Zan Fein, master of protocol and many less forgiving arts, had his own calculus for measuring prestige, and his only public— or private, for that matter— comment upon the Second Concubine was that she was a true noblewoman, and quite refined.
Kanbina now studied the Emperor’s face even more closely, appearing somewhat at a loss for words.
“How is your son?” Tamuron inquired, gently. “Is he filial?”
“Very.” At the mention of Zakkar Kai, newly adopted and raised to princely status as well, Kanbina’s dark eyes lit and she ducked her head somewhat shyly. The soft glow suited her. “I must thank you again for granting him a hurai, my lord husband. He is well worth the honor.”
Her official gratitude had arrived under her little-used ceremonial seal, beautifully shaped characters showing she had spent much time practicing with brush as a noblewoman should. Tamuron knew she played the sathron for hours at a time, as well. What else did a trapped princess forced to marry a conqueror have to spend her time upon, especially while bereft of children, that longed-for joy of any woman’s life? “So speaks a mother in truth.”
“Adoptive-mother.” Kanbina dropped her gaze. It was best not to admit too much pride in children lest Heaven take offense, and she would be more cautious than most. “Is it very bad?” Her fingers, chill even in the close, thick heat, tightened upon his. “The pain? Physician Kihon will not tell me, he says I am to concern myself with my own health.”
“The good physician is correct, Kanbina.” Tamuron wore the first true smile in weeks under his sparse mustache and closely clipped smallbeard; the lines of strain at the corners of his mouth and eyes eased. Still, the memory— the blood upon the sheets, Kanbina’s gasping apologies as if she feared he would hold her responsible for miscarriage— pained him. “Do not tell him I said so, though, or he will become insufferable.”
“My own health is not worth the worry.” She ducked her head again, her ear-drops arrested as they swung and her hairpin’s decorations making small soft sounds. Her fingers moved slightly, and there was a slight roughness to the tips where sathron-strings would bite. The instrument was unforgiving even with its gentlest devotees. “It will not be long. That is why I came to visit.”
“Do not say such things.” Tamuron patted her hands with his free fingers, as if brushing an easily bruised fruit. The matching, heavy hurai upon that hand was a weight barely felt, but he took care not to tap too hard against her knuckles. “We shall both recuperate, and spend long days upon verandahs, watching our grandchildren play.”
Her face fell, and Tamuron could have kicked himself, if the cursed malady wasn’t robbing him of his strength like a thief in an abandoned house.
So, he waited patiently for her to gather courage, as a rider soothes a high-blooded, high-strung horse whose previous owners had whipped too frequently. Finally, she took heart and spoke again. “Are you jesting? My lord?”
“No, Kanbina.” Tamuron let his own roughened fingers rest upon her softness. The sathron was indeed a harsh master, but not nearly as harsh as bowstring, swordhilt, or staff-wrapping. “Still, I have made provision for you. Zakkar Kai will be a good son, and your estates well cared for.”
“Kai is a very good son; I thank Heaven and you for allowing me to have him.” Her dark gaze turned solemn and serious, and she lost some measure of her diffidence. “But I am not worried, husband. I am ready.” She leaned forward slightly, and her tone dropped further. “I…I wanted to tell you something. Or ask you.”
“Then do.” He had not dealt with her gently; he knew as much. It was one of the few times in his life he had underestimated an opponent, but then, a man did not oft suspect his own wife. Though he should have considered the possibility— perhaps a peasant could afford trust, but a warlord knew that coin was dear indeed. To an Emperor, how much more so? He could openly admit a misstep, faced with the one that failing had wounded. “You, of all people, may ask whatever you wish of me.”
“The First Queen,” Kanbina whispered. Her hands trembled, and he could scarcely hear over the murmuring of the court and the thud-click of the garden’s water-clock. “Husband, please do not be angered, but…she does not send you…gifts, does she? Gifts of food, or wine…or tea?”
It was faint comfort that she had finally acknowledged the matter openly. Garan Tamuron had reached a summit of power and ambition, true— and found himself just as trapped by circumstance as a boy from an old but penniless family taking up a sword to make his fortune.
The world whirled, all things were mutable, and yet so little changed.
“You knew?” He might have stiffened, and his smile faltered a whit. Kanbina, ever sensitive, almost flinched, but he pulled gently upon her hands to steady and provide strength. If he had known how to handle such fragility in his middle youth, would she be less timid?
He would have been a better man, at least. There was no shame in admitting as much now and working to ease the burden he had thoughtlessly imposed, was there?
“I have ever been shy, my lord husband.” Kanbina lifted a shoulder, indicating the court with a tilt of her head. The branches falling from her hairpin shivered, clicking softly. “Not stupid.”
Tamuron nodded. His shoulders ached, and the long striped rashes upon his torso itched abominably. The malady was obviously not contagious, but that only made the affliction more perplexing to the physicians and apothecaries striving to cure, or at least arrest. “I never considered you stupid, Kanbina. I thought I could protect you.”
“I thought so, too.” The wistful prettiness of her youth bloomed again over her softening features. “You knew?”
“I…” Of course he had known. Too late, of course, and by then the damage was done. He hadn’t known the method, of course, but it looked as if his Second Concubine did. No wonder she stayed inside her walls; the only wonder was, indeed, that she had not pursued a vengeance upon Gamwone. Tamuron could even admit he might have been relieved at the event, and might not have chastised his last concubine too harshly upon its success. Or failure. “Too late, it appears. I regret it.”
But then, Garan Wurei-a Kanbina did not have much of revenge within her humors, and she was ever kindly. “I know you could not afford to chastise her openly. Yet I have often wondered.” She nodded softly, but there was an unwonted gleam in her dark eyes. “Has she struck you down too, my lord?”
What courage she had, to ask him. It shamed even the conqueror of Zhaon’s many recalcitrant fiefdoms to see that bravery.
“No.” It was his own failing body to blame, the malady gripping his humors with bony fingers. “Heaven has done so, justifiably enough. I have been fortunate, but I have also been a coward.”
“It is not so bad.” Kanbina moved as if to draw her hands away. Her fingers had warmed against his, the coolness of a woman taking heat from burning male humors. “Heaven will forgive both of us any cowardice, do we bow with good will.” She sounded so certain he almost believed the proverb.
“You are far braver than I have ever been.” He let go reluctantly. “Will you have tea with me, Kanbina? Or a meal?”
“If Your Majesty commands.” Her cheeks were ashen under their copper, now, and all sign of ease had fled. Her small shoulders stiffened. “I have always obeyed.”