Mistress of the Empire. Janny Wurts

I carry messages from House Acoma,’ the runner answered. ‘Their content is not your business.’

      Fighting the heat, the dusty, uneven footing, and the effort it took to flank a man who did not wish to be delayed, Arakasi held his ground. He studied the runner’s narrow eyes, full nose, and large chin and out of memory sought the man’s name.

      ‘Hubaxachi,’ he said after a pause. ‘As Mara’s faithful servant, it is certainly my business to know what need sends you racing for Sulan-Qu at high noon. The Lady does not ask her runners to risk heat stroke on a whim. It follows that something is wrong.’

      The runner looked over in surprise. He identified Arakasi as one of Mara’s senior advisers, and at last slowed to a jog. ‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘How could I recognise you in that costume? Aren’t those the colors of the Keschai’s traders’ association?’

      ‘Never mind that,’ Arakasi snapped, short of both wind and temper. He tore off the headband that had misled the servant. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

      ‘It’s the mistress,’ gasped the runner. ‘She’s had a bad childbirth. Her son did not survive.’ He seemed to gather himself before speaking the next line. ‘She’s bleeding, dangerously. I am sent to find a priest of Hantukama.’

      ‘Goddess of Mercy!’ Arakasi almost shouted. He spun and continued at a flat run toward the Acoma estate house. The headband that had completed his disguise fluttered, forgotten, in his fist.

      If the Lady’s fleetest runner had been sent to fetch a priest of Hantukama, that could only mean Mara was dying.

      

      Breezes stirred the curtains, and servants walked on silent feet. Seated by Mara’s bedside, his face an impassive mask to hide his anguish, Hokanu wished he could be facing the swords of a thousand enemies rather than relying upon hope, prayer, and the uncertain vagaries of healers. He could not think of the stillborn child, its lifeless blue form racked in death. The babe was lost, gone to Turakamu without having drawn breath. The Lady lived yet, but barely.

      Her face was porcelain-pale, and the wraps and cold compresses the midwives used to try to lessen her bleeding seemed of little avail. The slow, scarlet seep continued, inexorably. Hokanu had seen fatal wounds on the battlefield that bothered him less than the creeping, insidious stain that renewed itself each time the dressings were changed. He bit his lip in quiet desperation, unaware of the sunlight outside, or the everyday horn calls of the dispatch barge that brought news from Kentosani.

      ‘Mara,’ Hokanu whispered softly, ‘forgive my stubborn heart.’ Though not a deeply religious man, he held with the temple belief that the wal, the inner spirit, would hear and record what the ears and the conscious mind could not. He spoke as though Mara were aware and listening, and not statue-still in a coma on the bed.

      ‘You are the last Acoma, Lady, all because I would not yield to your request to swear Justin in as your heir. Now I regret my selfishness, and my unwillingness to concede the danger to the Acoma name.’ Here Hokanu paused to master the unsteadiness in his voice. ‘I, who love you, could not conceive of an enemy who would dare reach past me to strike you down. I did not allow for nature herself, or for the perils of childbirth.’

      Mara’s lashes did not stir. Her mouth did not tremble or smile, and even the frown between her brows was absent. Hokanu fingered her dark, loose hair, spread over the silken pillows, and battled an urge to weep. ‘I speak formally,’ he added, and now his voice betrayed him. ‘Live, my strong, beautiful Lady. Live, that you might swear in a new heir for the Acoma over your family natami. Hear me, beloved wife. I do this moment release Kevin’s son, Justin, from his obligations to House Shinzawai. He is yours, to make strong the Acoma name and heritage. Live, my Lady, and together we will make other sons for the future of both our houses.’

      Mara’s eyes did not open to the light of her victory. Limp beneath the coverlet, she did not stir as her husband bowed his head and at last lost his battle to hold his tears. Neither did she start at a near-silent step and a voice like silk that said, ‘But she does have an enemy who would strike her down, and the child in her womb as well, in cold blood.’

      Hokanu coiled like a spring and turned to confront a shadowy presence: Arakasi, recently arrived from the message barge, his eyes impenetrable as onyx.

      ‘What are you talking about?’ Hokanu’s tone was edged like a blade. He took in Arakasi’s dusty, exhausted, sweating appearance, and the rust-and-blue headband still clenched in a hand that shook. ‘Is there more to this than a bad miscarriage?’

      The Spy Master seemed to gather himself. Then, without flinching, he delivered the news. ‘Jican told me as I came in. Mara’s poison taster did not awaken from his afternoon nap. The healer saw him and says he appears to be in a coma.’

      For an instant Hokanu seemed a man made of glass, his every vulnerability evident. Then the muscles in his jaw jerked taut. He spoke, his voice unyielding as barbarian iron. ‘You suggest my wife was poisoned?’

      Now it was Arakasi who could not speak. The sight of Mara lying helpless had unmanned him, and he could only mutely nod.

      Hokanu’s face went white, but every inch of him was composed as he whispered, ‘There was a spice dealer from beyond the rift who came yesterday, offering Mara trade concessions on exotic drinks brewed from luxury herbs and ground plantstuffs from Midkemia.’