Physicians had cared for the Emperor. He wore poultices, to stimulate his blood. Someone had placed a cloth on his forehead, scented with attar and herbs, to soothe his head and cool his fever.
Medicine had done all it could for him. It was the women who comforted him now. A jug of wine laced with opium sat at his bedside.
A guardswoman came to the door.
“The princes come,” she said.
“Veil yourselves,” Masuma said woodenly, and her women covered their faces. Only Jihan and Masuma, and a scattering of blood cousins, remained bare-faced. The princes were, after all, their kin. The lax propriety of feasting had no place here.
Arwa lowered her own veil, and stared through the cloth at the princes as they entered the wall of gauze and bowed low.
Nasir had obviously been weeping, but Akhtar and Parviz both wore equally strange expressions—part grief and part hope.
No woman bowed. Their heads were turned to the Emperor.
When Parviz moved to speak, Masuma raised a hand to silence him.
“We must wait,” she said, “until your father wishes to speak, as is right. He is still Emperor, Parviz.”
She tilted her head. Raised her voice.
“Forgive this woman for speaking before you, lords,” Masuma said impassively.
A ripple of uneasy acquiescence ran through the courtiers beyond the curtain.
The doors opened. A guardswoman walked forward. Hesitated.
“I have brought him,” she said awkwardly. “As requested by the Emperor.” She bowed her head, and quickly departed.
Zahir entered.
The ripple, this time, among the courtiers, was far more pronounced.
He entered tentatively, calm-eyed but pale. Arwa looked at him, heart in her throat. She felt Gulshera’s fingers tighten, subtly, over her forearm.
“Enter, Zahir,” the Emperor said. His voice creaked like old wood.
Parviz made a noise of disgust. Akhtar’s jaw was tight enough to grind rocks.
“Father,” said Nasir, the youngest and the most doted on, eyes wide. “Why?”
“He is part of my household, is he not? My daughter has acknowledged him as brother, though I have not named him as son. Bow now, Bahar’s son.”
Zahir bowed, deeply, face to the floor. Then he stood to the side. His gaze was steady. He said nothing. He did not even tremble, which was astonishing. Arwa supposed she was trembling enough for the both of them.
Arwa thought of his order. His analytical nature. How he disliked situations without rules, situations that could end in hurt.
And yet he was here, unacknowledged, his sister’s hidden tool, before the dying Emperor.
How this could end well, she didn’t know.
“My sons,” the Emperor said. “I suppose it’s time to name one of you my heir. And for the rest of you to vow your loyalty.”
He coughed. Hacking. Laughed, showing strong white teeth, eyes crinkling in a way that revealed lost handsomeness.
“A difficult task, no? It was simpler in my youth. I had only one brother, and he was not my equal. We both knew it. I was born to be Emperor. I blazed. And I proved my worth. I conquered Durevi, crushed it beneath my boot. My Empire was vast and beautiful. But you… my sons.” He shook his head. “You inherit an Empire blighted by the Maha’s death. I will not prevaricate: His death has wounded our Empire. It will need strong hands to steer it. It will need you to be loyal to one another. You are all strong in different ways, my sons, and I have asked myself what the Empire requires from its new Emperor. I have asked myself what will preserve our glory. And I have made my choice.”
He looked at them with real affection. And real, clear-eyed knowledge.
“Akhtar,” he said.
“Father.”
“You will do, as Emperor. Keep good advisers around you, hm?”
“Father.” Akhtar was desperately trying to look solemn, even as joy blazed on his face. “Father. I will.”
“Parviz. Nasir.”
“Father,” said Parviz.
“You will respect my decision.”
“Of course, Father,” said Parviz. If anything, Nasir looked relieved.
“Let it be recorded, then,” the Emperor said. “When I pass, my son Prince Akhtar shall become Emperor, his old name struck from him, his body crowned to an everlasting throne.”
Ritual words. Strong words.
Jihan must be glad, thought Arwa. She had bound her loyalties to him, after all.
But Arwa could not yet be glad.
“Bahar’s son. Come here.”
Zahir came forward and bowed once more.
“Stand,” said the Emperor. He gave Zahir an assessing look, cold, clinical. “You look very like your mother. She was a beautiful woman. A shame you were not born a girl. You would have been easy to marry off, simpler to deal with.”
Zahir said nothing.
“She was a clever whore, your mother. Too clever. If she had invested less energy in heresy and more in being pleasing to me—well. I would not have had to put her to death, for one.”
The Emperor gestured, and a maidservant hurried over, offering him wine. He drank. Lowered the cup, which clattered in the tray.
“A shame that you are not simply like your mother in looks. In truth, Zahir, you are a problem,” the Emperor said bluntly, “that must be solved.”
He is going to die, Arwa thought. Her stomach was in knots.
“When your mother proved herself a heathen, you were spared by the soft-heartedness of women. But the imperial family do not acknowledge or keep bastard sons for a reason. I have enough sons. Strong sons. With good blood. And you make the case for your continued survival… difficult. You may speak,” the Emperor said, into the silence that swelled in response to his words.
“Everything I do, Emperor, I do for the sake of the Empire,” Zahir said.
“Yes. Bahar claimed something similar. But no one named her the Maha’s heir, for her work.”
Zahir’s head shot up. Eyes wide.
“Ah.” The Emperor’s voice was silken once more. “You did not know. I am relieved you did not encourage it.”
“I would never, Emperor. I know what I am.”
“And yet the rumors swell,” the Emperor said. “I am not the old fool my sons believe me to be, boy. Even now. When you were still young, your tutors boasted of your perception, your talent. Then one idiot claims you’d be fit for the next Maha. I dealt with him. But somehow the whispers spread. Servants have loose lips. Soon the common people are whispering about a Maha’s heir hidden away in my own palace. And my dear Parviz guts a fine throng of mystics who babble tales of a blessed boy who died with his whore mother and rose from the grave, the Maha’s spirit in him. Tale after tale, and you at the heart of all of them.”
That could not be true. Arwa knew it was not true. She had heard so many tales after the Maha’s death—tales claiming he still lived, or would return from the grave; tales hoping for a new Maha to be named from the royal sons, or to rise haloed from the masses. None had named Zahir.
But ah—she looked at Zahir’s blanched face, at the courtiers and guardsmen and servants listening intently beyond the gossamer walls surrounding the Emperor’s deathbed, and thought of the power of the Emperor’s words. All tales spoken from this moment onward would name Zahir. The Emperor had ensured it would be so.