Dar—known to his people as His Highness Prince Dar, the emperor-to-be of the Becar Empire, blessed by the Aur River—thought he would suffocate inside the mourning robes. He was wearing six layers of linen, each in deepening shades of gray to symbolize the dimming of a life, as well as a red silk scarf wrapped around his left arm as a reminder of rebirth. It was just shy of tight enough to cut off circulation.
He’d hoped the discomfort would distract him.
It wasn’t working.
He still wanted to bash his bejeweled fist into every snake-smooth courtier and ambassador who expressed his wish to honor his brother’s memory. That, however, wasn’t done. Emperors-to-be didn’t curl their hands into fists. They laid their hands peacefully across their laps, and then nodded at precisely the same incline at every fellow mourner.
They might mourn him, Dar thought. But they don’t miss him.
Not the way Dar did, where he woke each morning and remembered anew that Zarin was gone, the memory like a knife in Dar’s gut every time. He felt filleted as he went about the ceremony of his day, every nerve exposed and raw.
Everything made him miss his brother.
The taste of a lemon.
The whistle of the wind.
The crash of a platter from the kitchen and then the frantic whispers of the servants.
Years ago, shortly after Zarin had first become emperor, he’d heard a clatter from the kitchen and sprung off his throne to rush to help. Six servants had fainted on the spot at the sight of their new emperor picking up shards of glass from the tiled floor, and three councillors had resigned. Or so Zarin liked to say. Every time he’d told that story, the number of fainting servants and appalled courtiers had increased. Every time a citizen told that story, he or she gushed at the example of their emperor’s greatheartedness.
And so when Dar heard a crash, he didn’t move. Not because he felt he was above helping, but because that was Zarin’s story, and Dar wasn’t going to take it from him. The way I took his throne, he thought.
This was Zarin’s. All of it. The throne. The crown. The linen robes and silk scarves, the exact nods, the precise words, the time spent in the official Hours of Listening, when the great ruler of all Becar silently listened to the advice, complaints, requests, and words of his people for three hours every two weeks without speaking a word. Or scratching an itch. Or sneezing. Or fidgeting in any way.
I don’t know how Zarin did it.
Zarin used to complain about the Listening, how the nobles of Becar liked to monopolize it to drone on and on, and how he wished sometimes he could sew his mouth shut so he wouldn’t have to exert so much effort clenching his jaw to try not to speak.
Dar had always met his brother in his chambers or in the aviary after the Listening, so that Zarin would have someone to vent to. He’d had so many pent-up words to say, and he needed a safe receptacle to empty them into. I never minded listening to him.
He did mind listening to these sycophants.
He amused himself the way Zarin had told Dar he did: by imagining what animal the nobles would be reborn as and picturing a hippopotamus or a stork waxing on about flood levels and taxes. Sometimes it even helped. But only a little.
In front of him now was a woman whom Dar was positive would be reborn as a vulture. “Oh, Great Emperor-to-Be.” She bowed, a fraction lower than was strictly custom, and Dar wondered if his brother had ever stuffed cotton in his ears to dull their voices. “Accept my humble wishes for peace in your heart and allow me to express my deep sorrow that your brother’s reborn soul has not yet been presented for our adoration.”
Ouch. That one wasn’t even subtle.
Gritting his teeth, Dar inclined his head. The word “yet” hung in the air like rancid perfume. After an emperor died and was reborn, tradition dictated that he be found in his new vessel and granted a life of luxury in the palace, regardless of whether he regained any memories of his past life or not.
Dar had been a child when their parents died—young enough that he had only sketchy memories of them as they were. But he remembered how every day he’d visit a toad in one of the palace ponds that was supposed to have been their father, and how Zarin had insisted they spend one afternoon a week in the aviary with a river hawk that had once been their mother. Two noble rebirths. Both lived lives of comfort and honor, their father hemmed in by garden walls and their mother’s wings clipped so she wouldn’t try to fly from the palace. Their father had never given any sign that he remembered who he’d been, but their mother often seemed to understand them.
