25

Matters of the Aftermath

Maia received Hesero Nelaran in the Tortoise Room. It had been, he thought, a month and a half since he had first been introduced to her, and he was almost, oddly, sad to find that she no longer overwhelmed him as she had his first day in the Untheileneise Court. She was still a beautiful, sophisticated woman, but he had been surrounded by women like her for weeks, and she no longer stood out for him except by virtue—if “virtue” was what one ought to call it—of being Setheris’s wife.

“Serenity,” she murmured with a low and exquisitely graceful curtsy. “We thank you for granting this audience, which we know we should not have presumed to ask for.”

“Osmerrem Nelaran, we don’t—”

“Please,” she said, and she smiled a brave, fake smile at him. “Did we not agree we were cousins?”

“Cousin Hesero,” he amended. “What is it you wish?”

“Serenity, please, we ask that you grant an audience to our husband, your cousin.”

“Why should we?”

“He is your cousin,” she said, frowning.

“And the princess is our sister-in-law.”

“He raised you!” she protested. “Serenity, we know you do not favor him, though we do not understand why, but can you not see past whatever grudge it is you hold against him? Is it just of you to—”

“Grudge?” He could hear that his voice had risen, but he could not find the wherewithal to care. “Osmerrem Nelaran—Cousin Hesero—we hold no grudge. We have tried our most desperate best not to act from spite or malice. We did not send him back to Edonomee, although we could have. We offered him a position that was honorable and useful. What more could we do?”

“Serenity—”

“No.” He realized distantly that he was trembling. “We could not. I could not. He bullied me. He reviled me. He beat me—not for discipline, but for his own anger and helplessness.” He fumbled with his left cuff, shoved the sleeve up to show the scars, thick silver lines on slate-gray skin. “This is his handiwork, Cousin Hesero. And while I … I understand, truly, and I forgive him as best I may, I will not show him favor. Nor do I think it just that he demands it of me.” He choked the words off, ashamed that he had said that much, and bent his head to fasten his cuff again. But his fingers were too unsteady for the tiny pearl buttons, and he was about to forsake it when a voice said softly, “Serenity, will you permit me?”

It was Cala. Maia could not meet his eyes, but he extended his wrist. Cala’s long white fingers were quick and deft; he had fastened the last button before Maia registered his use of the first-familiar. He looked up, and where he had feared to find pity or contempt, Cala said, “I could not be as forgiving,” and bowed deeply before returning to his place beside Beshelar.

Later, Maia told himself. Think about it later. He had the threads of another conversation to pick up; Hesero had backed away and was staring, stricken. Maia had wondered if Setheris had ever raised his hand against his wife, and now he supposed he had his answer in her horror-filled eyes and ashen face.

“Sit down, Cousin Hesero,” he said.

She sat, the first graceless motion he had seen from her. “He was cruel to you?” she said in a bare, breathless whisper.

“Yes,” Maia said. There was no point now in trying to soften the truth. He sat down himself, suddenly uncertain whether his legs would hold him if he remained standing. “I am sorry. I should not have—”

She shook her head dazedly. “No, it isn’t—that isn’t … I cannot—Serenity, I do not understand how we can be speaking of the same person.”

“I am sorry,” Maia said again, helplessly. “I don’t understand either. But … he was very unhappy. We both were. And we were very isolated.”

Although she was trying to meet his eyes, her gaze kept going back to his left forearm. “It was a firescreen,” he said. “He … he didn’t mean to.”

She nodded and then by force of will dragged her gaze back to his face. “Will you see him?”

Maia resumed the armor of formality. “We suppose we must.”

“He is innocent of treason,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “He does not deserve…” She stopped, and he could see her composure was as fragile as a soap bubble. “Whatever he may have done, he is our husband. Please, we beg you, if you will condemn him, at least do it yourself.”

He did not understand her, but then, he could not imagine loving Setheris that much. He supposed many things would be different if he could. “We will grant him an audience,” he said. “Now.” His glance at Csevet was not a question, and Csevet’s drawn-down mouth and dipped ears acknowledged it.

After considerable and careful thought, Maia had Setheris brought to the Tortoise Room. It did not provide him the shield of impersonal public grandeur that the Untheileian or even the Michen’theileian would have, but he decided it was worth sacrificing that shield for a greater feeling of comfort and security and therefore confidence.

