Dar had heard reports from some of his generals that the Raniran army had been conducting “training exercises” near the border, particularly in areas where the Becaran presence was weakest. But without the authority of the crown, he could not authorize troop movements to secure those areas. A stupid law, Dar thought—he agreed with Ambassador Usan, though he obviously couldn’t say so out loud, for multiple reasons.
He knew the history behind the law: five generations ago, during the transition period before a coronation, the military, acting of their own accord, had claimed they were defending the Heart of Becar, the capital of the empire, from an invasion. The invasion was a lie, though, and instead the generals ordered their soldiers to capture and kill the royal family, with the intent of installing one of their own as the next emperor. Only one child survived, a young girl who became known as the Empress of Despair, because she never got over the loss of her parents and siblings. She’d made the decree that during the transition period, the military could not authorize any troop movements. Any general who violated the law would be accused of treason and immediately executed. Needless to say, given the cost, the Becaran generals were meticulous about following the law. Sure, the law made sense then, Dar thought. But now? When the law was made, no one had ever anticipated that a transition period would last so long, and there were no provisions in place for complications arising from such a situation.
It’s all a mess, Dar thought, and the longer it continues, the worse it will get.
As if on cue, Ambassador Usan was replaced by Lord Mynoc of Leyand, who proceeded to list out all the ways things had already gotten worse: a riot in Seronne, incidents of unrest in Peron, a generations-old market shut down in Androc, news of protests planned outside the palace, complaints from the guild directors from nearly every guild in Becar of shortages, worker grievances over frozen contracts, and financial losses. . . . Becar, in short, was a pot of boiling rice, about to bubble over. “The mess will take decades to clean up,” Lord Mynoc said, “if a resolution isn’t found soon.”
I know, Dar thought. But he could say and do nothing but incline his head in acknowledgment.
At merciful last, the Listening ended, and Dar rose, his knees popping as if he’d aged three decades in the three hours he’d sat there. He thanked his people and the palace nobles for sharing their hearts and minds, using the proper traditional words that he’d memorized, along with the thousand other phrases he’d had to memorize in the past few months, and then he recessed from the throne room.
He was somewhat proud of himself for not running out of there.
He reached his rooms. Two guards were stationed on either side of the door. One bowed, while the other flung the door open. He gave them more sincere nods—he had far more respect for the men and women who protected his life than the ones who swarmed mosquito-like through his court. Only when he was safely inside, alone, did he allow himself to slump his shoulders, rip off the red scarf and three layers of mourning linen, and slam his fist into one of the many pillows that littered his room.
He didn’t understand why the palace stewards thought an emperor needed so many pillows. He hadn’t needed them when he was an heir. But he did like that they were good for quietly venting every emotion he didn’t allow himself to express outside of these rooms.
He raged at the pillows for a quarter of an hour, until he began to feel silly. It wasn’t as if the pillows had smothered his brother or contributed to his death in any way. Zarin had sickened and died, the way people do, and it wasn’t the fault of anything or anyone. It simply was. Which somehow made it worse.
Dar had no one to blame. No one to hate. Except himself, for being alive while his beloved brother was dead. It should have been me. He was the extra one, the friend and the confidant but never the leader. He’d never wanted this, no matter what the people said when they thought he couldn’t hear them.
“River take them all,” he said.
“Your Excellence?” a guard called through the door. “May we assist you?”
You could stop eavesdropping on me while I’m throwing a private temper tantrum, he thought. But out loud he said, “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
Then he had another thought: “Actually, could you send someone to summon Augur Yorbel? I would like to take solace in the wisdom of his counsel.” And he wanted another update on the search for his brother.
Just because he hated listening to the nobles didn’t mean they weren’t right.
Yorbel had been expecting another summons to the palace. For days, he’d kept his official augur robe ready on a hook by his door, and when he heard the slap of sandals on the stone outside his quarters during the afternoon reflection time, he rose from his meditation, dressed, and donned the chain with the pendant that identified him as one of the esteemed augurs of Becar.
