Daniel Abraham - Price of Spring

"I heard you woke confused again," she said. "You were calling for someone called Muhatia-cha?"

"I had a dream. That's all," Otah said. "Muhatia was my overseer back when I was young. I dreamed that I was late for my shift. I needed to get to the seafront before he docked my pay. That was all. I'm not losing my mind, love. My health, maybe, but not my mind. Not yet."

"I didn't think you were. Turn here. Let me look at your eyes. Have the headaches come back?"

"No," Otah said, and she knew by his voice he was lying. It was time to stop asking details. There was only so much physician's attention her father would permit. She sat back on the couch, and he let out a small, satisfied breath.

"You saw Issandra Dasin?" she asked.

"Yes, yes. She spent the better part of the afternoon here," Otah said. "The things they've done with Chaburi-Tan are amazing. I was thinking I might go myself. Just to see them."

"It would be fascinating," Eiah agreed. "I hear Farrer-cha's doing well?"

"He's made more out of that city than I could have. But then I was never particularly brilliant with administration. I had other skills, I suppose," Otah said. "Enough about that. Tell me about your family. How is Parit-cha? And the girls?"

Eiah let herself be distracted. Parit was well, but he'd been kept away from their apartments three nights running by a boy who worked for House Laarin who'd broken his leg falling off a wall. It had been a bad break, and the fever hadn't gone down quickly enough to suit anyone. It seemed as if the boy would live, and they were both happy to call that a success. Of Otah's granddaughters, Mischa was throwing all her free time into learning to dance every new form that came in from Galt, and wearing the dance master's feet raw in the effort. Gaber had talked about nothing besides the steam caravan for weeks, but Eiah suspected it was more Calin's enthusiasm than her own. Gaber assumed that Calin rose with the sun and set with the moon.

Eiah didn't realize how long she'd been telling the small stories of her family until the overseer came out with an apologetic pose and announced that the Emperor's meal was waiting. Otah made a show of rubbing his belly, but when Eiah joined him, he ate very little. The meal was fresh chicken cooked in last year's apricots, and it was delicious. She watched her father pluck at the pale flesh.

He looked older than his years. His skin had grown as thin as paper; his eyes were always wet. After his hands had fallen to their weakness, the headaches had begun. Eiah had tried him on half a dozen different programs of herbs and baths. She wasn't convinced he'd followed any of them very closely.

"Stop," Otah said. Eiah took a pose that asked clarification. He frowned at her, his eyebrows rising as he spoke. "You're looking at me as if I were a particularly interesting bloodworm. I'm fine, Eiah-kya. I sleep well, I wake full of energy, my bowels never trouble me, and my joints don't ache. Everything that could be right about me is right. Now I'd like to spend an evening with my daughter and not my physician, eh?"

"I'm sorry, Papa-kya," she said. "It's only that I worry."

"I know," he said, "and I forgive you. But don't let tomorrow steal what's good about tonight. The future takes care of its own. You can write that down if you like. The Emperor said it."

The flower that wilted last year is gone. Petals once fallen are fallen forever.

Idaan rose before the dawn as she always did, parting the netting silently and stealthily walking out to her dressing chamber so as not to disturb Cehmai. She was not so important a woman that the servants wouldn't leave her be or that armsmen were needed to hold the utkhaiem and councilmen at bay. She was not her brother. She picked a simple robe of dusty red and rich blue and fastened all the ties herself. Then sandals and a few minutes before a mirror with a brush and a length of stout ribbon to bring her hair into something like order.

No one had assigned her the daily task of carrying breakfast to the Emperor. It was one she'd simply taken on. After two weeks of arriving at the kitchens to collect the tray with its plates and bowl and teapot, the servant who had been the official bearer simply stopped coming. She'd usurped the work.

That morning, they'd prepared honey bread and raisins, hot rice in almond milk, and a slab of roast pork with a pepper glaze. Idaan knew from experience that she would end with the pork and the honey bread. The rice, he might eat.

The path to the Emperor's apartments was well-designed. The balance between keeping the noises and interruptions away-not to mention the constant possibility of fire-and getting the food to him still warm meant a long, straight journey almost free from the meanderings to which the palaces were prone. Archways of stone marked the galleries. Tapestries of lush red and gold hung on the walls. The splendor had long since ceased to take her breath away. She had lived in palaces and mud huts and everything in between. The only thing that astounded her with any regularity was that so late in her life, she had found her family.

Cehmai alone had been miraculous. The last decade serving in court had been something greater than that. She had become an aunt to Danat and Eiah and Ana, a sister to Otah Machi. Even now, her days had the feel of relaxing in a warm bath. It wasn't something she'd expected. For that, it wasn't something she'd thought possible. The nightmares almost never came now; never more than once or twice in a month. She was ready to grow old here, in these halls and passageways, with these people. If anyone had the poor judgment to threaten her people, Idaan knew she would kill the idiot. She hoped the occasion wouldn't arise.

She knew something was wrong as soon as she passed through the arch that led to Otah's private garden. Four servants stood in a clot at the side door, their faces pale, their hands in constant motion. With a feeling of dread, she put the lacquer tray on a bench and came forward. The oldest of the servants was weeping, his face blotchy and his eyes swollen. Idaan looked at the man, her expression empty. Whatever strength remained in him left, and he folded to the ground sobbing.

"Have you sent for his children?" Idaan asked.

"I… we only just…"

Idaan raised her eyebrows, and the remaining servants scattered. She stepped over the weeping man and made her way into the private rooms. All together, they were smaller than Idaan's old farmhouse. It didn't take long to find him.

Otah sat in a chair as if he were only sleeping. The window before him was open, the shutters swaying slow and languorous in the breeze. The motion reminded her of seaweed. His robe was yellow shot with black. His eyes were barely open and as empty as marbles. Idaan made herself touch his skin. It was cold. He was gone.

She found a stool, pulled it to his side, and sat with him one last time. His hand was stiff, but she wrapped her fingers around his. For a long while, she said nothing. Then, softly so that just the two of them could hear, she spoke.

"You did good work, brother. I can't think anyone would have done better."

She remained there breathing the scent of his rooms for the last time until Danat and Eiah arrived, a small army of servants and utkhaiem and councilmen at their backs. Idaan told Eiah what she needed to know in a few short sentences, then left. The breakfast was gone, cleared away. She went to find Cehmai and tell him the news.

Flowers do not return in the spring, rather they are replaced. It is in this difference between returned and replaced that the price of renewal is paid.

"No," Ana said. The Ambassador of Eymond lifted a finger, as if begging leave to interrupt the Empress. He made a small noise at the back of his throat. Ana shook her head. "I said no. I meant no, Lord Ambassador. And if you raise your finger to me again like I was a schoolgirl talking out of turn, I will have it cut off and set in a necklace for you."