The Bloody Throne, page 18
“Poetic.” Another Khir, this one behind and to his left, ready for whatever a madman might attempt, cleared his throat as if he might spit, but did not. It would not be meet, before the august dead. “I hate this place. Let us away.”
“Yala.” Ashani Daoyan’s throat was too dry for a scream. He sounded, in fact, rather as if he had been struck in the gut with a mailed fist. “Komor Yala.”
She stopped, her head down, her slim shoulders curved. But she did not turn, and Hazuni Ulo’s hand tightened upon Daoyan’s shoulder.
“Do not make it more difficult for her,” he said softly. “She is a noblewoman.”
“And the sons of Khir will leave her here?” If he could shame them into not leaving her to Zhaon’s mercy—what would they do if he attacked them now?
And she had already visited the dungeons once? Yala had not told him of such an event. He would have repaid the Zhaon roundly for that disgrace, had he but known.
“We do not like it, but she is right. It is necessary.” Moruri made a gesture, and Hazuni’s hand tensed. “Come.”
“Yala,” Daoyan repeated, loudly now. “Komor Yala, hear me.”
She did not move. The kaburei cast an agonized, fearful glance over her shoulder.
“I will return for you,” he said, desperately. “Do you hear me? If Khir wishes to cage me thus, I shall wait for my father’s death and bring the sons of every clan worthy of the name—”
The third man hissed. “We are at a pailai,” he objected, low and fierce. “Do not say such things.”
He could have killed all three of them, of course. Later, he knew he should have, especially when he found they had brought no guards or servants, just the four nobles—including Shohuri Seiyan, whose clan prided itself on unblinking fealty to the Ashani—to pry him away from what someone had, after all, known was the only trap capable of bringing a son of the Great Rider down.
Now he knew beyond a doubt his half-sister’s shade was laughing. Perhaps she, with the vision of the vengeful dead, even knew his great sin—but that was ridiculous, it was no sin to take the knife from an inexpert butcher and strike an animal surely.
It was even a lesser cruelty, to spare the beast pain.
Ashani Daoyan let himself be hurried away, chivvied by noblemen relieved their clans would not suffer a penalty for failure. The Great Rider had been most explicit in his orders, and he had chosen swordsmen likely to give even his son trouble if escape was attempted.
Komor Yala did not bid them farewell. She stood at her princess’s tomb, her kaburei’s lamp a false golden moon each time Ashani Daoyan could steal a glance over his shoulder, and was lost to sight when they turned a corner.
A PAIR OF REASONS
Oh, my princess. Yala’s throat ached with unshed tears. She bowed apologetically at the carved stone slab bearing Mahara’s name, the movement halted near the end by a relatively healed but still tender wound from a heavy-headed crossbow bolt. Forgive me, but it was necessary. And now your brother will be safe as your father would wish. Hopefully her princess would hear, and understand.
Anh fussed with the lantern, the pole occupying her hands so she could not do as she wished and fuss at her mistress instead. At least she could claim much innocence; she did not know Khir. “Oh, my lady.” She glanced quickly at Yala, gauging her lady’s willingness to be gently scolded. “So dangerous. We should go, and quickly. Perhaps we might even reach the Palace without—”
“I have come to visit, Anh. I must not leave without greeting my hostess.” The proverb was different in Zhaon but it still carried her meaning, like a pot of strange shape catching roof-leaks during an autumn rainstorm. The most complex part of her duty was performed—Dao was safely in the hands of the Great Rider’s representatives, probably fuming at Yala’s betrayal.
He could fume all he liked, so long as he was safely alive in Khir to do so. She could not worry for his journey; four Khir noblemen chosen for their martial skill as well as loyalty were a heavy insurance, and besides, she could do nothing to aid them now except stay quietly to her normal routine, never mind that a dusk instead of morning visit was an extraordinary occurrence.
An occurrence that would beg for an answer or two once the delegation’s absence was noticed. She was not looking forward to carrying the farewell letters into a royal presence. However, managing to return to the Palace this evening without incident was a complex matter too, and much closer; the stories were explicit about what an unprotected noblewoman could expect upon any road after the sun fell.