He felt like a soldier putting on his armor, but the arrows in the palace were whispered words and the spears were questions he couldn’t answer.
The walk to the palace was hot, with the midday sun soaking through his linen robe. His shaved head kept him somewhat cool, at least cooler than the nobles with their coiled braids and myriad ornaments who fanned themselves as they lounged about the gardens. He didn’t slow to greet any of them, though he noticed several begin to start toward him. He’d learned from experience that if you walked with purpose, it exponentially increased the odds that you’d reach your destination. Proceed slowly, and people would pounce all over you. So he didn’t pause, despite the heat.
In anxious times, people were especially eager to talk to augurs for both guidance and reassurance. And these are undoubtedly anxious times, he thought. Just this morning, in a corridor that was usually silent for contemplation, he’d heard two of the younger augurs whispering about Ranir, worrying about whether its king would view Becar as weak—a worldly worry normally outside the scope of a young augur’s concerns. He’d heard it all lately: fear of economic collapse, fear of riots, fear of invasion. . . . I believe we can weather these times, if people continue to honor their better selves.
Yorbel was greeted at the entrance and escorted into the blissful cool of the palace. In this wing, the walls had been painted a restful blue, with diamond-flecked stars decorating the ceiling. All the palace windows were constructed to allow a breeze in and keep the sun out, and so the cool shadows seemed to whisper with the breath of the wind.
“How fares our emperor-to-be?” he asked his escort, breaking the silence.
His escort, one of the royal guards, looked startled. Yorbel thought he wasn’t used to being spoken to by the luminaries he conducted through the palace. Yorbel had never understood that—people were people, no matter their rank. The worthiness of one’s soul had very little to do with one’s employment or economic status. It was surprising how often people conflated righteousness and wealth. Yorbel had met plenty of rich assholes.
“He fares as well as could be expected, Your Eminence.”
“And that is?”
“He mourns his brother. He fulfills his duties. But . . .” The guard hesitated.
“You may speak freely to me,” Yorbel said. “I merely see a soul’s future. I have no more power than anyone does to influence your destiny. You shape your own fate.” He meant the words kindly, even though he knew they sounded pompous. There was a reason he didn’t deliver the daily words at the temple—he wasn’t as good at talking easily with people as some augurs, even though he tried.
Glancing up and down the corridor, the guard confided, “He wasn’t ready to replace his brother. Rumor is he doesn’t want to. Rumor is he delays the search for his brother’s soul because he doesn’t want to take the throne. He doesn’t want to admit his brother is dead and gone.”
“He has a heart,” Yorbel said. “May Becar always have leaders whose souls are as human as their bodies.” He’d always liked the boy. Dar had a streak of kindness and compassion that was unusual in one who had grown up surrounded by the backstabbing intrigue of the royal
court. Privately, Yorbel suspected his brother, both before and after he was emperor, had protected Dar from the worst of it. Being thrust to the forefront had to have been a shock, even without the grief aspect.
“Yes, but it won’t be long before the nobles begin to see his love for his brother as a weakness they can exploit. He needs to be coronated, and fast. Or else”—the guard lowered his voice—“there are rumors that a faction in court wants him declared unfit to rule, on the basis of his delay in finding his brother’s soul’s new vessel. It’s said they’ve already selected the next empress.”
Yorbel placed a hand on the shoulder of the guard. “Then here is a new rumor for you: Emperor-to-Be Dar does not delay. He has dispersed twice the number of augurs as is customary. Late Emperor Zarin’s soul has proven elusive. But he will be found, as fast as is possible.”
The guard’s face lit up in a smile. “That’s a good rumor to hear and to share, Your Eminence. Thank you. We—the majority of the palace guard—are fond of Dar. We’d hate to have to kill him.”
A door opened, and the emperor-to-be popped his head out. “And I’d hate to be killed. Glad we’re all in agreement. Your Eminence, please join me.”
