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.
