“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, andyouat the heart of all of them.”
That could not be true. Arwaknewit 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.
Whether they named him a true heir or a false claimant awaited to be seen.
“Emperor,” said Zahir. “I am no heir to our illustrious Maha. I am sorry for this falsehood. It was not my doing.”