Setheris, when he arrived, escorted by a pair of guardsmen, looked tired and shabby and … it took Maia several seconds to identify what he was seeing in Setheris’s posture and the carriage of his ears, and several more to believe it: Setheris Nelar was afraid.

It wasn’t that Setheris shouldn’t be afraid, Maia thought; it was that Maia had never seen Setheris afraid, never imagined Setheris afraid, and now that it was in front of him, he did not know what to do.

Setheris knelt and stayed there. For once, Maia felt no qualms about leaving a petitioner on his knees.

“We have spoken to thy wife,” Maia said.

Setheris flinched as if he’d been burned, and Maia realized that that must have been the one thing he had most wanted to prevent. Maia wondered if he should feel somehow victorious; he didn’t.

“She tells us,” he pursued grimly, “that thou art loyal to us.”

“I am, Serenity,” Setheris said, his voice as flat as his ears, as if he did not expect to be believed. “I swear it.”

“Why?”

Maia’s guards and nohecharei stared at him like stunned carp. Setheris did not—Setheris did not even look up. He knew why Maia was asking.

Maia waited; he had never seen Setheris at a loss for words before. Finally, Setheris said, something between a plea and a snarl, “Because Uleris Chavar is an idiot. And I believe in the law. I believe that you believe in the law.” Which was a shocking admission from Setheris, as close to a compliment as Maia had ever had from him. Setheris looked up then, and his eyes were wild. “I am many things, Serenity, but I am not a traitor.”

And Maia understood: Setheris had been here before, accused of treason, on his knees before the emperor. But that confrontation had gone very differently. Maia asked, for the question burned him like a live coal, “Why wert thou relegated to Edonomee?”

Setheris’s laugh was as bitter as Maia remembered it. “I told the late emperor your father that if he believed I had committed treason, he should put me on trial, not lock me up in the Esthoramire like a misbehaving dog. I thought he was going to kill me. For I had not committed treason, and he knew it. But I had tried to manipulate him, and he could not forsake his anger. Could never forsake his anger. And thus I was sent to Edonomee. With you.”

The history between them made the air thick. Slowly, thoughtfully, Maia said, “We could send thee back there.”

“Serenity, I have done nothing wrong!” The protest was anguished, clearly ripped from him despite his own better judgment.

“I know that,” Maia said. “But I hate thee, as thou well knowst, and if thou art at court, I will always have to wonder what thou art saying, and to whom.”

Setheris’s face was bloodless to the lips. He said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I swear I will say nothing—I have said nothing, even to my wife. It is the past and it will stay there. I am loyal, Serenity, and I understand the danger of words—as thou knowst.”

Maia thought of all the things Setheris had called him, from “moon-witted hobgoblin” to “misbegotten blot,” and had to admire his cousin’s courage—if not outright insanity—in invoking those memories. “I will not send thee to Edonomee, but I cannot have thee here.” He held Setheris’s gaze steadily, for the first time in his life not flinching away from his cousin’s cold eyes. And it was Setheris who looked down. Who muttered grudgingly, unhappily, “I suppose I have earned this from you.”

Maia said, “We suppose so also.” He saw Cala’s wince out of the corner of his eye.

“Just—Serenity, please. We are—I am loyal and competent. Give me a job, a responsibility, something. Do not leave me to rot as Varenechibel did.”

“We cannot punish thee for not conspiring against us,” Maia said, and watched some of the fear bleed out of Setheris’s body. He deliberately looked away from Setheris to find Csevet, noticing distantly how difficult it was. Csevet was blank-faced, but his ears were ever-so-slightly flattened with disapproval. Maia glared at him, and Csevet, coming back to himself with a jump, bowed his head in acquiescence and slipped silently out of the room.

“Something will be found for you,” Maia said to Setheris, “and we do not think you need stay in the Esthoramire any longer.”

Setheris’s head had jerked up when Maia granted him the second-person formal, and by the end of the sentence, his eyes were shining in a way that Maia found disconcerting and embarrassing. It was no part of their relationship for Setheris to be grateful to him—he did not, he realized, even want Setheris’s gratitude.

He looked at Hesero Nelaran, standing against the wall, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. “You have your husband back, Cousin Hesero.”

She said, “We thank you, Serenity,” and Maia thought she meant it. Or, at least, she was trying to. Her curtsy was still exquisite, and she left, beside her husband, with her head up, as if she bore no burdens on her shoulders at all.