I have my yue. I am not worried. Except she was. She would have to defend both herself and Anh from mistreatment. At least her dress was so dark it was difficult to tell the quality of the cloth, but the fine black mare would draw attention, as well as a lone woman with only a single servant—perhaps they would mistake her for a widow, or for something else.
She could do nothing about it at the moment, so she turned to her prayers. The ostensible reason for her tardiness was unavoidable duties this morning “helping” Lady Kue arrange for leaving the Jonwa, not to mention the afternoon’s invitation to tea with Lady Gonwa—a sign that the change in Yala’s position from the Crown Princess’s forlorn leftover lady-in-waiting to the intended of a Zhaon prince who, though adopted out to Shan and held to be the least pleasant of Garan Tamuron’s sons, was still royal and therefore nothing to be sniffed at—was duly noted, and duly noticed by the court itself. If the invitations continued she could conceivably hear enough gossip to achieve her main purpose, and then…
It was no use. Her thoughts would not settle to tranquil prayer or much-needed planning. “Forgive me,” she murmured once more, in Khir. “I shall be better tomorrow, my princess. But for tonight…” At least Daoyan was safe, even if he would never forgive her.
She swept the dimensions of a pailai with the small broom tucked in a handy carven niche; the Crown Prince had done his best to ensure his wife would rest with those supplies and appurtenances her native land employed for the care of ancestors. Yala made her obeisances instead of spending her accustomed time in more prayer; the day’s dry dust-heat pressed through gathering darkness like stones upon a sinner in the Hell of Many Weights.
She had only done what she must. And yet she felt obliquely shamed.
Anh was relieved to be upon their way at last, but also full of fresh worry. “The lantern will help,” she said for the third time as she hurried at her lady’s side, almost skipping with impatience. “If anyone attempts to… I shall hit them, with the lantern.” She glanced at her mistress, unnerved by Yala’s silence. “Maybe it will set them on fire?”
“Perhaps.” Yala’s head lifted. She put out her left hand, her right dropping to linger close to her yue’s hidden hilt, and halted her kaburei.
Another horse stood companionably close to the black mare from the Crown Prince’s stables—those beasts, too fine for merchants, would go to his brothers; this particular one had been set aside in his will for Garan Takshin. She had sought permission for the mare’s use that very afternoon, in fact, and had been hard-pressed to arrange this trip quietly enough to avoid the Third Prince’s notice.
The other horse was a matching black gelding from the stall next door; she recognized him almost immediately. And from a bar of deep shadow under an ancient, gnarl-trunked yeoyan tree, left in place as the tombs were built for its luck and obvious antiquity, a single golden gleam alerted her to his rider.
“Third Prince,” she greeted, equably enough. Anh let out a squeak.
“Lady Spyling.” Takshin stepped from the deeper darkness like an unpropitiated shade. The gleam was the kyeogra in his left ear; his expression could not be discerned. “Should I be surprised to find you here?”
“I had a visit to perform.” Yala cursed the slight quaver in her voice, but it could merely be deep surprise at his sudden advent. “Surely you would not grudge me such duties, even after…”
She could not make herself say after we are married, not with Dao’s words ringing in her ears. I will return for you.
Yala hoped he would be dissuaded from such a course. She could even pray as much, though Heaven might not take much heed of a noblewoman forced to such exigencies as she had been lately.
“Not ever.” Takshin’s approach was all but silent except for his voice. It was merely his habit to move thus, she knew, and yet it was unsettling. “I am merely taken aback to see you upon such an errand at this hour. I would have accompanied you.”
“I thought you busy with the Khir lords.” It slipped naturally from her tongue; she preferred euphemism, misdirection, or a carefully misleading truth to an actual lie, but even most sages of the Hundreds realized sometimes it was unavoidable. She wished the lantern was not quite so bright, though it trembled in Anh’s hands as if she were dancing; hopefully, what could be seen of Yala’s expression was opaque. “I did not wish to disturb such merriment.”
“You mean have that pocked one insult you again?” A slight gleam of teeth was his smile, probably no more than a pained grimace bearing little amusement. “Don’t fear it, I suspect they have found what they came for and are long gone.”