Flustered, the guard dropped to his knees and began to sputter apologies.
“You’re a good man,” Yorbel told him. And added: “Have no fear for your rebirth.” He walked past him as the guard began to cry.
Yorbel shut the door behind him.
“Even I know you aren’t supposed to tell people their fates like that,” the emperor-to-be said. He sounded amused, which was good, since he could have chosen to report Yorbel’s indiscretion to the High Council of Augurs.
It was a sensible law, designed to protect augurs: all readings were private, by request only, and for a fee. Otherwise, augurs would be overwhelmed with constant demands. Besides, it was unethical to read someone without their consent. But Yorbel also believed in providing comfort where he could. He had not been given his gifts to hoard them.
“He needed to hear it,” Yorbel said, as he took in the state of the emperor-to-be’s rooms. Pillows had been shredded and tossed, but every fragile ornament—glass flowers in a priceless vase, the exquisite pitcher that held amber-hued wine—was untouched. From all appearances, it looked as if Dar had thrown a very controlled temper tantrum.
Dar saw him observing the pillows and said, “I was redecorating.”
“Of course, Your Greatness.”
“Shouldn’t that be ‘Greatness-to-Be’? Oh, no, wait, don’t tell me—you’re going to say that greatness has nothing to do with my rank and everything to do with the state of my soul.”
Since that was precisely what Yorbel had been about to say, he smiled instead.
“I can tell you, Yorbel, the state of my soul is not good. If one more noble pretends to care about the comfort of my brother’s vessel . . . Eh, who am I kidding? I will nod politely because it’s what Zarin would have wanted me to do. You know, I never expected the absence of a brother would have more impact on my thoughts and actions than the presence of one.” He flopped onto a pillowless couch.
“Dar . . .” Yorbel stopped. He shouldn’t be hesitant to speak his thoughts to Dar. He’d known him since Dar was a young boy—he’d been his tutor for a half-dozen years, while perfecting his augur skills, and then his friend after—and Dar clearly hadn’t changed how he treated Yorbel since becoming emperor-to-be. Still . . .
“One minute,” Dar said. “You’re going to say something inappropriate that you don’t want every spy in the palace to overhear. I’m fairly certain Ambassador Usan spends his afternoons personally eavesdropping on my conversations, and I know the faction from Griault has at least one professional spy in the palace. Let me give them something else to listen to.” He hopped up off the couch, strode to the door, and stuck his head outside again. “Your emperor-to-be would like to hear some singing.”
“Your Highness?” one of the guards said. “With all due respect, my husband claims my singing can curdle milk and cause dogs to drop dead in the street.”
“Excellent. Then sing very loudly.”
Dar shut the door as the two guards outside began to bellow off-pitch one of the traditional Becaran ballads. It was utterly unrecognizable which one.
“Clever,” Yorbel said. “You need to know that the search does not go well. Based on the most recent soul reading before his death, the temple predicted that your brother would be reborn as a golden tamarin monkey—there are fewer than three thousand colonies of such creatures in Becar, and we searched them all within the first week. We now have augurs examining every creature of a similar status, but . . .”
“But what if the augur who last read him was wrong,” Dar said, finishing his sentence. “Or what if Zarin’s soul changed significantly between his last reading and his death?”
“It has happened before.” Yorbel hesitated. “The high council worries they’ll offend you if they suggest broadening the search. But if your brother’s soul isn’t found within the next season . . .” He let the sentence dangle.
Dar sighed heavily. “I know. Believe me, I know. Becar needs an emperor, and her loyal subjects won’t wait forever. I cannot ask them to. If I cannot produce Zarin’s vessel . . . then Becar needs an heir who is not of Zarin’s direct line, and therefore not required to find him in order to be crowned.”
Yorbel knew what Dar didn’t say: in order for another to be crowned, Dar would have to die. Sometimes Yorbel truly hated politics.
“What do you suggest?” Dar asked.
