CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

MESEMA

Sarmin waited at her door, his eyes shadowed with fatigue. At first he leaned on the wall, his eyes on the rug, and she thought he was too tired even to meet her gaze. But then at last he found his way in, closed the door, and settled on her cushioned bench, facing away from the mirror. He leaned forwards and put his head in his hands. “We have found Adam, but not my mother or brother. He says he let my brother go. I fear the first austere’s hand in this.”

She went to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I regained my pattern-sight, but I can do nothing with it—it is like seeing the words, but not being able to read them. Neither Didryk nor Farid have the talent I once had. Yrkmir waits—the first austere waits—and Govnan cannot last forever. Mesema”—he reached up and took her hand— “I wish I had sent you south. I wish my mother—”

“I know.”

“I think the duke regrets his alliance with me. The Yrkmen are strong, and their first austere has magics I cannot touch—not as I am. But I have both Adam and the duke, which is what they want. I could hand them over, say the words of love for Mogyrk … but would it save us?”

She thought of the Red Hooves her father had held captive, and the things they had preached to one another while she played in the grass. “No, it would not. Listen: they want to wipe the world clean so that when it dawns again, all will be new. To them we are nothing more than filth to be washed away.”

“Adam claims to think differently.”

“Some of them carry the light of their faith, others carry the sword.” It was so with all things, not only gods. She knelt down before him and brushed a curl from his cheek. “Do not betray the trust of the duke.”

“He nearly betrayed mine.”

“But he did not, my love.” He gave her a curious look and she blushed, because it was the first time she had ever said the words. She hid her embarrassment behind teasing. “Is it too soft to speak of love? Does this palace tolerate such emotion, or does Herzu keep a tight hand on us now?”

“I care nothing for Herzu.” He leaned down and touched his forehead against hers. “I am looking for another god. I have been reading an old book that belonged to Satreth …”

She looked up at him in surprise. “Mirra touched me with her grace in Nessaket’s garden. Perhaps it was a sign.”

“Yes.” He frowned.

She knew Mirra was the goddess of women and not easily embraced by men, but Mesema must follow through with the sign provided to her. “What is it?”

“The Megra said something to me before she died—she said healing the Storm would be Mirra’s work.”

“She did?” Mesema smiled and leaned in to kiss him. “Is Azeem waiting for you? General Lurish?”

“No.”

She kissed him once more.

Sarmin pulled away. “I should—the generals …”

But she drew him close. The truce would last just a few days, and they had this time, so she would use it. He returned her kisses, his breaths heavier, his touches longer, and she stood, untied her dress, and let it fall. Now she stood naked before him. She had never done that before; she had always been too worried about how she might compare to the more beautiful concubines, what he might think of the loose skin on her stomach from when Pelar had been born. But now she wanted him to see her, as she truly was. He stood and let his own robes fall, showing his thin body, his wide, bony shoulders narrowing into his hips, his pale legs. Together they moved to the bed. Though war waited not far away, they took their time, and when she finally trembled and shook above him the palace had gone quiet.

He put a hand on her stomach and smiled. She rolled to his side and put her head on his chest. “Dinar and Arigu will use me to move against you.”

“Because you are Felt.”

“Because I have seen Banreh, because I am Windreader, they will paint me as the enemy. But I do not know if they will move now, or after the war.”

“They will not move against me if they are satisfied, if they believe victory is at hand.”

She watched the wall and said nothing. Victory did not appear to be at hand. Banreh’s death would have satisfied Arigu, but it had been Arigu himself who had advised Sarmin to keep the chief alive. She would not be surprised to learn that had been a trick, designed to make Sarmin look weak.

At last she said, “We need to talk about the worst. If Yrkmir breaks through, if they get to the palace, we need to talk about that.”

He said nothing so she went on, “Your mother has pika seeds somewhere in her room. Probably hidden among her cosmetics. I would rather do that …” She rose up on an elbow. “Grada should go south to guard Pelar. He will be the true emperor.”

