room through the gaps.
Clerestory windows lined the r
oom high above her—she wondered how they were cleaned, and how many servants fell to their deaths doing so. Friezes covered the walls, depictions of men and women in dozens of styles of dress. The various peoples of Assar, she guessed, all the nations subsumed by the empire. Flags hung from the ceiling as well, bright colors fluttering in the draft. She recognized only a few: the coiled red cobra on black of Khem, the golden bee on scarlet of Deshra, and the crimson-striped green of Sivahra. They reminded her of heads mounted on a hunter’s wall.
Crimson drapes hung behind the throne—this chair was gold-chased alabaster with snarling lion heads on the arms. A pair of Indigo Guards lingered at the back of the dais, silent and unobtrusive as shadows amidst the rising noise.
“That,” Asheris said, nodding toward the farthest corner, “is our priestess.”
She followed his gaze to a tall, scarlet-robed woman, surrounded by what appeared to be priests of lesser rank. The priestess spoke quietly with her fellows, offering smiles like precious stones. Isyllt was glad to know the woman was scheming against the throne—she was far too gracious and serene to be innocent.
Asheris stayed for a quarter of an hour, pointing out various lords and senators and sharing gossip and anecdotes. The empress had no consort to sit beside her, but her closest advisors gathered directly below the dais. Among them was the Crown Princess Indihar, a girl nearly Moth’s age—striking coppery hair and yellow silk made her a bright spot amidst the crowd.
When the hall had filled nearly to capacity, Asheris took his leave. “I’ll come for you when the audience is over,” he said. “If you see any assassins, feel free to stop them.”
His timing was impeccable. Only moments after Isyllt watched him maneuver through the crowd to take his place in the front, a servant struck a heavy gong. When the third stroke faded, the audience fell silent as the empress emerged from a private door beside the dais.
Samar wore cream, a bright contrast to the crimson banners behind her. The cloud of her hair was twisted into loose, gold-bound knots that stood out from her face like rays from the sun, adding height and breadth to her frame. Bangles flashed on her wrists and rubies blazed across her throat. She wore no crown—she needed none. Every line of her spoke power and wealth and strength. When she spoke, her voice filled the great hall like clear water.
“Good evening. Senators, governors, people of Ta’ashlan, distinguished guests”—Samar gazed around the room, singling out a few with a glance or a nod while greeting the whole—“thank you for joining us, especially on such short notice. Tonight’s address will be brief, but—I hope—worth your time.
“I know many of you are concerned with the ill-omened weather—the storm called the ghost wind. This storm has visited Assar before, though perhaps never twice in such a short time. I hope you all feel appropriately lucky.” Polite laughter followed her sarcastic tone, but died quickly. “History tells us that the ghost wind, for all its horror and destruction, is a rare mystery. More terrible than the simooms, but elusive. We can find no record of its cause in all the archives. But what history cannot teach, we may discover for ourselves.” Gold gleamed as she raised a hand. “Asheris.”
Asheris stepped forward and knelt, the skirts of his coat flaring around him like a flower unfurling.
“You are my closest advisor.” She spoke to him but pitched her voice for the entire hall. “Advisor, cousin, friend, and mage without peer. You understand, then, the weight of what I ask.”
“I am yours to command, Majesty, to the ends of the earth.”
“Hopefully not so far,” she said dryly, “but perhaps close. Seek the ghost wind, into the deep desert or wherever the trail takes you. If you can stop it at the source, more glory to you, but I charge you to find the cause of this black storm and bring back the news. This devil wind has plagued Assar for centuries—if I can see it done, it will plague no future generations. Leave tomorrow, with soldiers and mages as you see fit. Any provisions we can provide are yours.”
A cheer rose with Asheris, and courtiers clapped him on the shoulders as he retreated back into the crowd.
Samar lifted her hand again and a hundred voices fell silent. “But I didn’t ask you here to speak only of the weather.”
A curious mutter rippled and died.
“It has been, as many of you know, twelve years since I lost my beloved husband and child. My advisors and senators have urged me to wed since I took the throne, but I couldn’t yet replace the memory of my family in my heart.”
The mutter returned, louder, and was quashed again. Isyllt heard the rough susurrus of indrawn breath.
“Many candidates have been put before me,” Samar continued. “Princes, amirs, generals, foreign nobles. Alliances have been offered, many of which would indeed be beneficial. For some time, however, I’ve felt the stirrings of affection such as I haven’t known in years.”
The crowd pressed forward with a sweeping rustle of silk.
