Eternal Sky 01(79)

“And the abilities?”

“Oh,” Hrahima said. “Those remain. And our legends are full to brimming with stories of those who used them with insufficient humility. Imagine, if you will, what such a creature could wreak, unrestrained by the Bond of Service.”

“A Cho-tse Carrion-King.”

“At the least.”

“And you were tempted?” She knew the answer. But Hrahima’s anger was an opportunity to establish trust, and Samarkar was too many years a politician to allow that to slip through her hands.

Hrahima snorted, slowing at last. “Every day.”

Whatever Samarkar might have said in reply was interrupted by the hushing patter of feet running in silk slippers, echoing down one of the cross-corridors up ahead. Hrahima held up her hand, but Samarkar was already moving forward, calling on the patterns of protection worked into her collar. The light that blazed around her was green as jade this time, filtered through the energies of the translucent stones, painting the black stone walls with a viridian sheen. Now Hrahima extended her stride to keep up with Samarkar, and Temur and the footman, too, broke into a trot. But the running woman came into sight before either of them had taken more than a few steps.

It was Payma, dressed all in trailing robes of white and apricot silk, sliding, stumbling as she rounded the corner, righting herself against the far wall and charging on. The oiled tower of her hair fell in disarray from jeweled combs; her hands were bare of rings. Tears or sweat streaked the careful maquillage on her cheeks, the shadows that made her eyes seem as huge and dazzling as stars. She plunged forward, tripping on uneven stones, and Samarkar closed the distance between them in order to catch Payma before she could fall and bloody her knees and her palms.

The girl in Samarkar’s arms felt like a caterpillar’s twiggy tent, but as she fell against Samarkar’s side, Samarkar felt the firm, ripe curve of her belly and fought down a sharp moment of envy. It’s not a sacrifice if it doesn’t mean anything to you.

“Payma,” Samarkar said, pulling her into the shelter of Samarkar’s green and airy light. The effect was as if Payma stood in the verdant tunnel beneath trees in a garden, her skin smoothed by flattering green shade. “Honored Sister-in-Law. What’s wrong?”

The girl—the child, in all honesty—might be in hysterics, but she was still a force. With one hand on Samarkar’s arm as a prop, she pushed herself upright, and erect as a queen she held up the other imperious hand.

“You,” Payma said to the footman, “you must go elsewhere.”

“Highness,” the footman said without question, and faded back down the hall. His evident relief told Samarkar that there was no question but that the chamberlain—then, perforce, Songtsan—would be informed of these events in mere moments.

Payma sagged, as if that had been her last strength. Samarkar slid a supporting arm around Payma’s shoulders, bending her knees to hold the princess upright. Hrahima bounded past, reaching the intersection Payma had just run through in a single leap. She scanned the side corridors with her tail lashing, her knees bent to a half crouch.

“Nothing,” she said, but Samarkar knew it was only a matter of time before some pursuit materialized. Princesses were not left to wander the palace corridors unescorted, in tears and in dishabille.

“You have to help me,” Payma said. She raised a hand to Samarkar’s cheek. She smelled of tears and snot and sandalwood and the tinted grease on her cheeks. “My husbands are going to … I mean…”—she gulped in a breath and seemed to draw strength from it, for the quaver dropped out of her voice and she spoke with strained dignity—“Songtsan is going to kill Tsansong. And I know I am not meant to have favorites between my husbands, but there is no doubt that the babe I carry is Tsansong’s child.”

Samarkar needed no help with the pitiless equations of politics. Songtsan had a boy child born; he had finally dispensed with his hated mother. What would stop him from removing his brother, his rival, and that rival’s unborn son?

She was a wizard of Tsarepheth. She was under the authority of the bstangpo. She had chosen that role in part so that her sons could never prove rivals to Songtsan’s lineage, because she knew precisely what her brother was capable of—and in part because it was the best measure of freedom from his machinations that she could buy.

“That’s treason,” she said, with a glance at Temur. I’m willing, she said with her eyes, praying he would understand. It had to be his choice.

He swallowed, one hand on his knife, and said only, “Do we try to rescue your brother?”