He knows. A wet tendril of dread slid down her back, but caught in this heat, even terror could not offer relief. “Gone?” She almost winced; she should not sound so shocked.
“Why else would they keep their horses at stables in the Khir quarter instead of at the Palace?” Takshin’s tone was soft, almost excessively neutral. “And why else would they come to this place at this hour, if not to pay their respects before leaving? I do wonder about one thing, though.”
“Takshin…” Her lips refused to work quite properly. If she could only see his expression, she could perhaps guess at what would extricate her from this.
“They could certainly offer to escort you north; you are a fine enough rider. And your faithful kaburei would accompany you as chaperone.” He didn’t move, but Yala sensed coiled readiness in him. At any other moment, it would have been comforting.
Now? Her right hand was numb, tense and ready. The yue would not flash free to harm him, she thought. No, it would plunge into her own throat to halt her tongue from spilling every secret she possessed in a vain attempt to avoid being sent to the dungeons again or possibly, shamefully, tied to a whipping-post.
Garan Takshin would not save her twice. Would he?
“Yala?” he prompted. “Did they offer to take you home?”
What a strange word. It could mean the high dark halls of Hai Komori, Khir as a whole, the palace complex of Zhaon-An, her room in the Jonwa that would not be hers much longer—so many places called home, at one moment or another. It was enough to make even a sage dizzy with conflicting feelings, head-meat and heart full of different humors and the liver seeking vainly to force the two to pull a chariot.
“They offered,” she managed. He knew she had just lied to him about the reason for her visit to the tombs, of course, and was perhaps giving her enough rope to tie herself irrevocably to the post. “Yes.”
“Well? Why do you stay?” Now there was a shadow of irritation. Was he playing with her, a granary feline with a pinchnose mouse? He sounded as if he cared nothing for the answer, but she knew better than to think so.
Garan Takshin did not sound so disdainful of things he cared little for.
She was a coward, so she chose the reason he would be flattered to hear first. “You are to be my husband,” she said, quietly. “It would not be right. And I still must discover who paid for… paid for a shameful act.”
It was not a lie, she told herself firmly. She could no more disobey Garan Takyeo’s dying wish for her to marry his brother than she could lay aside whatever vengeance she might possibly wreak upon whoever paid for Mahara’s death. It was shameful to hope whatever Takshin felt for her would blind him to a treacherous involvement in the escape of Khir’s only living prince—and she devoutly hoped he had no idea who Daoyan was, other than a Khir merchant with some few ideas above his station.
The evening breeze pressed dusty, sweat-wringing fingers against her cheek; she longed for a tepid bath, for crushed fruit, for a sudden plunge into an icy pool. Her knees trembled. The day had been an agony, wondering if Dao would receive her note, if his finely tuned instincts would sense somewhat amiss, if Shohuri was one of the nobles for whom Dao’s very existence was a sordid little blot, and enduring any other free-floating anxiety her hair could catch while keeping her outer appearance as serene as possible.
Now there was no relief, either, from the terrible muscle-loosening fear that Takshin was simply playing with her, that he had planned to catch Ashani Daoyan as coldly and thoroughly as he’d arranged his and Yala’s own exit from Zhaon-An’s walls when she rode for Zakkar Kai.
She had a healthy respect for his ability to strike where needed, now.
The silence was full of the rustle of evening skybreath and insect calls, a faint faraway ribbon of cart wheels from the Road. You could not hear the city, but you could sense it like the heat of a large, dozing creature nearby.
When Garan Takshin spoke, it was a soft, meditative sentence. “A pair of reasons, I suppose.”
“I…” The pressure behind her eyes, her heart, her tongue mounted; it was the urge to babble like a child caught in mischief. “I had to render such aid as I was capable of. They are from Khir, Takshin.”
“Hm?” The shadow before her moved, shaking his head as if interrupted from deep, unpleasant thought. “Oh, that. I don’t blame them, I’d rather leave than deal with Kurin too. I suppose they gave you letters full of flowery apology and a tissue-thin pretext.”