Zarin used to say he hoped he didn’t come back as a bird. He wouldn’t want his wings clipped, even for the fanciest aviary in the known world, which this was.
If he is a bird, Dar thought, I hope he’s flying free.
But if he was a bird, Dar also hoped he’d fly home soon. Tradition may have dictated the treatment of a prior emperor, but law dictated the treatment of the next one. Namely, Dar couldn’t become emperor until his predecessor was found and properly honored.
It was now approaching three months since Zarin’s death, with no sign of his new vessel.
“Your Glory-to-Be-Realized—”
Seriously? Is that what she’s going to call me?
“—I hope you understand the gravity of our concerns. There is much of importance that is frozen while we wait for your coronation. Construction has been halted on the East Temples, and the tombs of your forefathers have not been tended to. Of particular concern to the Fifth District of Mesoon is the unsigned law regarding fishing regulations . . .”
Dar resisted the urge to slump in his throne and shove his fingers in his ears.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care that construction couldn’t continue or laws couldn’t be signed. He did care about the problems of his people. It was that there was nothing he could do about it. He already had dozens of augurs combing Becar for any hint of a child, bird, tadpole, or insect with Zarin’s soul. He didn’t know what else he was supposed to do!
If Zarin were here, he could have asked him.
But of course if Zarin were here, he wouldn’t be having this problem. Dar would be back to being the spare brother, the one who was never supposed to become emperor, because Zarin was supposed to live, marry, and produce lots and lots of other heirs.
As always when he thought about marrying, Dar’s gaze slid to Nori. Across the throne room, Lady Nori of Griault laughed with her head tilted back at a comment Dar couldn’t hear. He wished he were with her, laughing with her, instead of stuck on the dais. She was in profile, beside a column, and the sight reminded him of all the nights they’d stood side by side on one of the palace balconies, looking out over the Heart of Becar. They’d been friends since they’d been kids, and Dar clung to the hope that someday they’d be more. If I ever get up the nerve to tell her how I feel.
They were distant enough cousins that she was royal without being too-close kin, so a match would make the nobles happy, and she came from an impressive fortune, which would make the royal coffers happy. He didn’t care about any of that, though. He just liked her for who she was.
She turned, her eyes meeting his—she must have felt him staring, or another noble had noticed and alerted her. Nori cocked one eyebrow at him and then mouthed the words, “Pay attention.”
Dar dragged his gaze back to the next supplicant, who was a man he shouldn’t have been ignoring, the ambassador from Ranir, the country that squatted on their southern border, beyond the desert. “—difficulty in explaining the situation to my superiors in Ranir,” Ambassador Usan was saying. “Our laws have no such condition, and they—we—do not understand why, if you do not possess the authority to renew our treaty, that another cannot be delegated to do so. My superiors are concerned that it is a negotiation tactic, or even a prelude to hostilities. If you could give me some assurance to pass on to them . . .”
Becar had a complex and tenuous relationship with Ranir, due to the king of Ranir’s tendency to invade at semi-regular intervals throughout history. During times of peace, Becar typically pretended those incursions hadn’t happened, because Ranir was such a valuable trading partner. Listening to the ambassador always gave Dar a headache—Usan could have sought an audience at any other time, but the ambassador deliberately chose the one time Dar was unable to respond. It was obvious that he wanted to emphasize the emperor-to-be’s weakness, but Dar thought the ambassador also just enjoyed being annoying. He’d likely be reborn as a housefly.
Dar had heard reports from some of his generals that the Raniran army had been conducting “training exercises” near the border, particularly in areas where the Becaran presence was weakest. But without the authority of the crown, he could not authorize troop movements to secure those areas. A stupid law, Dar thought—he agreed with Ambassador Usan, though he obviously couldn’t say so out loud, for multiple reasons.
