Safi did not answer and could not nod. Her muscles still shook against Zander’s grip—and against the grip of the healer, who was once more holding her.
“A few more moments,” the healer said, her voice an octave lower than it had been before. “Sometimes the power of the Loom confuses the body. Soon her brain will realize it is still within her body and the convulsions will stop.”
“I have never seen that before,” Henrick said, clearly disbelieving. But then Safi’s seizing did ease and finally stop.
For several blissful moments, there was only her heart booming against her rib cage. Her lungs billowing and true. She tasted blood and leather; she must have bitten her tongue and now a belt was clenched between her teeth—a belt Zander removed from her mouth.
“Thank you,” the healer told him at the same moment Henrick pushed him aside.
Face flushed and shiny, Henrick bore down. “Did you hope to escape me? Did you think death would be your way out?”
“No.” She couldn’t keep the snorted amusement off that word. He clearly thought she’d stabbed herself. “I am merely out … of practice, my Emperor.”
“And you will stay that way.” Spit hit her cheek. Then he pulled away and arms moved beneath her. The healer’s and Zander’s, for they were much too mild to be Henrick’s. “Get her to the carriage,” Henrick barked, already striding for a door that Caden was hastily opening. “We leave immediately.”
Caden’s gaze briefly met Safi’s before he fell into formation behind the Emperor, and at her curt nod, his face relaxed. She could practically hear him thinking, Good enough.
“Can you walk?” Zander asked as the healer helped Safi to her feet. Everything hurt. She was one giant bruise.
But she was alive and she had gained new information. It wasn’t organized or sensical yet, but it was a start. Surely Leopold would be able to figure out exactly where Eron was.
“I’ll help her,” Lev said, moving in to brace an arm behind Safi’s back while Safi smiled tightly at the healer. Yet before Lev could walk Safi toward the door, Safi grabbed for both the healer and Zander. They had helped her, no questions asked. They had risked punishment, and the healer had briefly endured Henrick’s wrath. All so Safi could get a look at a device that—as far as they knew—held no answers and only pain.
She wasn’t entirely sure she had the right to invoke the Hell-Bard words, but she didn’t know a better way to show them how much their help had meant to her. So as her fingers gripped their hands, a brief squeeze of human contact, she murmured, “Toward death with wide eyes.”
“All clear, all clear,” they replied, and Safi didn’t think she imagined the appreciation on their faces.
“Thank you,” she added before releasing them. Then she leaned into Lev and let the Hell-Bard half carry, half drag her back through the Keep and once more into the world of the living.
* * *
The return journey to the imperial palace felt longer than the trip to reach Hell-Bard Keep had. Perhaps because Safi was conscious, or perhaps because the entire day had been sucked away by her time at the Keep … Or most likely because her companion was Emperor Henrick, and he was quite displeased.
She had never seen this part of Praga before—the slums. Lev’s childhood home. Buildings leaned and sagged, while people clustered along the narrow streets to watch the Emperor’s procession clatter past. No one begged, no one cheered, no one tried to get close to the Hell-Bards surrounding the carriage. They simply watched, faces of all ages, all genders, all colors, unified by their gaunt skeletons, hollowed-out eyes, and clothes that did nothing to protect against the night’s cold.
If Merik Nihar could see this …
“You host lavish feasts and dancing every night yet people starve in your slums?” Safi sank back from the window to find Henrick watching her. A calculating look with subtle undertones of ire—though most of his rage had, to her surprise, dissipated once they’d left the Keep. He was a man skilled at finding his calm.
“Pomp and celebration matter as much as food.” Henrick spoke gruffly, though not cruelly. “Particularly in times of war.”
Safi motioned to the window. “Tell that to them.”
“I will,” he replied. “When I join my people to deliver the biweekly wagon of rations, I will make sure your words are conveyed.”
Biweekly wagon. Safi frowned.
And Henrick smiled. “This empire, Safiya, can feed its poor and host celebrations that raise morale. We are strong enough and wealthy enough to do both.”
Safi’s frown only deepened. Cartorra has its flaws, Caden had once told her, but it also has safety. Food too, as well as wealth, roads, and education.
“In time,” Henrick continued, “you will understand the importance of a good performance. Particularly if this war continues.” His smile faded. “While you were screaming your lungs raw, my Hell-Bards updated me on the Raider King’s forces.”
Safi’s frown disappeared. She turned a sharp eye on the Emperor. He so rarely mentioned the various war efforts that Cartorra had staked across the Witchlands, and she had no inkling why he might be addressing the war now. She had expected to enter this carriage and be yelled at, cursed at, punished. Instead he was chatting. “And what are those forces, my Emperor?”
Henrick sighed, a long exhale that deflated him. He looked overwhelmed, he looked old, and for some reason that Safi did not understand, he seemed to have shed his masks. In fact, she had no doubt that if she could train her Truth-lens on him, the colors within would not change. Even his crown was absent today, though a forehead crease remained from its golden grip.
This was the real Henrick fon Cartorra, leader of the largest empire in the Witchlands, and he was tired.
It reminded Safi of a different imperial leader in a different empire, and against her will, something soft settled around her lungs. Something almost like pity that she desperately wished would go away.
“Do not concern yourself,” he said eventually.
“What if I wish to concern myself? What if I wish to know the state of this empire I’m meant to lead?”
“Hmmm.” His eyes thinned, and something she thought might be respect mingled in them. He did not answer her question, though. Instead, he changed subjects so completely, Safi’s mind could not keep up.
“If you are using methods of preventing pregnancy, you may stop.”
Safi recoiled against her bench. “My … Emperor?” Outside, the slums were fading, replaced by slaughterhouses and the stench of blood.
“If,” Henrick repeated, a bout of usual testiness returning, “you are using methods to prevent pregnancy, stop. There is no reason to avoid it, assuming my nephew is your only lover.”
Safi had no idea what to say to that. Yes, he is my only lover? Or, I am using methods? Or, Why would you want me to stop? Fortunately, she was saved from asking anything by Henrick’s repeated sigh.
And before her eyes, he aged another ten years. The pockmarks on his cheek turned stark and red against his pallid skin. He scratched tiredly at his jaw. “I have spent two decades grooming Leopold to be the perfect emperor, and for all his seeming shallowness … Well, you of all people must know who he really is.”