“Y-yes.” They were in her sleeve even now, suddenly heavy, burning, guilty weights instead of expensive brushed, folded, and sealed paper.
“At least that. I’ll take them to Kurin in the morning.”
What? “What?” She did not mean to sound so stunned. But approaching Zhaon’s new Emperor, even with so patent a cause as letters from foreign dignitaries called away in highly irregular fashion, was an unpleasant and dangerous duty at best; she had not even turned her head-meat to the problem of how to do so yet. It was an unexpected relief that he would.
Or did he mean he would take them from a corpse or a shivering wreck once he had finished dealing with an errant woman?
“It’s safer,” Takshin said, patiently, and took the last step of his slow approach, looking down at her through quivering lampglow. “Did it not occur to you I would keep you safe, Yala? We are at a dismal start to married life, if so.”
“Ah.” The relief was almost as bad as the fear. It poured through her and she swayed, her shoulder bumping Anh’s. “I had not thought so far ahead, my lord.”
“That is very unlike you indeed. But you have suffered much of late.” He offered his arm, and she had to politely take it even though they were only a few steps from the horses. “Come, into the saddle. I should have suspected, and brought a palanquin.”
“Not from the tombs.” It wasn’t difficult to sound somewhat shocked. “It would bring ill-luck.”
“Is that what they say in Khir?” He stopped at the black mare’s side, a pretty bit of courtesy either genuine or ironic; she could not tell which. “You’re trembling.”
There was no shame in such quivering, Yala told herself. She was, after all, only a woman. “It has been an extremely warm day.”
“And you have not fully recovered from…” He exhaled sharply. “Nobody would ever guess who rode for Kai, but still, you should not strain yourself so.”
The wound upon her back, healing nicely even though it itched, gave a twinge. “You are very solicitous, my lord Third Prince.” At least her arms and legs were equal to the task of mounting; she felt much better once a-horse. The mare was placid, one ear flicking as she sensed Yala’s unease. A more skittish mount might have responded with a sidle. “I thought you would be angry, instead.”
“I considered it,” he said thoughtfully, and Anh edged to her usual spot near the mare’s head with many a glance at Yala, as if willing strength in her mistress’s direction. The round golden lantern bobbed, casting fitful shadows over his sharp, scar-seamed face. “As far as anyone knows, I accompanied you tonight. The entire time, understood?” A sharp glance at Anh, who squeaked again and nodded while the lantern danced. The mare flicked her ear once more, moderately displeased.
Yala gathered her reins, her knees clamping so the horse knew her rider was well aware of this new development and did not consider it cause for concern. “Of course, my lord.”
“Still so formal.” A familiar, sharp amusement under the words. He was just the same as ever. If it was a trap it was a long-drawn one. “I do not like you out with only a kaburei at this hour, Yala.”
The rebuke did not sting nearly as much as it could. She bowed her head, as if her father was expressing measured displeasure. The familiarity was even comforting, now that she was almost certain he did not suspect her betrayal. “Yes, Takshin,” she murmured. Daoyan was as safe as possible, returning to Khir unremarked by this most perceptive of Garan Tamuron’s sons. Her largest worry was completely relieved.
Perhaps that was why she was suddenly so sweat-wrung and exhausted.
Takshin mounted and they set off, the lamp bobbing in Anh’s hand as she walked sedately before her mistress’s horse. Normally she would precede the nobleman too, but Takshin told her curtly to stay where she was, for he needed his dark-vision. They rode in the gloaming, and it took a long while for Komor Yala’s hands to stop shaking.
FORMS OBSERVED
Apparently Garan Sensheo was fully forgiven, for a Red Letter had arrived at his estate just this morning, bearing the Emperor’s invitation. He was to return to the palace and pay a visit to his mother, which was welcome news to the Fifth Prince of Zhaon, even if he did have to ride in a palanquin like a woman.
Once he paid his respects he could go where he pleased, but the forms must be observed.
So it was he climbed the familiar steps leading to Garan Hanweo-a Haesara’s quarters in the Kaeje, the door still bearing banners of pale cloth as if a dowager queen mourned both her husband and a son that was none of hers. Of course she had two fine sons still living, did Garan Tamuron’s second queen, and it could be that her mourning was flagrant enough to be apologetic for that great good fortune, propitiating a jealous Heaven.