He knew the history behind the law: five generations ago, during the transition period before a coronation, the military, acting of their own accord, had claimed they were defending the Heart of Becar, the capital of the empire, from an invasion. The invasion was a lie, though, and instead the generals ordered their soldiers to capture and kill the royal family, with the intent of installing one of their own as the next emperor. Only one child survived, a young girl who became known as the Empress of Despair, because she never got over the loss of her parents and siblings. She’d made the decree that during the transition period, the military could not authorize any troop movements. Any general who violated the law would be accused of treason and immediately executed. Needless to say, given the cost, the Becaran generals were meticulous about following the law. Sure, the law made sense then, Dar thought. But now? When the law was made, no one had ever anticipated that a transition period would last so long, and there were no provisions in place for complications arising from such a situation.
It’s all a mess, Dar thought, and the longer it continues, the worse it will get.
As if on cue, Ambassador Usan was replaced by Lord Mynoc of Leyand, who proceeded to list out all the ways things had already gotten worse: a riot in Seronne, incidents of unrest in Peron, a generations-old market shut down in Androc, news of protests planned outside the palace, complaints from the guild directors from nearly every guild in Becar of shortages, worker grievances over frozen contracts, and financial losses. . . . Becar, in short, was a pot of boiling rice, about to bubble over. “The mess will take decades to clean up,” Lord Mynoc said, “if a resolution isn’t found soon.”
I know, Dar thought. But he could say and do nothing but incline his head in acknowledgment.
At merciful last, the Listening ended, and Dar rose, his knees popping as if he’d aged three decades in the three hours he’d sat there. He thanked his people and the palace nobles for sharing their hearts and minds, using the proper traditional words that he’d memorized, along with the thousand other phrases he’d had to memorize in the past few months, and then he recessed from the throne room.
He was somewhat proud of himself for not running out of there.
He reached his rooms. Two guards were stationed on either side of the door. One bowed, while the other flung the door open. He gave them more sincere nods—he had far more respect for the men and women who protected his life than the ones who swarmed mosquito-like through his court. Only when he was safely inside, alone, did he allow himself to slump his shoulders, rip off the red scarf and three layers of mourning linen, and slam his fist into one of the many pillows that littered his room.
He didn’t understand why the palace stewards thought an emperor needed so many pillows. He hadn’t needed them when he was an heir. But he did like that they were good for quietly venting every emotion he didn’t allow himself to express outside of these rooms.
He raged at the pillows for a quarter of an hour, until he began to feel silly. It wasn’t as if the pillows had smothered his brother or contributed to his death in any way. Zarin had sickened and died, the way people do, and it wasn’t the fault of anything or anyone. It simply was. Which somehow made it worse.
Dar had no one to blame. No one to hate. Except himself, for being alive while his beloved brother was dead. It should have been me. He was the extra one, the friend and the confidant but never the leader. He’d never wanted this, no matter what the people said when they thought he couldn’t hear them.
“River take them all,” he said.
“Your Excellence?” a guard called through the door. “May we assist you?”
You could stop eavesdropping on me while I’m throwing a private temper tantrum, he thought. But out loud he said, “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
Then he had another thought: “Actually, could you send someone to summon Augur Yorbel? I would like to take solace in the wisdom of his counsel.” And he wanted another update on the search for his brother.
Just because he hated listening to the nobles didn’t mean they weren’t right.
Yorbel had been expecting another summons to the palace. For days, he’d kept his official augur robe ready on a hook by his door, and when he heard the slap of sandals on the stone outside his quarters during the afternoon reflection time, he rose from his meditation, dressed, and donned the chain with the pendant that identified him as one of the esteemed augurs of Becar.
He felt like a soldier putting on his armor, but the arrows in the palace were whispered words and the spears were questions he couldn’t answer.
The walk to the palace was hot, with the midday sun soaking through his linen robe. His shaved head kept him somewhat cool, at least cooler than the nobles with their coiled braids and myriad ornaments who fanned themselves as they lounged about the gardens. He didn’t slow to greet any of them, though he noticed several begin to start toward him. He’d learned from experience that if you walked with purpose, it exponentially increased the odds that you’d reach your destination. Proceed slowly, and people would pounce all over you. So he didn’t pause, despite the heat.
