Mazarkis Williams: Knife Sworn

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is always a puzzle of many parts. Give me a daughter and Daveed stays safe. And that could be an end to it. I would be happy to raise a daughter.

“You should be with Mesema, mother.” Sarmin watched his brother, refusing to meet their mother’s eyes.

“She has women aplenty with her. In any case these horse-girls know more about birthing than any decent bride should. On the plains they open their legs to men and beast alike and drop bastards in the grass without a second thought.”

“Mesema had no plains-children, Mother.” Sarmin took his hand from Daveed before anger tightened it. “She was taken too young from her family. She needs the Old Wives round her-she has laboured two days and a night.”

“She has Old Wives-”

“Only Lana is with her, and the Little Mother was never strong, less so since Beyon’s passing. Mesema needs strength now.”

“My place is with my son,” Nessaket said, “I cannot leave him.” Sarmin turned to go.

“The gods will strike you down the day you listen to those old men,” his mother said.

No ifs. She already thinks I will break, that it’s just a matter of time.

“The only danger to Daveed is your fear, Mother. Herran tells me of these plans to spirit my brother away to the estate of this lord or that lord, to use this passage, that guide. Fear breeds fear. The more you do to take the child from the palace the more the council mistrust your motives.” He sounded tired even to himself as he stepped towards the doorway. “Watch my brother well.” His hand still held the child’s warmth. He looked down at it, half expecting to find it bloody.

Corridors led him and for a time Sarmin walked without direction. Bodyguards shadowed his path, dark as befits shadows, slave-bred swordsons from the Islands.

If Mother knew that five men loyal to me guard Daveed for each of hers, what then would she think? He stopped before an archway. Beneath it Huna, last champion of the Parigols, stood outnumbered by Cerani, proud and many. Perhaps it’s in our blood to glorify our enemies and overlook the heroes of our own.

“Magnificence!” A pale man running, wrapped in the blue silks of a servant, sashed in gold to denote command. “Magnificence!”

“Paper!” For a moment Sarmin couldn’t remember the man’s true name. Even now it felt strange for Paper to speak after seventeen years serving in silence. “Charging at the emperor is a good way to lose height.” He spread his hands to calm the guards who had stepped in close. True to their training they relaxed only by the merest fraction, as if humouring him. Threats don’t vanish just because the emperor does not see them.

“A child, my emperor!” Paper caught his breath and remembered himself. He fell into his obeisance. “The empress is delivered of a child, Mirra be blessed!”

“Is she well? Is Mesema well? Are they both well?” A hollowness filled him.

“Tired, Magnificence, but she is well. As is your son.”

“A son?” How many gods had he asked for a daughter? “A son?” Beyon’s son. The true emperor.

Nessaket sat and watched her son Daveed. An hour ago he had begun to cry for his milk, a strong, healthy cry that seared her chest, but she did not lift him from his bed. He remained where his brother Sarmin had put him, waving his tiny fists and punching his feet at the ceiling. Over time his wailing grew thin, until finally he turned his face to the blankets, sucking at the silks, making little noises of disappointment. Shadows gathered around him, settling into the folds of his blankets, the curves of his hands and the hollows of his eyes. With the darkness came a chill, but she did not cover him. Perhaps the cold would sink in, make him frail, carry him off to his dead brothers. Perhaps that would be a mercy.

Before the little savage pushed forth her cursed boy, Sarmin had named Daveed as his heir and promised never to hurt him. But within an hour everything had changed. Now Sarmin had a son and Daveed was both more and less than he had been. More of a threat, less of a necessity. Her prayers to Mirra had gone unanswered. Tuvaini lay in his tomb, Arigu remained far away in Fryth and she was alone.

A wail rose from deep within her, but she made her throat tight so all that escaped was a half-syllable, choked rather than spoken. Daveed heard 34 her and renewed his protests, outraged that she would sit so close without feeding him. His fury reminded her of Beyon, though her eldest would never have gone quiet. At least that was what she believed; she had never made Beyon wait, and so she did not know.

Was it easier to die as a baby? She thought of her son Yusuf, who had yielded to the same fever that killed so many of Tahal’s children. It had rushed through like a flooding river, sweeping them all away and leaving Beyon as the eldest boy. How she had thanked Herzu then, making sacrifices daily, for pestilence was His province but Beyon had been spared. She thought perhaps he’d been chosen by the gods, and urged Emperor Tahal to protect and favour her son over all others.

She laughed at that, all bitter edges, cutting across the baby’s cries. Yes; I should just kill him now. His brother is the hand of heaven, and the gods are careless. Even Tuvaini had managed the deaths of all Beyon’s wives during his short reign. Women she had hand-picked and trained from a young age-staked out in the courtyard for Eyul’s bow. The throne was purchased and maintained through death and blood.

Nessaket raised the cushion and stared down at Daveed’s red, angry cheeks. He had Beyon’s eyes and that curl of hair at his temple. He did not resemble his father; for that she was thankful.

There had been a time, before her husband had betrayed her, when she had loved and been loved, when she had looked to the future with happiness. When she remembered those days, it was to recall another woman, not herself. That woman had been hollowed out of her, bite by bitter bite, until all she felt empty. The same emptiness had forced Siri to jump from the roof of the palace after little Kashim died, the roof where she had kept a beautiful garden, where the children had played.

She had watched Eyul Knife-Sworn drag his blade over Amile’s throat. Had Amile wondered, in those last moments, whether his life had always been meant to end that way? Whether his lessons and songs and embraces had been for nothing? Had he felt the betrayal, had he felt unloved? It weighed on her like a stone, making her arms heavy, the cushion heavy. She dropped it.

It just covered Daveed’s little body. She leaned over the crib, letting the heaviness weigh her down, letting it press her hands against the silk. A lullaby came to her lips. Sleep now little child, your father tames the sands so wild, over dune and under star, your dreams will take you very far. Daveed struggled a moment, his little feet kicking at the tassels, then went still.

“No!” Nessaket threw the pillow from the cradle. Had he died so quickly? But he blinked at her, angrier than ever, and let out a long, shuddering wail. “Oh, Daveed,” she said, picking him up, “oh, my child.” And so I still have something yet to lose. She gave him her breast, wondering if some part of him would remember this and hate her, just as Beyon had. Now she had betrayed all of her children, except for Yusuf. Dear, sweet Yusuf had died not knowing anything but her love.

Daveed would not die. She would make sure of that now.

I will be a better mother this time.

Once Daveed’s stomach was full, his eyelids drooped. Nessaket placed him in his cradle and turned to the mirror. She saw herself in the silver, still a bit heavy from giving birth, her hair finally showing a streak of grey. “Dreshka? Where is my body-slave?” she called out, though she knew the woman always stood in the shadowed niches of the hallway.