“Yala.” Ashani Daoyan’s throat was too dry for a scream. He sounded, in fact, rather as if he had been struck in the gut with a mailed fist. “Komor Yala.”
She stopped, her head down, her slim shoulders curved. But she did not turn, and Hazuni Ulo’s hand tightened upon Daoyan’s shoulder.
“Do not make it more difficult for her,” he said softly. “She is a noblewoman.”
“And the sons of Khir will leave her here?” If he could shame them into not leaving her to Zhaon’s mercy—what would they do if he attacked them now?
And she had already visited the dungeons once? Yala had not told him of such an event. He would have repaid the Zhaon roundly for that disgrace, had he but known.
“We do not like it, but she is right. It is necessary.” Moruri made a gesture, and Hazuni’s hand tensed. “Come.”
“Yala,” Daoyan repeated, loudly now. “Komor Yala, hear me.”
She did not move. The kaburei cast an agonized, fearful glance over her shoulder.
“I will return for you,” he said, desperately. “Do you hear me? If Khir wishes to cage me thus, I shall wait for my father’s death and bring the sons of every clan worthy of the name—”
The third man hissed. “We are at a pailai,” he objected, low and fierce. “Do not say such things.”
He could have killed all three of them, of course. Later, he knew he should have, especially when he found they had brought no guards or servants, just the four nobles—including Shohuri Seiyan, whose clan prided itself on unblinking fealty to the Ashani—to pry him away from what someone had, after all, known was the only trap capable of bringing a son of the Great Rider down.
Now he knew beyond a doubt his half-sister’s shade was laughing. Perhaps she, with the vision of the vengeful dead, even knew his great sin—but that was ridiculous, it was no sin to take the knife from an inexpert butcher and strike an animal surely.
It was even a lesser cruelty, to spare the beast pain.
Ashani Daoyan let himself be hurried away, chivvied by noblemen relieved their clans would not suffer a penalty for failure. The Great Rider had been most explicit in his orders, and he had chosen swordsmen likely to give even his son trouble if escape was attempted.
Komor Yala did not bid them farewell. She stood at her princess’s tomb, her kaburei’s lamp a false golden moon each time Ashani Daoyan could steal a glance over his shoulder, and was lost to sight when they turned a corner.
A PAIR OF REASONS
Oh, my princess. Yala’s throat ached with unshed tears. She bowed apologetically at the carved stone slab bearing Mahara’s name, the movement halted near the end by a relatively healed but still tender wound from a heavy-headed crossbow bolt. Forgive me, but it was necessary. And now your brother will be safe as your father would wish. Hopefully her princess would hear, and understand.
Anh fussed with the lantern, the pole occupying her hands so she could not do as she wished and fuss at her mistress instead. At least she could claim much innocence; she did not know Khir. “Oh, my lady.” She glanced quickly at Yala, gauging her lady’s willingness to be gently scolded. “So dangerous. We should go, and quickly. Perhaps we might even reach the Palace without—”
“I have come to visit, Anh. I must not leave without greeting my hostess.” The proverb was different in Zhaon but it still carried her meaning, like a pot of strange shape catching roof-leaks during an autumn rainstorm. The most complex part of her duty was performed—Dao was safely in the hands of the Great Rider’s representatives, probably fuming at Yala’s betrayal.
He could fume all he liked, so long as he was safely alive in Khir to do so. She could not worry for his journey; four Khir noblemen chosen for their martial skill as well as loyalty were a heavy insurance, and besides, she could do nothing to aid them now except stay quietly to her normal routine, never mind that a dusk instead of morning visit was an extraordinary occurrence.
An occurrence that would beg for an answer or two once the delegation’s absence was noticed. She was not looking forward to carrying the farewell letters into a royal presence. However, managing to return to the Palace this evening without incident was a complex matter too, and much closer; the stories were explicit about what an unprotected noblewoman could expect upon any road after the sun fell.