In anxious times, people were especially eager to talk to augurs for both guidance and reassurance. And these are undoubtedly anxious times, he thought. Just this morning, in a corridor that was usually silent for contemplation, he’d heard two of the younger augurs whispering about Ranir, worrying about whether its king would view Becar as weak—a worldly worry normally outside the scope of a young augur’s concerns. He’d heard it all lately: fear of economic collapse, fear of riots, fear of invasion. . . . I believe we can weather these times, if people continue to honor their better selves.
Yorbel was greeted at the entrance and escorted into the blissful cool of the palace. In this wing, the walls had been painted a restful blue, with diamond-flecked stars decorating the ceiling. All the palace windows were constructed to allow a breeze in and keep the sun out, and so the cool shadows seemed to whisper with the breath of the wind.
“How fares our emperor-to-be?” he asked his escort, breaking the silence.
His escort, one of the royal guards, looked startled. Yorbel thought he wasn’t used to being spoken to by the luminaries he conducted through the palace. Yorbel had never understood that—people were people, no matter their rank. The worthiness of one’s soul had very little to do with one’s employment or economic status. It was surprising how often people conflated righteousness and wealth. Yorbel had met plenty of rich assholes.
“He fares as well as could be expected, Your Eminence.”
“And that is?”
“He mourns his brother. He fulfills his duties. But . . .” The guard hesitated.
“You may speak freely to me,” Yorbel said. “I merely see a soul’s future. I have no more power than anyone does to influence your destiny. You shape your own fate.” He meant the words kindly, even though he knew they sounded pompous. There was a reason he didn’t deliver the daily words at the temple—he wasn’t as good at talking easily with people as some augurs, even though he tried.
Glancing up and down the corridor, the guard confided, “He wasn’t ready to replace his brother. Rumor is he doesn’t want to. Rumor is he delays the search for his brother’s soul because he doesn’t want to take the throne. He doesn’t want to admit his brother is dead and gone.”
“He has a heart,” Yorbel said. “May Becar always have leaders whose souls are as human as their bodies.” He’d always liked the boy. Dar had a streak of kindness and compassion that was unusual in one who had grown up surrounded by the backstabbing intrigue of the royal court. Privately, Yorbel suspected his brother, both before and after he was emperor, had protected Dar from the worst of it. Being thrust to the forefront had to have been a shock, even without the grief aspect.
“Yes, but it won’t be long before the nobles begin to see his love for his brother as a weakness they can exploit. He needs to be coronated, and fast. Or else”—the guard lowered his voice—“there are rumors that a faction in court wants him declared unfit to rule, on the basis of his delay in finding his brother’s soul’s new vessel. It’s said they’ve already selected the next empress.”
Yorbel placed a hand on the shoulder of the guard. “Then here is a new rumor for you: Emperor-to-Be Dar does not delay. He has dispersed twice the number of augurs as is customary. Late Emperor Zarin’s soul has proven elusive. But he will be found, as fast as is possible.”
The guard’s face lit up in a smile. “That’s a good rumor to hear and to share, Your Eminence. Thank you. We—the majority of the palace guard—are fond of Dar. We’d hate to have to kill him.”
A door opened, and the emperor-to-be popped his head out. “And I’d hate to be killed. Glad we’re all in agreement. Your Eminence, please join me.”
Flustered, the guard dropped to his knees and began to sputter apologies.
“You’re a good man,” Yorbel told him. And added: “Have no fear for your rebirth.” He walked past him as the guard began to cry.
Yorbel shut the door behind him.
“Even I know you aren’t supposed to tell people their fates like that,” the emperor-to-be said. He sounded amused, which was good, since he could have chosen to report Yorbel’s indiscretion to the High Council of Augurs.
It was a sensible law, designed to protect augurs: all readings were private, by request only, and for a fee. Otherwise, augurs would be overwhelmed with constant demands. Besides, it was unethical to read someone without their consent. But Yorbel also believed in providing comfort where he could. He had not been given his gifts to hoard them.