“It is, as so many have told me, time for me to wed again, to strengthen the throne and the future of Assar. I can only beg you, my friends, to indulge me when I choose to temper politics with the desires of the heart.”
She paused, letting heartbeats go by. Any longer and the crowd might have screamed. Then Samar rose and walked to the edge of the dais, glowing in ivory and gold.
“Siddir Bashari.”
The audience pulled back like a wave, leaving him alone on the shining floor. He too wore cream, shot with silver and chips of emerald. Hesitance slowed his stride as he moved toward the dais—or maybe that was only his limp. Black hair gleamed in the light of a hundred lamps as he knelt and bowed his head.
“You have been my friend for more years than I can count, long before I wore the crown. Your presence has soothed me in times of crisis and turmoil. When other duties have taken you from my side, I find myself restless in your absence.”
A dark flush crept up Siddir’s neck, though he kept his face calm.
“Would you do me the honor now of standing by me? Will you seal yourself to me before the throne and the Unconquered Sun, and take your place beside me as imperial consort?”
Siddir had known. His reaction was perfect: the flush, the silent opening and closing of his mouth, the way he wiped trembling hands on his coatskirts. Isyllt might have believed him as surprised as the audience, but for the way a dozen comments, a dozen silences and fitful glances came tumbling into place.
Isyllt swallowed and tore her gaze away from the spectacle to find Asheris. His face was stiff and still, brown skin draining grey; he hadn’t known.
At last Siddir found his voice, and perhaps the catch therein was unfeigned. “Your Majesty— I never presumed—”
“No,” Samar said with a smile. “You never presumed so much. I presume for both of us. Will you be my consort, Lord Bashari?”
“I—” He swallowed. “I will, Your Majesty.”
The room rang with shouts. A few of outrage, and Isyllt was sure those were marked. Most, however, were happy cheers, as the theatricality of the scene swept them up.
“Then rise,” Samar said into the fervor, extending both hands. “Rise and join me, and never kneel to me again.”
Sunset prayers faded and shadows bled across the room. Adam waited.
He had no love for lights and crowds and noise, but it wasn’t quiet that kept him here, sitting in the corner of Isyllt’s room, draped in charms of silence and invisibility. All afternoon his neck had prickled with foreboding; something would happen tonight.
Part of it was only logic—if someone meant to sneak into their quarters to leave a message for Isyllt, this was the night to do it. But the greater part of his certainty sprang from intuition, the sort of hunch he’d learned long ago not to ignore. Tonight was his chance.
His chance at what, exactly? Justice for a crime thirteen years past? Revenge for his own heartache? Or just to learn the truth, to prove he wasn’t going mad.
Lady of Ravens, he prayed, at least give me that. But t
he mercenary god—Saint Morrigan, they called her in places where gods had fallen from fashion—was hardly a deity who cared about truth. Revenge, perhaps; battlefield justice; sharp-edged mercy.
True night settled and still he waited, sword across his lap, magic itching against his skin, toes curling inside his boots to keep the blood moving. What if he was wrong?
The first quiet footstep from the next room told him he wasn’t.
Lightning seared his nerves, and only long practice kept his hands from going numb against his sword-hilt. He heard the whisper of a soft-soled boot, so light any distraction would have covered it, but he’d never heard the door or window open.
His vision tunneled as a slender shadow filled the doorway. His breath caught. Black cloth blended with the night, only a paler stripe of her face exposed. Her scent reached him as she stepped into the room, teasing, and it was all he could do to keep holding his breath.
Not precisely the same—no one would be after thirteen years. Brenna’s familiar perfume—a heady blend of violet and bitter oranges he’d never forgotten—was gone, and the spices of a different diet soaked her skin. But the flesh and blood and female musk beneath—those hadn’t changed.
She scanned the room as she moved, but her gaze didn’t linger on him. He gave thanks to Isyllt and black-winged Morrigan in equal measure. Something pale flashed in Brenna’s hand—not a blade, but a note. Instructions for Moth’s return.
Thinking of the girl grounded him, eased the hot red bloodlust rising in his veins. He couldn’t kill her. Not until they found Moth.
That didn’t mean he had to be gentle.
When she reached the bed, he struck. Muscles clenched and uncoiled as he leapt, lifting his still-sheathed sword. The chair scraped and clattered behind him and Brenna swung around. His left hand opened as he moved; quartz clung to sweaty skin, then fell free. Another gift from Isyllt.
The Kingdoms of Dust Page 19