I have my yue. I am not worried. Except she was. She would have to defend both herself and Anh from mistreatment. At least her dress was so dark it was difficult to tell the quality of the cloth, but the fine black mare would draw attention, as well as a lone woman with only a single servant—perhaps they would mistake her for a widow, or for something else.
She could do nothing about it at the moment, so she turned to her prayers. The ostensible reason for her tardiness was unavoidable duties this morning “helping” Lady Kue arrange for leaving the Jonwa, not to mention the afternoon’s invitation to tea with Lady Gonwa—a sign that the change in Yala’s position from the Crown Princess’s forlorn leftover lady-in-waiting to the intended of a Zhaon prince who, though adopted out to Shan and held to be the least pleasant of Garan Tamuron’s sons, was still royal and therefore nothing to be sniffed at—was duly noted, and duly noticed by the court itself. If the invitations continued she could conceivably hear enough gossip to achieve her main purpose, and then…
It was no use. Her thoughts would not settle to tranquil prayer or much-needed planning. “Forgive me,” she murmured once more, in Khir. “I shall be better tomorrow, my princess. But for tonight…” At least Daoyan was safe, even if he would never forgive her.
She swept the dimensions of a pailai with the small broom tucked in a handy carven niche; the Crown Prince had done his best to ensure his wife would rest with those supplies and appurtenances her native land employed for the care of ancestors. Yala made her obeisances instead of spending her accustomed time in more prayer; the day’s dry dust-heat pressed through gathering darkness like stones upon a sinner in the Hell of Many Weights.
She had only done what she must. And yet she felt obliquely shamed.
Anh was relieved to be upon their way at last, but also full of fresh worry. “The lantern will help,” she said for the third time as she hurried at her lady’s side, almost skipping with impatience. “If anyone attempts to… I shall hit them, with the lantern.” She glanced at her mistress, unnerved by Yala’s silence. “Maybe it will set them on fire?”
“Perhaps.” Yala’s head lifted. She put out her left hand, her right dropping to linger close to her yue’s hidden hilt, and halted her kaburei.
Another horse stood companionably close to the black mare from the Crown Prince’s stables—those beasts, too fine for merchants, would go to his brothers; this particular one had been set aside in his will for Garan Takshin. She had sought permission for the mare’s use that very afternoon, in fact, and had been hard-pressed to arrange this trip quietly enough to avoid the Third Prince’s notice.
The other horse was a matching black gelding from the stall next door; she recognized him almost immediately. And from a bar of deep shadow under an ancient, gnarl-trunked yeoyan tree, left in place as the tombs were built for its luck and obvious antiquity, a single golden gleam alerted her to his rider.
“Third Prince,” she greeted, equably enough. Anh let out a squeak.
“Lady Spyling.” Takshin stepped from the deeper darkness like an unpropitiated shade. The gleam was the kyeogra in his left ear; his expression could not be discerned. “Should I be surprised to find you here?”
“I had a visit to perform.” Yala cursed the slight quaver in her voice, but it could merely be deep surprise at his sudden advent. “Surely you would not grudge me such duties, even after…”
She could not make herself say after we are married, not with Dao’s words ringing in her ears. I will return for you.
Yala hoped he would be dissuaded from such a course. She could even pray as much, though Heaven might not take much heed of a noblewoman forced to such exigencies as she had been lately.
“Not ever.” Takshin’s approach was all but silent except for his voice. It was merely his habit to move thus, she knew, and yet it was unsettling. “I am merely taken aback to see you upon such an errand at this hour. I would have accompanied you.”
“I thought you busy with the Khir lords.” It slipped naturally from her tongue; she preferred euphemism, misdirection, or a carefully misleading truth to an actual lie, but even most sages of the Hundreds realized sometimes it was unavoidable. She wished the lantern was not quite so bright, though it trembled in Anh’s hands as if she were dancing; hopefully, what could be seen of Yala’s expression was opaque. “I did not wish to disturb such merriment.”
“You mean have that pocked one insult you again?” A slight gleam of teeth was his smile, probably no more than a pained grimace bearing little amusement. “Don’t fear it, I suspect they have found what they came for and are long gone.”
He knows. A wet tendril of dread slid down her back, but caught in this heat, even terror could not offer relief. “Gone?” She almost winced; she should not sound so shocked.
