CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

MESEMA

Mesema took Nessaket’s arm. “Come, Mother. I will take you to your room.”

Sarmin watched them, a grave look on his face. He would send High Priest Assar to the women’s wing; she did not need to ask him. As she moved towards the corridor a guard caught her eye and shook his head: no, something bad waited for her there. Always something bad. And from behind him Duke Didryk pushed his way into the throne room, a boy in his arms, blood on his robes.

Banreh’s boy: she could not mistake him. His grass-child, the one he said he had wished he had made with her. She paused, Nessaket leaning against her, and looked at him, so much like the man she had loved that she felt a tear in her eye. Had loved.

She had been right about the slaves. She had been right about Lord Nessen’s manse, about Arigu, about everything. And in all that time she had doubted herself. Closed in by the palace, closed in by the generals and priests as much as the ancient table at which they sat, she had doubted herself: she, who had found a way through Helmar’s pattern, who had freed Sarmin from the torment of his old room. Only Sarmin had ever listened to her. Sarmin had taught her to read, had listened to her words, had fought the Pattern-Master at her side. She turned towards the service door, but Arigu blocked her path.

“The chief didn’t tell you, did he?” Arigu inclined his head in the boy’s direction. “There is always something he’s not telling, something he wants you to do for him. You might have lost everything for that slave boy. The duke, too. Did your Chief Banreh care?”

“But you knew.” Mesema spoke with sudden understanding. “You knew the boy was Banreh’s son when you took him for a slave.” She paused. “And it was you who put me at risk, not him.”

Nessaket spoke in a hoarse voice. “That is how Arigu intended to control him—the same way I once sought to control Beyon through keeping Sarmin. But the horse chief is no Beyon, to wait and to hope and to despair.”

Shocked, Mesema glanced at Nessaket’s face. Her eyes were focused far away. She was not well.

Arigu’s hand gripped his sword-hilt, but he did not draw. It was only a dark memory that had moved his hand.

Without another word Mesema pulled Nessaket through the side door. Everyone in the palace sought to control everyone else. And Banreh had sought to control her: he had brought her here and convinced her to accept Arigu’s treachery, only to try to persuade her to return with him once it all went sour. His friend Didryk had marked her arm to force her actions. But she was not important, not really; only the sons she might bear. Sons they would also try to control.

Only Sarmin valued her for who she was.

The stairs were difficult for Nessaket, but the guards offered their assistance, and at last Mesema steered the Empire Mother into her bedchamber and sat her down upon a bench.

“It is over for me,” Nessaket said.

“All you need is sleep,” Mesema said, plumping the cushions.

“I did not mean that I would die,” said Nessaket, sounding more like herself. “Only that I am finished with the palace. I am finished with its whispers and its daggers and its love of war. Once I wanted it all for myself, but I am done with that. It no longer has value for me. After I have rested I will sail south with Daveed.”

Mesema straightened and looked out the window. There was no view of the Blessing from here; for that she would need to go back to the garden over the old women’s wing. “What was he like?” she asked. “The first austere?”

“Like every other man,” Nessaket said. “Will you come with me?” Mesema turned the question over in her mind. To be with Pelar, to find safety in the forests of the south … but how long would that safety last? How long before the emptiness of Mogyrk sought them there?

“No,” she said. “My place is with Sarmin.” There would be no pika seeds for her. She would fight by his side as before.

Nessaket nodded, leaned back and closed her eyes.

Mesema passed High Priest Assar as she left the room. He gave her a curt nod as he hurried in to attend the Empire Mother. Mesema made her way back towards the throne room, then stopped at the Great Hall and turned towards the temple wing. If they were all to die here, then she would see Banreh one last time.

No one stopped her as she walked through the curtain of vines. Behind it, he lay as before, except that his wounds looked less severe, his breathing was less ragged. She crossed to him and ran a finger down his cheek. He was still so handsome; his face could still make a traitor of her. But when he opened his eyes she stepped away. “Your son is safe.”

“Thank the Hidden God.” He moved to sit upright, but thought better of it and settled back against his pillow. “Mesema—listen. Didryk will bring this place down. We have a plan. Afterwards he and I and you and the boy—we will go north. We will be free.”

“You are already free: Sarmin has made it so. But Ykrmir stands outside the walls. How did you plan to escape them?”

“Didryk,” he said, as if remembering.

She gave a sad laugh. “Only Sarmin thinks things through properly. You should thank him, when this is all over.”

He looked at her then—truly looked at her. “So you will not come with me?”

“No,” she said, resisting the temptation to touch his face one last time, to feel his lips against hers. She had made her choice long ago, when Beyon still lived. “My place is not with you, not any more. Goodbye, Banreh.”

The scent of roses followed her from the temple.