In the silence, Maia gripped his courage together as best he could and turned to face his nohecharei. Beshelar was scarlet in the face. Maia looked hastily past him at Cala, who said, “How old were you when—?” and he nodded toward Maia’s arm.

“This? Oh, fourteen or so.” He added, still not sure in his own mind if it made things better or worse, “He was drunk.”

Beshelar said, grinding the words viciously between his teeth, “He should be flogged through the streets. He should be flogged to the river and thrown in.” He fixed Maia with a furious glare and demanded, “Did the emperor know?”

“We have no idea,” Maia said; this was not the reaction he had expected from Beshelar. “If he was told, he did not care.”

“Monstrous!” Beshelar shouted, very nearly at the top of his lungs. Csevet, coming into the room at that moment, startled back and almost dropped the sheaf of papers he was carrying. There was a moment of supreme awkwardness, and then Maia was simply unable to keep from laughing. He sat down, still laughing, and waved Csevet into the other chair. Csevet sat, still looking bewildered and a little alarmed. Beshelar said, very stiffly, “Serenity, we will await you on the landing,” and stalked out.

Csevet looked from Beshelar’s retreating form to Cala to Maia, who had managed to calm himself. “Serenity, should we—?”

“No, it’s fine,” Maia said. “Beshelar was talking about something else. And you have a matter to lay before us?”

“Serenity,” Csevet said, agreeing and accepting. “This first order of business before the Corazhas must be the selection of a new Lord Chancellor, and we thought—unless you have a candidate of your own to put forward?”

“We would choose you in a heartbeat,” Maia said, “except that we would be lost without you.”

Csevet blushed a delicate, pleased pink and said, “We are far too young, Serenity.”

As am I, Maia thought, but he bit the words back as unprofitable. Instead, he thought carefully about the men he had encountered in the government of the Ethuveraz, those who supported Chavar’s policies (and who now might be backtracking in haste), those who did not, those who balanced carefully and noncommittally between, and he thought that, out of all of them, only one had both seen that the emperor was out of his depth and had chosen to do something about it. And had continued to offer help without asking anything in return. And that man, he thought, was the man he wanted in charge of his government. “Our choice would be Lord Berenar,” he said.

“Serenity,” Csevet said, making a note. “Do you wish to announce it to the Corazhas? You are unlikely to meet with opposition, and it would certainly expedite matters.”

“Will we seem to be biased if we do? It is not always clear to us.”

“No, Serenity. You have every right to propose a candidate to the Corazhas, just as you have the power to refuse any candidate they propose. Lord Berenar is universally respected, and indeed we think him an excellent choice. They may refuse him, as is their right, but they, too, are anxious to see this matter dealt with, and we do not think they will be, ah, fractious.”

“Thank you. Then, yes, we will recommend Lord Berenar to the Corazhas.”

And an hour later, he got up and did so, feeling awkward and inarticulate and much too young, particularly as the Archprelate had taken the place of the Witness for the Prelacy until such time as the Prelates’ Council should be able to meet to choose a new one, and the Archprelate made Maia unsettled—not guilty, exactly, but too aware of his failure to meditate, to worship as his mother had taught him. But the Witnesses heard him respectfully, and when he had sat down again, Lord Berenar murmured, “Thank you, Serenity,” before rising to announce that he was willing, if the Corazhas agreed.

The Corazhas did agree. Maia was amazed at the lack of squabbling. The concerns raised were legitimate and dealt with responsibly, and in only slightly more than an hour the Ethuveraz had a new Lord Chancellor. The formal investiture would have to be scheduled and suffered through, but Lord Berenar knelt and swore a personal oath then and there in the Verven’theileian, and said he did not wish to wait as things were already in a terrible snarl and only getting worse with delay.

“Proceed with our blessing,” Maia said, and now the Corazhas was down two members, a state of affairs that, however inconvenient and deplorable, provided an unexceptionable reason for ending this meeting. Maia did so thankfully and turned toward Csevet to be told the next item in his never-ending agenda, only to discover Csevet had been buttonholed by Lord Berenar’s personal secretary.

Maia knew perfectly well that he could interrupt, but if he didn’t, he might have as much as five minutes of peace before Csevet extricated himself. He leaned back a little in his chair, refraining with difficulty from a sigh—and realized that Archprelate Tethimar was watching him closely.

Maia straightened again, feeling guilty even though he knew it was ridiculous. “Did you wish to speak to us, Archprelate?”