“We have every augur available searching for every conceivable vessel for the late emperor,” Yorbel said. “What I propose is that we also search the inconceivable. Send an augur to examine creatures we have not considered.” He phrased it as delicately as he could, but he knew Dar would understand what he meant.
Dar took a step backward. “No.”
Keeping his face placid, Yorbel said, “I pass no judgment on your beloved brother.”
“You think Zarin . . . You think he . . . my brother . . . your emperor . . .” He paced across the room, then paced back, all coiled anger. “I could have you killed for even thinking it. If you weren’t my friend . . .”
“But I am your friend,” Yorbel said.
That stopped Dar.
Yorbel pushed on. “And as your friend, I am telling you: we have to consider everything if we’re to save your life. Let me speak to the high council about redirecting a few augurs—”
Dar cut him off. “Absolutely not. Speak of your suspicions to no one, and keep all available augurs searching where they are. If you believe this absurdity is necessary, then you do it.”
He meant it as a ludicrous suggestion, Yorbel could tell. He, Yorbel, search for a soul’s new vessel? That was a task reserved for lower-level augurs. Though Yorbel wasn’t one of the high augurs, he was one of the most adept. He was in continuous demand by the aristocrats for readings, which meant a steady revenue stream for the temple. This, in turn, allowed other augurs to offer affordable readings to the working class and near-free readings to the poor. But matters are desperate if even the palace guards are worried. Yorbel would do the absurd for the sake of his emperor, both the one who had died and the one who was yet to be crowned. “I will proceed with discretion and will report back.”
Dar blinked at him. “Wait—you’re going to do it?”
“Yes.” There was more he could say, about how he didn’t want it to be true, about how he couldn’t live with himself if Dar was killed and he hadn’t done all he could, about how even augurs didn’t know all the secrets of a person’s heart.
In a low voice, so soft that Yorbel was barely able to hear it beneath the singing of the guards, Dar whispered, “You truly think it’s possible my brother could have been reborn as a kehok?”
“No,” Yorbel said firmly. And then added:
“But I think we must be sure.”
Yorbel chose the long way back to the temple after hi
s meeting with the emperor-to-be. He needed to think. He knew he’d picked the right course of action, but how to do it?
In the late-afternoon heat, few people were out. If riots and protests were brewing, the perpetrators were sensible enough to wait until it cooled. Most shopkeepers were tucked back inside their tents and stalls. A monkey was napping in the shade of one building. A young man knelt next to a fountain, washing a pile of tunics. On one street corner, beneath a copper statue of a cat commissioned by a long-dead noble, a beggar child held out a cup, and Yorbel dropped a few coins into it.
“Thank you,” the child said, then saw his pendant. “Oh! Master augur! What am I going to—” His cheeks flushed bright red as he remembered he wasn’t supposed to ask. “I’m sorry. I can’t pay.”
“I am not permitted to read auras outside the temple, unless sanctioned by the high augurs or the emperor,” Yorbel said, but he knelt beside the child. “Are you kind to others?”
The boy bobbed his head.
“If you think an ugly thought, do you keep it inside where it can’t hurt anyone?”
Another nod.
“If you see someone who needs help, do you try to help them?”
A more tentative nod. His eyes flickered to his cup.
“I said ‘try.’ You don’t need to give up food you need. But if you see someone fall in the street, do you try to help them stand?”
A more eager nod.
“Then that’s all you need to do to make sure your next life is better than this one. Cultivate kindness. Never steal anyone’s hope.” He smiled gently at the boy. “I don’t have to read your aura to know you’ll be fine.”
A tear leaked out of the boy’s left eye. He dashed it away with a fist.
“Get yourself something to eat,” Yorbel told him, and poured more coins into his cup.
The boy clutched the cup of coins to his chest and then scampered down the street. Hands pushing off his knees, Yorbel stood. He hoped his words helped. He believed every one of them. He just wished he knew how to say it without sounding like he was quoting a rehearsed speech.
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