“Why else would they keep their horses at stables in the Khir quarter instead of at the Palace?” Takshin’s tone was soft, almost excessively neutral. “And why else would they come to this place at this hour, if not to pay their respects before leaving? I do wonder about one thing, though.”
“Takshin…” Her lips refused to work quite properly. If she could only see his expression, she could perhaps guess at what would extricate her from this.
“They could certainly offer to escort you north; you are a fine enough rider. And your faithful kaburei would accompany you as chaperone.” He didn’t move, but Yala sensed coiled readiness in him. At any other moment, it would have been comforting.
Now? Her right hand was numb, tense and ready. The yue would not flash free to harm him, she thought. No, it would plunge into her own throat to halt her tongue from spilling every secret she possessed in a vain attempt to avoid being sent to the dungeons again or possibly, shamefully, tied to a whipping-post.
Garan Takshin would not save her twice. Would he?
“Yala?” he prompted. “Did they offer to take you home?”
What a strange word. It could mean the high dark halls of Hai Komori, Khir as a whole, the palace complex of Zhaon-An, her room in the Jonwa that would not be hers much longer—so many places called home, at one moment or another. It was enough to make even a sage dizzy with conflicting feelings, head-meat and heart full of different humors and the liver seeking vainly to force the two to pull a chariot.
“They offered,” she managed. He knew she had just lied to him about the reason for her visit to the tombs, of course, and was perhaps giving her enough rope to tie herself irrevocably to the post. “Yes.”
“Well? Why do you stay?” Now there was a shadow of irritation. Was he playing with her, a granary feline with a pinchnose mouse? He sounded as if he cared nothing for the answer, but she knew better than to think so.
Garan Takshin did not sound so disdainful of things he cared little for.
She was a coward, so she chose the reason he would be flattered to hear first. “You are to be my husband,” she said, quietly. “It would not be right. And I still must discover who paid for… paid for a shameful act.”
It was not a lie, she told herself firmly. She could no more disobey Garan Takyeo’s dying wish for her to marry his brother than she could lay aside whatever vengeance she might possibly wreak upon whoever paid for Mahara’s death. It was shameful to hope whatever Takshin felt for her would blind him to a treacherous involvement in the escape of Khir’s only living prince—and she devoutly hoped he had no idea who Daoyan was, other than a Khir merchant with some few ideas above his station.
The evening breeze pressed dusty, sweat-wringing fingers against her cheek; she longed for a tepid bath, for crushed fruit, for a sudden plunge into an icy pool. Her knees trembled. The day had been an agony, wondering if Dao would receive her note, if his finely tuned instincts would sense somewhat amiss, if Shohuri was one of the nobles for whom Dao’s very existence was a sordid little blot, and enduring any other free-floating anxiety her hair could catch while keeping her outer appearance as serene as possible.
Now there was no relief, either, from the terrible muscle-loosening fear that Takshin was simply playing with her, that he had planned to catch Ashani Daoyan as coldly and thoroughly as he’d arranged his and Yala’s own exit from Zhaon-An’s walls when she rode for Zakkar Kai.
She had a healthy respect for his ability to strike where needed, now.
The silence was full of the rustle of evening skybreath and insect calls, a faint faraway ribbon of cart wheels from the Road. You could not hear the city, but you could sense it like the heat of a large, dozing creature nearby.
When Garan Takshin spoke, it was a soft, meditative sentence. “A pair of reasons, I suppose.”
“I…” The pressure behind her eyes, her heart, her tongue mounted; it was the urge to babble like a child caught in mischief. “I had to render such aid as I was capable of. They are from Khir, Takshin.”
“Hm?” The shadow before her moved, shaking his head as if interrupted from deep, unpleasant thought. “Oh, that. I don’t blame them, I’d rather leave than deal with Kurin too. I suppose they gave you letters full of flowery apology and a tissue-thin pretext.”
“Y-yes.” They were in her sleeve even now, suddenly heavy, burning, guilty weights instead of expensive brushed, folded, and sealed paper.
“At least that. I’ll take them to Kurin in the morning.”