The Archprelate considered him, head cocked a little to one side, like a bird. “Are you well, Serenity?”

Bewildered, Maia said, “Why would we not be?”

“Forgive us,” the Archprelate said. “We do not wish to pry. But we know that the strain you are under must be considerable.”

Maia supposed that it was, but there was nothing to be done about it. “We thank you for your concern.”

The Archprelate smiled at him, as sudden and dazzling as sun on snow. “A gracefully noncommittal answer, Serenity. You have learned quickly the arts of being politic.”

Maia saw Lord Berenar’s secretary bow to Csevet and hurry out of the room. “Forgive us,” he said, hoping his relief did not show. “We fear we may already be late for our next obligation.”

“Of course, Serenity,” the Archprelate said—although Maia had the feeling that those bright eyes saw right through his feeble excuse—and he, too, bowed and left.

Maia turned to Csevet and said, “What now?”

“Luncheon,” Csevet said firmly. “And this afternoon must be given to the Witness for the Emperor, who is preparing for the trial of Lord Chavar and the Princess Sheveän.”

“Of course,” Maia said, and tried not to feel the great hollow coldness opening inside him. But he had no appetite for luncheon.

Again, Maia chose the Tortoise Room for this audience that he expected to be uncomfortable. Csevet had assured him it was his choice, and although he feared he was betraying weakness by not choosing the Michen’theileian, the Tortoise Room was the only place in all of the Untheileneise Court that felt in the least homelike to him.

The Witness for the Emperor was a small, neat man, very precise in all his movements. His name was Tanet Csovar. In face and voice he was entirely unremarkable; his clothes were sober and unostentatious, and his hair was obviously a wig, for although it was dressed very plainly, with only a single pair of tashin sticks, it was sleek and lustrous, unlike his sparse eyebrows. He was a judicial Witness of more than twenty years’ experience, and there could be no doubt he knew his job very well. He asked his questions respectfully, but remorselessly, and if the answer he got was not adequate, he asked another question. He showed neither impatience nor disappointment; it was simply that he could not be deterred. The most disconcerting thing, though, was that he did not take notes. He simply listened, his cold eyes watching Maia’s face intently, and his questions quickly revealed that he forgot nothing of what he heard.

He first had Maia tell him the events of the attempted coup, asking him to be as accurate as he could, particularly in recounting what each person had said. That was not so bad, but then the Witness began to ask about previous encounters with Lord Chavar, with the Princess Sheveän, about what Maia thought their reasons might be; then, even worse, he asked about how Maia had felt.

“We do not see that our emotions have any relevance,” Maia said, trying to sound annoyed rather than trapped.

“We cannot witness if we do not know the truth,” said Csovar, “and emotions are part of the truth of any person.”

“But surely it isn’t necessary.”

“Serenity, we will not think less of you for your feelings, if that is what troubles you.”

“No, we are sure you will not.” Defeat. It was not Mer Csovar’s bad opinion he dreaded, but he wasn’t supposed to care for his nohecharei’s opinions, either. “We were afraid,” he said finally, determined to get the words out and be done with them, “for we know enough history to predict the fate of an emperor once dethroned.”

Mer Csovar frowned. “We understood from what you told us that there was no intent to harm you.”

“Not then, no. But our person, if alive, would always be inconvenient and potentially dangerous, would it not? And we could see that the Princess Sheveän would not hesitate. Would perhaps even be pleased. She seems to hate us very much.”

He was grateful that Mer Csovar did not attempt to convince him he was mistaken, merely nodding and saying, “You feared, very naturally, for your life.”

“Yes. We feared also for our nephew Idra and for the Ethuveraz. It is not a secret, now, that we and Lord Chavar disagree most fundamentally about the needs of our empire, and it did not seem to us that the Princess Sheveän was interested in the needs of the empire at all.”

“Do you feel she cared only for her son? Or only for her own access to power?”

It was a good question—a better question than most of the fruitless ones Maia had been asking himself. He stopped and thought, and Mer Csovar made no attempt to hurry him. At length, he said, “We do not know. We do not know what plans she and Lord Chavar had made about governance. We believe that she was acting in what she saw as her son’s best interests—and to honor her husband’s memory, for we have always felt that it is that for which she most hates us, that we are alive when her husband is not. We do not think her motives were … were political.”

“It is a subtle distinction, Serenity,” Mer Csovar said.