“He needed to hear it,” Yorbel said, as he took in the state of the emperor-to-be’s rooms. Pillows had been shredded and tossed, but every fragile ornament—glass flowers in a priceless vase, the exquisite pitcher that held amber-hued wine—was untouched. From all appearances, it looked as if Dar had thrown a very controlled temper tantrum.
Dar saw him observing the pillows and said, “I was redecorating.”
“Of course, Your Greatness.”
“Shouldn’t that be ‘Greatness-to-Be’? Oh, no, wait, don’t tell me—you’re going to say that greatness has nothing to do with my rank and everything to do with the state of my soul.”
Since that was precisely what Yorbel had been about to say, he smiled instead.
“I can tell you, Yorbel, the state of my soul is not good. If one more noble pretends to care about the comfort of my brother’s vessel . . . Eh, who am I kidding? I will nod politely because it’s what Zarin would have wanted me to do. You know, I never expected the absence of a brother would have more impact on my thoughts and actions than the presence of one.” He flopped onto a pillowless couch.
“Dar . . .” Yorbel stopped. He shouldn’t be hesitant to speak his thoughts to Dar. He’d known him since Dar was a young boy—he’d been his tutor for a half-dozen years, while perfecting his augur skills, and then his friend after—and Dar clearly hadn’t changed how he treated Yorbel since becoming emperor-to-be. Still . . .
“One minute,” Dar said. “You’re going to say something inappropriate that you don’t want every spy in the palace to overhear. I’m fairly certain Ambassador Usan spends his afternoons personally eavesdropping on my conversations, and I know the faction from Griault has at least one professional spy in the palace. Let me give them something else to listen to.” He hopped up off the couch, strode to the door, and stuck his head outside again. “Your emperor-to-be would like to hear some singing.”
“Your Highness?” one of the guards said. “With all due respect, my husband claims my singing can curdle milk and cause dogs to drop dead in the street.”
“Excellent. Then sing very loudly.”
Dar shut the door as the two guards outside began to bellow off-pitch one of the traditional Becaran ballads. It was utterly unrecognizable which one.
“Clever,” Yorbel said. “You need to know that the search does not go well. Based on the most recent soul reading before his death, the temple predicted that your brother would be reborn as a golden tamarin monkey—there are fewer than three thousand colonies of such creatures in Becar, and we searched them all within the first week. We now have augurs examining every creature of a similar status, but . . .”
“But what if the augur who last read him was wrong,” Dar said, finishing his sentence. “Or what if Zarin’s soul changed significantly between his last reading and his death?”
“It has happened before.” Yorbel hesitated. “The high council worries they’ll offend you if they suggest broadening the search. But if your brother’s soul isn’t found within the next season . . .” He let the sentence dangle.
Dar sighed heavily. “I know. Believe me, I know. Becar needs an emperor, and her loyal subjects won’t wait forever. I cannot ask them to. If I cannot produce Zarin’s vessel . . . then Becar needs an heir who is not of Zarin’s direct line, and therefore not required to find him in order to be crowned.”
Yorbel knew what Dar didn’t say: in order for another to be crowned, Dar would have to die. Sometimes Yorbel truly hated politics.
“What do you suggest?” Dar asked.
“We have every augur available searching for every conceivable vessel for the late emperor,” Yorbel said. “What I propose is that we also search the inconceivable. Send an augur to examine creatures we have not considered.” He phrased it as delicately as he could, but he knew Dar would understand what he meant.
Dar took a step backward. “No.”
Keeping his face placid, Yorbel said, “I pass no judgment on your beloved brother.”
“You think Zarin . . . You think he . . . my brother . . . your emperor . . .” He paced across the room, then paced back, all coiled anger. “I could have you killed for even thinking it. If you weren’t my friend . . .”
“But I am your friend,” Yorbel said.
That stopped Dar.
