She wondered if anyone—even Temur—could spot the way her pulse drummed so suddenly in her throat. He had been watching her differently. She did not think it was only that they had become lovers: it was his dream and the aftermath of watching her die. It frightened her—not for herself but for the anticipatory grief she saw in his expression already.
One of us will lose the other, she told herself—once-princess, wizard, widow. Possibly before the sun sets on us tonight.
She extended her hand and accepted the letter as Ato Tesefahun excused the messenger. The paper was soft and thick, crisp along the folds. It smelled sweet. She examined the writing. Flipped the note over and tilted it to see the seal and that the seal had not been broken, or lifted off and reaffixed. It was cobalt wax over crimson and dusted with gold foil. The snarling head of a griffin regarded her from within a wreath comprised of a verse of the poetry of Ysmat of the Beads, Prophet of the Scholar-God.
The verse concerned itself with the duties of nobility. The whole seal was uncommonly fine work. Silken ribbons lay beneath it.
“That is the caliph’s personal seal,” said Ato Tesefahun. “It is used only on letters written in his own hand.”
Samarkar looked at him through her lashes. She flipped the letter again and read the address, resting her wrist against the tabletop to hide how her hands were shaking. “He has an uncommonly fine hand.”
“He does not write so many things himself that it degrades with haste.” Ato Tesefahun placed his coffee cup down on the glass tabletop. It was piping hot, but in this arid climate it trailed no plume of white steam. “Are you going to open it?”
“It might be confidential.” She set the letter facedown, appropriated a jam knife from Brother Hsiung’s plate, then heated it against the chased silver side of the coffee service. When the dull blade was warm, she eased it under the seal and lifted.
The letter fell open in her hand when she picked it up again.
“O lovely Samarkar,” she read aloud, while Ato Tesefahun’s eyebrows rose and Brother Hsiung stilled utterly, a bit of pastry and jam in his mouth. Across the table, Temur rocked back, forehead creased in a frown that did not reach his lips.
Watching him, Samarkar thought better of reciting the contents of the note verbatim. Instead, she scanned quickly—as quickly as she could, given the Uthman script—and set the note down before summarizing. “He wants to meet with me. Alone. In his chambers.”
Silence, except for Hrahima’s faint chuff and the jingle of rings as she flicked her ears.
“That,” said Ato Tesefahun, “would seem to be a romantic proposition.”
“Would it?” Samarkar said. She flicked her left hand toward her face, skimmed it dismissively over the front of her body. Now Temur made a sound, but not an articulate one, and Samarkar could see his knuckles tighten where he gripped the table.
It’s easier to be shared than to share, she thought half-cheerfully and waited for Ato Tesefahun to speak.
“So it would seem,” he said, with a sideways glance toward the messenger—who was still regarding Ato Tesefahun, and not Samarkar at all. Which was all to the good, because it meant he didn’t see her roll her eyes.
“Excellent,” said Samarkar briskly. “Please tell his serene Excellency’s messenger to inform his serene Excellency that I will be in attendance this noon, as he requests.”
Ato Tesefahun did, and the messenger withdrew. Samarkar could still feel Temur’s eyes upon her.
“It’s a way of speaking to him in private.” She returned her attention to her breakfast.
“Some will call you his concubine, just from that,” Ato Tesefahun observed with the air of one pointing out that if someone does not eat the last slice of cake, it will go to waste.
“To name a thing is half of making it,” Samarkar said.
Ato Tesefahun’s lips quirked. “Only half, Wizard Samarkar?”
Whatever she might have replied was lost when Hsiung pushed away the remains of his meal and stood abruptly. He paused for a moment, fist clenched at his thighs. His eyes were downcast, but Samarkar could see the flicker of green light through his lashes. He turned away. She would have risen to support him, but he held up a palm to stay her. They watched as he made his way with clipped strides to the courtyard door and passed through it.
In the stretched silence that followed, Samarkar glanced at Temur, held his gaze. After a moment, he nodded and said, “I must see to the mare today,” as if merely making conversation rather than offering a truce, and a sort of apology. “If we must be ready to travel on an instant, it will not go well should Bansh be unsound.”