“Emperor of what? If we lose, what is he?”

“Alive.”

He caressed her hair. “Do not take the pika seeds unless you are sure there is no rescue for you—even then—” He kissed her forehead. “Even then, think carefully.”

“I will.” She sighed. “I am thinking of those slaves, taken from the Grass. I wonder if they are still alive, and whether they will live through this. I wish I had been able to find them.”

“I wish so too.” They lay in silence for a time, and then he said, “Show me that cut-up poem again.” She sat up and reached for the book of poems, retrieved the bits of paper and scattered them over the sheets. Sarmin cocked his head one way and then the other. “Govnan is tricking the Storm because it can’t see true fire. Mogyrk Named all things, giving them symbols, and in so doing, gave his followers patterns to work with. But I think he did not Name everything, for he did not know everything.”

“How could a god not know everything?”

Sarmin sat up. “The Megra said something else to me before she died: ‘Just a man’—that’s what she said to me, and I thought she meant Helmar, but now I think she meant Mogyrk. He was not a god, but a man like Helmar—a man who thought he could remake the world and failed.”

Mesema touched a ragged edge of paper. “And yet they worship him.”

“A man can ascend to godhood—many of our emperors have done so. Except that Mogyrk never died. He is both dead and not dead.” Sarmin frowned and looked towards the window. “Do you hear that? A buzzing sound, like a thousand bees, or a thousand people, talking far away.”

She listened. “I don’t hear anything.” She rose from the bed and picked up her dress from the floor. “Dead and not dead,” she repeated. “Here and not here.” She pulled the silk over her body. “Come.”

“Where?”

“To see someone.” She tied the silk inexpertly; since Tarub and Willa had begun dressing her she had regressed to a childlike incompetence. She pulled up on the fabric as Sarmin rose and slipped into his robes. “It’s not far,” she promised, walking to the door in her bare feet.

She was surprised to find Grada waiting in the corridor. “Is there more news?” she asked, but Grada only looked at Sarmin.

“She is guarding me,” Sarmin said. “Now, show me what you want me to see.”

Mesema glanced at Grada before leading him down the hall. She would not ask why he needed the Knife at his side—she did not want to know. Inside Nessaket’s room Rushes sat, singing a song to the child in the cradle.

Sarmin slowed and stopped before the doorway, shaking his head.

“Just look at him,” she said. “One more time, look at him.” Now that he had his pattern-sight, things might go differently.

He gathered himself. She knew he resented this boy, resented the affection everyone showed him, resented that he was the only person who still searched for Daveed. All of that showed on his face before he finally entered his mother’s room.

Rushes leaped to her feet and he waved her off. “Sit down, Rushes. I am here only for a moment, to see the boy.”

And yet he paused again, just inside the door. Mesema took his hand.

Finally he moved and Mesema walked with him, never letting go. And there he stood, looking down for a long time, until finally he gave a sob. “It is him,” he said, letting go of her hand and lifting the boy from his silks. “It is my brother.” He held Daveed against him, all chubby legs and curls and fists. “I didn’t see him—I was looking at him the wrong way, like through a mirror, backwards. But it is him.”

He turned to Mesema, wide-eyed, the boy squirming in his grasp. “Now I realise— The letter! I must go and look at it again too.”

He meant the letter taken from Lord Nessen’s courier, the one he had said meant nothing. She reached out to take Daveed from his hands, but he paused, pressing the boy against his chest and inhaling his scent. “My brother,” he said, his voice filled with wonder. But his hesitation was brief; no sooner had Mesema taken Daveed from his hands than he was already at the door. “I will see you in the morning,” he said, his eyes focused on her but also past her, towards the next thing he had to do.

“In the morning, my love,” she called after him.

She replaced Daveed in his cradle and took a deep breath. “Rushes,” she said, “I need to look for something among Nessaket’s things. Some seeds …”