Yorbel pushed on. “And as your friend, I am telling you: we have to consider everything if we’re to save your life. Let me speak to the high council about redirecting a few augurs—”
Dar cut him off. “Absolutely not. Speak of your suspicions to no one, and keep all available augurs searching where they are. If you believe this absurdity is necessary, then you do it.”
He meant it as a ludicrous suggestion, Yorbel could tell. He, Yorbel, search for a soul’s new vessel? That was a task reserved for lower-level augurs. Though Yorbel wasn’t one of the high augurs, he was one of the most adept. He was in continuous demand by the aristocrats for readings, which meant a steady revenue stream for the temple. This, in turn, allowed other augurs to offer affordable readings to the working class and near-free readings to the poor. But matters are desperate if even the palace guards are worried. Yorbel would do the absurd for the sake of his emperor, both the one who had died and the one who was yet to be crowned. “I will proceed with discretion and will report back.”
Dar blinked at him. “Wait—you’re going to do it?”
“Yes.” There was more he could say, about how he didn’t want it to be true, about how he couldn’t live with himself if Dar was killed and he hadn’t done all he could, about how even augurs didn’t know all the secrets of a person’s heart.
In a low voice, so soft that Yorbel was barely able to hear it beneath the singing of the guards, Dar whispered, “You truly think it’s possible my brother could have been reborn as a kehok?”
“No,” Yorbel said firmly. And then added:
“But I think we must be sure.”
Yorbel chose the long way back to the temple after his meeting with the emperor-to-be. He needed to think. He knew he’d picked the right course of action, but how to do it?
In the late-afternoon heat, few people were out. If riots and protests were brewing, the perpetrators were sensible enough to wait until it cooled. Most shopkeepers were tucked back inside their tents and stalls. A monkey was napping in the shade of one building. A young man knelt next to a fountain, washing a pile of tunics. On one street corner, beneath a copper statue of a cat commissioned by a long-dead noble, a beggar child held out a cup, and Yorbel dropped a few coins into it.
“Thank you,” the child said, then saw his pendant. “Oh! Master augur! What am I going to—” His cheeks flushed bright red as he remembered he wasn’t supposed to ask. “I’m sorry. I can’t pay.”
“I am not permitted to read auras outside the temple, unless sanctioned by the high augurs or the emperor,” Yorbel said, but he knelt beside the child. “Are you kind to others?”
The boy bobbed his head.
“If you think an ugly thought, do you keep it inside where it can’t hurt anyone?”
Another nod.
“If you see someone who needs help, do you try to help them?”
A more tentative nod. His eyes flickered to his cup.
“I said ‘try.’ You don’t need to give up food you need. But if you see someone fall in the street, do you try to help them stand?”
A more eager nod.
“Then that’s all you need to do to make sure your next life is better than this one. Cultivate kindness. Never steal anyone’s hope.” He smiled gently at the boy. “I don’t have to read your aura to know you’ll be fine.”
A tear leaked out of the boy’s left eye. He dashed it away with a fist.
“Get yourself something to eat,” Yorbel told him, and poured more coins into his cup.
The boy clutched the cup of coins to his chest and then scampered down the street. Hands pushing off his knees, Yorbel stood. He hoped his words helped. He believed every one of them. He just wished he knew how to say it without sounding like he was quoting a rehearsed speech.
“Are you preaching to the poor and downtrodden now?” a light female voice said behind him. “You know the bejeweled crocodiles you typically read will be heartbroken.” He turned with a smile on his face—he knew that voice.
“Gissa!” Without hesitation, he threw his arms wide. His old friend . . . and one of the high augurs. He remembered the latter only belatedly, lowered his arms, and bowed. “Your High Eminence.”
She laughed and embraced him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Yorbel. I’ve missed you!” She then stepped back and surveyed him. “You have gray hairs in your beard.”
He stroked it. “Does it make me look wise?”
“Very wise,” she teased. She looked exactly the same as he remembered: pomegranate-round cheeks that always seemed to be smiling, silver braids twisted on the top of her head, and kindly brown eyes. She was the older sister he’d never had, the one who coached him through his studies when he was preparing for the augur tests, the one who teased him when he was acting too serious, the one he would trust with all his worries. Ever since the last emperor died, she’d been stationed in the western cities, helping to soothe the unrest. She’d had special training for unraveling sticky political situations and was frequently sent on missions by the high council. By the River, how I’ve missed her!
