And an arrogant god, thought Tieren, looking to the window, that thinks himself a man.
So when he poured the water into the basin, when he took up the vial of ink and tipped three drops into the water, when he stared into the cloud that bloomed beneath the surface, he was not trying to see the future. He wasn’t looking out at all, but in.
A scrying dish, after all, was a mirror for one’s mind, a way to look in at one’s self, to pose questions that only the self could answer.
Tonight Tieren’s questions revolved around Maxim Maresh. Around the spell his king was weaving, and how far the Aven Essen should let him go.
Tieren Serense had served Nokil Maresh when he was king, had watched his only son, Maxim, grow, had stood beside him when he married Emira, and been there to usher Rhy into the world, and Kell into the palace. He had spent his life serving this family.
Now, he did not know how to save it.
The ink spread through the basin, turning the water grey, and in the shudder of its surface, he felt the queen before he saw her. A blush of cold in the room behind him.
“I hope you won’t mind, Your Majesty,” he said softly. “I borrowed one of your bowls.”
She was standing there, arms folded across her front as if chilled, or guarding something fragile behind her ribs.
Emira, who never confided in him, never sought out his waiting ear, no matter how many times he offered. Instead, he’d learned of her through Rhy, through Maxim, through Kell. He’d learned of her through watching her watch the world with those wide, dark eyes that never blinked for fear of missing something.
Now those wide, dark eyes went to the shallow bowl between his hands. “What did you see?”
“I see what all reflections show,” he answered wearily. “Myself.”
Emira bit her lip, a gesture he’d seen Rhy make a hundred times. Her fingers tightened around her ribs. “What is Maxim doing?”
“What he believes is right.”
“Aren’t we all?” she whispered.
Thin tears slid down her cheeks, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. It was only the second time he’d ever seen Emira cry.
The first had been more than twenty years ago, when she was new to the palace.
He’d found her in the courtyard, her back up against a winter tree, arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold, even though two rows away the summer was in bloom. She stood perfectly still, save for the silent shudder of her chest, but he could see the storm behind her eyes, the strain in her jaw, and he remembered thinking, then, that she looked old for one so young. Not aged, but worn, weary from the weight of her own mind. Fears, after all, were heavy things. And whether or not Emira voiced them, Tieren could feel them on the air, thick as rain right before it falls.
She wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, but a week later Tieren heard the news, watched Maxim’s face glow with pride while Emira stood at his side, steeling herself against the declaration as if it were a sentence.
She was pregnant.
Emira cleared her throat, eyes still trained on the clouded water. “May I ask you something, Master Tieren?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Her gaze shifted toward him, two dark pools that hid their depths. “What do you fear most?”
The question took him by surprise, but the answer rose to meet it. “Emptiness,” he said. “And you, my queen?”
Her lips quirked into a sad smile. “Everything,” she said. “Or so it feels.”
“I do not believe that,” said Tieren gently.
She thought. “Loss, then.”
Tieren curled a finger around his beard. “Love and loss,” he said, “are like a ship and the sea. They rise together. The more we love, the more we have to lose. But the only way to avoid loss is to avoid love. And what a sad world that would be.”
II
Lila opened her eyes.
At first all she saw was sky. That same bruised sunset she’d been staring at a moment before. Only the moment was gone, and the colors had bled away, leaving a heavy blanket of night. The ground was cold beneath her but dry, a coat bunched up beneath her head.
“It shouldn’t take this long,” a voice was saying. “Are you sure—”
“She’ll be fine.”
Her head spun, fingers drifting over her ribs to the place where the blade had gone in. Her shirt was sticky with blood, and she cringed reflexively, expecting pain. The memory of pain sang through her, but it was nothing but an echo, and when she took a testing breath, crisp air filled her lungs instead of blood.
“Fucking Copper Thieves,” said a third voice. “Should have killed them months ago, and stop pacing, Kell, you’re making me dizzy.”
Lila closed her eyes, swallowed.
When she blinked, vision sliding in and out of focus, Kell was kneeling over her. She looked up into his two-toned eyes, and realized they weren’t his eyes at all. One was black. The other emerald green.
“She’s awake.” Holland straightened, blood dripping from a gash along his palm.
A copper tang still filled her mouth, and she rolled over and spit onto the stones.
“Lila,” said Kell, so much emotion in her name, and how could she ever have thought that cold, steady voice belonged to him? He crouched beside her, one hand beneath her back—she shivered at the sudden visceral memory of the blade scraping over bone, jutting out beneath her shoulder blade—as he helped her sit up.
“I told you she’d be fine,” said Holland, folding his arms.