What? “What?” She did not mean to sound so stunned. But approaching Zhaon’s new Emperor, even with so patent a cause as letters from foreign dignitaries called away in highly irregular fashion, was an unpleasant and dangerous duty at best; she had not even turned her head-meat to the problem of how to do so yet. It was an unexpected relief that he would.
Or did he mean he would take them from a corpse or a shivering wreck once he had finished dealing with an errant woman?
“It’s safer,” Takshin said, patiently, and took the last step of his slow approach, looking down at her through quivering lampglow. “Did it not occur to you I would keep you safe, Yala? We are at a dismal start to married life, if so.”
“Ah.” The relief was almost as bad as the fear. It poured through her and she swayed, her shoulder bumping Anh’s. “I had not thought so far ahead, my lord.”
“That is very unlike you indeed. But you have suffered much of late.” He offered his arm, and she had to politely take it even though they were only a few steps from the horses. “Come, into the saddle. I should have suspected, and brought a palanquin.”
“Not from the tombs.” It wasn’t difficult to sound somewhat shocked. “It would bring ill-luck.”
“Is that what they say in Khir?” He stopped at the black mare’s side, a pretty bit of courtesy either genuine or ironic; she could not tell which. “You’re trembling.”
There was no shame in such quivering, Yala told herself. She was, after all, only a woman. “It has been an extremely warm day.”
“And you have not fully recovered from…” He exhaled sharply. “Nobody would ever guess who rode for Kai, but still, you should not strain yourself so.”
The wound upon her back, healing nicely even though it itched, gave a twinge. “You are very solicitous, my lord Third Prince.” At least her arms and legs were equal to the task of mounting; she felt much better once a-horse. The mare was placid, one ear flicking as she sensed Yala’s unease. A more skittish mount might have responded with a sidle. “I thought you would be angry, instead.”
“I considered it,” he said thoughtfully, and Anh edged to her usual spot near the mare’s head with many a glance at Yala, as if willing strength in her mistress’s direction. The round golden lantern bobbed, casting fitful shadows over his sharp, scar-seamed face. “As far as anyone knows, I accompanied you tonight. The entire time, understood?” A sharp glance at Anh, who squeaked again and nodded while the lantern danced. The mare flicked her ear once more, moderately displeased.
Yala gathered her reins, her knees clamping so the horse knew her rider was well aware of this new development and did not consider it cause for concern. “Of course, my lord.”
“Still so formal.” A familiar, sharp amusement under the words. He was just the same as ever. If it was a trap it was a long-drawn one. “I do not like you out with only a kaburei at this hour, Yala.”
The rebuke did not sting nearly as much as it could. She bowed her head, as if her father was expressing measured displeasure. The familiarity was even comforting, now that she was almost certain he did not suspect her betrayal. “Yes, Takshin,” she murmured. Daoyan was as safe as possible, returning to Khir unremarked by this most perceptive of Garan Tamuron’s sons. Her largest worry was completely relieved.
Perhaps that was why she was suddenly so sweat-wrung and exhausted.
Takshin mounted and they set off, the lamp bobbing in Anh’s hand as she walked sedately before her mistress’s horse. Normally she would precede the nobleman too, but Takshin told her curtly to stay where she was, for he needed his dark-vision. They rode in the gloaming, and it took a long while for Komor Yala’s hands to stop shaking.
FORMS OBSERVED
Apparently Garan Sensheo was fully forgiven, for a Red Letter had arrived at his estate just this morning, bearing the Emperor’s invitation. He was to return to the palace and pay a visit to his mother, which was welcome news to the Fifth Prince of Zhaon, even if he did have to ride in a palanquin like a woman.
Once he paid his respects he could go where he pleased, but the forms must be observed.
So it was he climbed the familiar steps leading to Garan Hanweo-a Haesara’s quarters in the Kaeje, the door still bearing banners of pale cloth as if a dowager queen mourned both her husband and a son that was none of hers. Of course she had two fine sons still living, did Garan Tamuron’s second queen, and it could be that her mourning was flagrant enough to be apologetic for that great good fortune, propitiating a jealous Heaven.