“When did you get back?” he asked. Side by side, they began strolling toward the temple. Not too fast, because of the heat. Not too slow, because otherwise they’d be stopped by citizens with questions about their aura. Everyone knew augurs weren’t supposed to answer questions outside a formal reading, but everyone thought they’d be the exception. Ever since Emperor Zarin’s death, even before the transition period stretched on, the people had been anxious—his death seemed to have rekindled an awareness in Becarans of their own mortality, and the lines at the temple for readings had only grown.
Yorbel wouldn’t have minded granting peace of mind to a few anxious citizens, a casual word here or there, like he’d done for the palace guard, except that he couldn’t promise it wouldn’t devolve into a mad rush for free readings. He knew the local guards wouldn’t appreciate it if he accidentally started a new riot in the streets. On the nearest street corner, a greenstone statue of a desert lion seemed to be staring at him reproachfully, as if critical of his thoughts.
“Only this morning,” Gissa answered. “I decided to postpone the very exciting task of sorting my travel laundry and instead seek you out. I am hoping you’ll dine with me tonight? Fill me in on all that I’ve missed?”
He wondered briefly how she’d known where to find him. The temple clerks knew about the summons, and all the temple guards saw him leave. It wouldn’t have been that difficult to deduce. “I can think of nothing I’d like better, except that I regretfully won’t be available.” As soon as he had all his affairs in order, he planned to begin his search. An idea occurred to him. “Gissa, since you’ve returned, I wonder if you’d do me a favor?”
“Did you kill another houseplant? You know there’s such a thing as too much love. One of these days you’re going to drown a plant so thoroughly that I can’t coax it back to life.”
“That’s not . . .” Well, truthfully, he had drowned another plant. It was only that they always looked so parched in the afternoon sun. “Yes, but I have some travel to do in the next few weeks, and I need someone to take over my readings.”
“You? Travel? Where?”
Yorbel made a face at her. “I travel sometimes.”
Gissa gestured at a palm-tree-lined plaza. “The walk from the palace to the temple does not count as travel. Where are you going, and why?”
He could have told her the truth. She was one of his oldest friends. Lies stain the soul, as was often said, especially lies between friends. But this . . .
There was friendship, and then there were politics.
It was better if the two were kept separate.
“The emperor-to-be is displeased with our progress in the search for his brother, and since I am the face he knows best of the augurs . . . I feel a little distance from the capital would be prudent.” All he said was technically true, despite the implications.
“The emperor-to-be is a fool to lose faith in you.”
He appreciated her loyalty, though he wished he hadn’t predicated it with a lie. He reconsidered telling her the truth, but no, he’d promised discretion. He was not so naive as to think all actions were split neatly between right and wrong. You had to balance your intentions with potential consequences. The challenge of navigating that kind of moral ambiguity was precisely why people needed augurs to guide them. “It may be for the best. I haven’t walked the sands in far too long. My soul needs this to keep its balance.”
“Wise of you to realize that,” Gissa said approvingly. “Then, to keep you from stagnation, I will happily do your scheduled readings. And save your plants.”
“Thank you, Gissa. You are relieving me of much worry.”
It occurred to him that he may need to tell many lies on his proposed journey. He wondered what the state of his soul would be at the end of it.
Better a tarnished soul than a dead friend.
He then buried that very un-augur-like thought deep within.
“How was your meeting with the emperor-to-be?” Gissa asked.
Yorbel knew he shouldn’t be surprised, since she’d obviously known where to find him, but still . . . It wasn’t as if the meeting itself was common knowledge to anyone but him and the student who had passed along the summons. He could have gone to the palace for any number of other purposes. “You’ve been back for mere hours, and you already know everything that’s going on with everyone. You have a talent, Gissa.”
