Another conch sounded. Distantly, she heard the thrum of drums. This time the courtiers did not simply bow their heads. They lowered themselves to the floor.
“He arrives,” whispered one woman.
They did not bow low as the men did. Barely visible behind the lattice, their bodies blurred to soft shadow, they were free to watch the Emperor’s approach.
The Emperor entered the room on foot, walking beneath a canopy of silver and gold held above his head by attendants. He had walked from the Balcony of Beholding across one of the great bridges of the imperial palace. He walked now across the Hall of the World, walked between his sons and made his way up the steps to his throne. For a single moment, his face was visible to the women who sat concealed behind him. Arwa saw a severe face, wrinkled with age. Light hazel eyes and thick brows; a thin, puckered mouth.
He is frail, thought Arwa. Even though she knew he had been, it surprised her, somehow. He had always seemed greater than flesh. Greater than time. And yet, here he was, a mere man. Frail, and old.
The Emperor turned and sat. At the sounding of a second conch, his courtiers rose back to their feet.
The petitions began almost immediately. This, after all, was the purpose of an audience with the Emperor: an opportunity for the nobles of the Empire to bring him their grievances and beg his favor, to argue for greater supplies or men or resources for their province, to enter into the business of politics and war that occupied all men of high stature.
The women of the imperial household were not uninvolved. Sister to the right, daughter to the left, the imperial women were carefully positioned to allow them the ability to advise the Emperor. Occasionally, Princess Masuma would consult one of the women seated around her, then lean forward and place her veiled face close to the lattice, so she could whisper in her brother’s ear. Whenever she did so, the Emperor would raise a hand, instantly quelling the rest of the court to utter silence. Then, after a moment, he would speak once more.
Although Jihan’s closest attendants—noblewomen of pure, powerful blood, every single one of them—whispered advice or information in her ears, she did not speak. Instead she remained still and silent. Watchful.
One minor noble, clearly nervous, petitioned for more men and funds for what he called his land’s sanitation, though he did not speak of drainage or irrigation as Arwa would have expected. He spoke for some time before she understood he meant the cleansing Arwa had experienced on her arrival at the palace, on a greater scale. The Emperor directed him to consult Prince Akhtar privately for funds. Another nobleman requested an opportunity for his son in the service of the Numrihan Governor. After a protracted discussion, the next noble stepped forward to make his petition and bowed low to the floor.
“Lord of lords,” he said. “King of kings. My Emperor. I beg the generosity of your household for my youngest daughter.”
One of Jihan’s women whispered to her once more. Arwa heard a name, a brief scrap of words. Influential and fiscal, of all things. Jihan listened for a moment, then leaned forward, her fingertips pressed lightly to the lattice.
“Father,” she said. “I will accept Lord Ulegh’s daughter, if Akhtar allows it.”
“My daughter has kindly offered your daughter a position among her women,” the Emperor stated. His voice was low and rich as velvet. Unlike his body, his voice and his mind clearly remained undimmed by time. “Akhtar, my eldest, will you allow it?”
Akhtar bowed his head.
“Emperor. Of course.”
“I pray she will prove herself worthy, Most High,” said the nobleman, eager and grateful.
“I am sure she will be an honor to your name,” the Emperor said.
The nobleman bowed and withdrew.
The Emperor raised his hand once again, silencing the room. He made a gesture to the edge of the hall. There, a group of scribes sat, discreetly recording each of the Emperor’s proclamations. One scribe stood. Bowed his head.
“Emperor.”
“May special note be made,” said the Emperor, “a proclamation to be shared across the city: our son Parviz returns imminently from Durevi. He has quelled all rebellion, and returns victorious, a credit to his lineage.”
There was a roar of approval from the crowd. The women behind the lattice were silent; Arwa did not know if they smiled or not. Behind the quiet of her own veil, Arwa watched the way Jihan’s shoulders grew tense, visible even beneath the gauzy cover of her shawl.
“His actions deserve our especial gratitude,” the Emperor continued. “And we will honor him accordingly. Feasts shall be held for both the women and men of court. Gifts and coin shall be arranged for the poor.”
The Emperor continued his litany of celebration. Arwa noticed—as no doubt, did all the women—that Masuma was nodding, head close to the lattice, her fingertips gently pressed to the marble. The tension had eased from Jihan’s shoulders. Now she sat still and serene, as if entirely unmoved. But Arwa had seen her control slip. She knew something tumultuous lay beneath that veneer of calm.
The thought of feasting and gifts had cheered the crowd, who were effusive in their response, a roar of approval filling the chamber. Prince Nasir cheered with them, but Prince Akhtar sat still and tall and merely smiled—a strange, formal smile that did not suggest any real joy.
It was only when the Emperor rose once more to his feet that silence fell. Every noise and every man in the hall moved to his whims like the tide beneath the moon.
Arwa’s own breath had caught in her throat. The tide controlled her too.
As the Emperor departed the Hall of the World, the men bowed. The women lowered their veiled heads. One heartbeat. Two.
A conch sounded.
The women stood as one and exited the hall. Princess Masuma’s entourage crossed to another door. Jihan and Masuma did not speak—did not even look at one another.
They crossed the bridge. Arwa touched her hand to Gulshera’s sleeve. She realized she was trembling, faintly.
Ah, Gods. She had seen the Emperor.
“It has been some time since I have belonged to the world,” Arwa murmured, forcing the words from numb lips. “But I believe open rebellion in Durevi was quashed in the first year of my marriage. Certainly, my husband was pleased to receive greater funds for provisions, as a result of the spoils.”
“It was,” said Gulshera.
“Prince Parviz has chosen an interesting time to return.” In her head, she calculated how long it would have taken for the news of his father’s illness to reach him, and his own journey across the Empire to progress. The timing was clear enough.
“Indeed he has.” Gulshera’s voice was grim.
Jihan had not been happy. Of course she had not. She was the head of her brother Akhtar’s household, as her aunt Masuma was the head of the Emperor’s. A woman’s fortunes rose and fell with the fate of the man she served. And for all that Prince Akhtar held a clear position of power at court, the Emperor had not yet named him heir. That, Arwa would have heard.
If Prince Parviz believed the Emperor’s health failed, if he returned in the hope of being named heir himself…
A woman like Jihan, who reveled in her power, would rightly fear to lose it.
Jihan’s tension was only one of the events that had filled Arwa with disquiet, since she had arrived at the palace. The rift between aunt and niece; the blessed not-prince hidden like the dead; the distant son quelling rebellions, as the two close at hand kneeled at their father’s feet, all of them waiting for the Emperor to anoint them as heir. The loyalties that ran like blood, holding the imperial household asunder and yet intertwined. These things hung in the air, unspoken, knife-edged. Arwa had known the Empire suffered, but she had thought—believed, with the constancy of a woman who had prayed her whole life to the Emperor’s effigy—that court would be a bastion of stability within the Empire’s chaos. Instead, she was strangely afraid a misplaced word would tip it all into chaos. She drew back her veil, as Gulshera drew back her own. Gulshera’s jaw was tight.