“We know. We do not understand the Princess Sheveän, so truly, it is only a guess. But,” he said slowly, as it became clear to him, “either she was acting out of a desire for power which left no room to consider the welfare of her son—or her daughters—or she was acting out of a blind idealism which would make her easily manipulated—or indeed disposed of—by those who called themselves her allies. We did not see any chance of a beneficial outcome.”

“And so you demanded to see Prince Idra. Did you expect him to support you?”

Maia stared at Mer Csovar. “The question did not occur to us. We could not…”

“There is no hurry, Serenity,” Mer Csovar murmured.

Maia pressed his hands together before his chest, palm to palm and fingertip to fingertip. It was a Barizheise meditation technique, and if any of them cared, he was betraying all sorts of things, but it steadied him enough that he could say, “We thought only that if we were not fit to be emperor, it was not for our Lord Chancellor to decide, nor for our sister-in-law. It was Idra who would live—or die—with the consequences, and we felt we had to speak to him. We expected…” What had he expected? He wasn’t even sure now, that cold cellar seeming as far away and improbable as something dreamed. He let his hands fall, and his shoulders sagged with them. “We expected to die.”

He thought there was a noise behind him, but did not turn to look. “We wished to ensure, whatever happened, that Idra knew. We did not expect him to defy his mother.”

“Would you have signed the abdication papers?”

“Yes,” Maia said bleakly. “If it had come to that, we would have. We could not subject our people to a civil war, not when we are unsure—” He stopped himself, but it was already too late.

“Unsure, Serenity?”

“We believe that our rule is better for the Ethuveraz than a regency government led by Lord Chavar, but what if we are wrong? What if we are leading our people into chaos and disaster? What right have we to impose our rule on those who do not wish it?”

“You are the only surviving son of Varenechibel the Fourth,” said Csovar. “If nothing else, Serenity, it is the law.”

“We did not think we could be sure of anyone’s support,” Maia said. That was definitely a noise, Beshelar biting back an intemperate comment, no doubt. Maia kept his attention on Csovar. “The coup was led by the most important official of our government and a member of our family, and they were assisted by one of our nohecharei.”

“Yes. We understand.” Csovar considered him for an uncomfortable moment. “Serenity, were you angry?”

“We were furious,” Maia said, and was ashamed at how quickly the words came to his tongue. “And sick with betrayal, although perhaps that was foolish of us.”

Csovar’s eyebrows went up. “If Lord Chavar did not wish to serve you, the appropriate thing to do was resign.” He coughed, looking a little embarrassed. “Many members of your government also feel betrayed, Serenity.”

“Do they? Thank you.” He was weak and foolish, but it did help to know that. “We were—we are—very angry. We are trying to forgive, but we find it very difficult.”

“What would you wish to be done with those who have wronged you in this matter?”

“We know not,” Maia said wearily. “It will be our decision in the end, regardless.”

“Yes, Serenity, but we did not ask what you will do with them.”

“You ask dangerous questions, Mer Csovar.”

“Serenity,” Csovar said with a briskness that was as near to impatience as he seemed likely ever to come, “it is our task to witness for you precisely because there are things that you, as the Emperor Edrehasivar the Seventh, cannot say. It is the calling of Witnesses, to speak for those who cannot speak for themselves.”

“You are a Witness vel ama,” Maia said. The idea was bitterly amusing.

“Yes, Serenity.”

“And if we say we want them dead? As slowly and painfully as possible?”

Csovar did not look away. “Is it the truth?”

“No,” Maia said. Weak. Foolish. He folded his hands in his lap against the urge to rub his eyes. “We did not even wish Dazhis Athmaza dead, and it was he who betrayed us most … most nearly.”

“Would you spare them all punishment?”

“No,” Maia said, and struggled with it. Csovar waited. “In our inmost and secret heart, which you ask us to bare to you, we wish to banish them as we were banished, to a cold and lonely house, in the charge of a man who hated us. And we wish them trapped there as we were trapped.”

“You consider that unjust, Serenity?”

“We consider it cruel,” Maia said. “And we do not think that cruelty is ever just. Are we finished, Mer Csovar?”

Csovar gave him a long, dry, thoughtful look. “Unless there is something Your Serenity wishes to add?”

“No, we thank you,” Maia said, and Csovar bowed and unhurriedly made his way out, neat and precise and impartial, witnessing Maia’s weakness without judging it, carrying that burden of darkness beneath his shining wig without being weighed down by it. Maia only wished he could do the same.