She laughed. “That’s the most polite way of saying ‘You’re nosy’ that I’ve ever heard.” Then she sobered. “Truthfully, Yorbel, how is our emperor-to-be?” She was treading closely to asking what they had discussed, which would have been an improper question. Confidentiality after consultation with an augur was customary and important. Also, it was law.
Early on in their existence, augur readings had been public. But people had used their results as an excuse to persecute others, and so the first High Council of Augurs, in their wisdom, had limited readings and imposed strict rules of privacy. Of course, Gissa knows I can’t discuss details of my conversation with Dar, Yorbel thought. He gave her a true yet vague answer. “He loved his brother dearly and mourns him greatly.”
Gissa nodded. “As is appropriate. But he cannot allow his emotions to interfere with his duties. Do you believe he is capable of setting aside his personal pain for the good of Becar?”
He considered his answer carefully. He trusted Gissa, of course, but now that she had been raised to the top tier of augurs, to talk with her was to talk with all the high augurs. And there were some he wasn’t overly fond of, despite his respect for them and their integrity. In fact, his disagreement with some of their decisions was what had prevented them from inviting him to become a high augur, or so he had inferred. “I believe he wants to do his duty. But his brother’s death was unexpected. He will need time to come to terms with it.”
“He may not have time.” Gissa was eyeing him more closely than Yorbel was comfortable with, as if she were trying to see what he wasn’t saying. He wished the conversation hadn’t shifted to politics. “Things are becoming more unsettled in the western cities with the passage of time, not less. As soon as the vessel for his late brother’s soul is found, Prince Dar will need to move quickly to restore stability.”
“He will be ready,” Yorbel said, trying to put as much reassurance into his voice as possible. He hoped she’d believe him, and that she’d convey that to the council.
“Will he? Is he aware of how far the empire could fall before he’s crowned? Soon, we will see an escalation of violence, as well as an increase in the threat from beyond our borders—”
“You think it will come to violence?” He knew the courtiers were impatient—the guard had made that clear—but he hadn’t known that such concern had spread throughout Becar. Sequestered in the temple most days, Yorbel didn’t have a feel for the mood of the bulk of the citizens.
“I do,” she said seriously. “In some places, in small doses, it already has. We’re lucky it is nearly race season. The races will distract the commoners for a time. But once they end, I fear the worst. He will need to be coronated by the end of the floods and ready to rule, or steps will have to be taken. Do you understand my meaning, Yorbel? The high council will not allow Becar to devolve into riots and war. We serve the greater good.”
That was . . . troubling. He thought of all the rumors he’d heard about Gissa’s “special training”—rumors he’d always denied, at least out loud. “Gissa, why are you asking these questions? Why did the high council summon you back?” He wasn’t certain he wanted to hear the answer.
“In five weeks, when the races end, if the late emperor’s vessel has not been found or if Prince Dar is too distraught to accept his responsibilities, I will be the one to see the peace is maintained.”
“You?” But she was speaking of . . .
“Yes, Yorbel.” Her voice was gentle, as if she knew he’d understood what she meant and knew it would upset him. “It is my duty.”
“But . . .” There were a thousand things he wanted to say. He looked into her eyes and saw only her resolve—and perhaps a hint of pity. “Only five weeks?”
She looped her arm through his. “Much can happen in five weeks. Let’s talk of pleasanter things. Tell me of all I’ve missed in the temple.”
Only five weeks to prevent one friend from being killed . . . and another friend from being his killer. He wondered if his idea to search the kehoks was a waste of time—time that neither Dar nor Gissa had. Maybe he should abandon it as a wild-goose chase and actually chase geese instead. Perhaps the late emperor had simply been missed in one of the initial sweeps. Yorbel was more powerful than most of the augurs tasked with the search. Perhaps if he were to become involved in the main search . . .
But then no one would be checking the kehoks, and that lack of thoroughness could spell disaster.
Wrestling with his thoughts, Yorbel strolled with Gissa, his old friend and the woman known in whispers as the holy assassin, back to the temple.