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.’
    Kurun was dragged away, limp as a child’s doll in the grip of the Honai.

 

     
    THREE
    T HE K ING'S S ONS
     
     
    I HAVE BEEN lucky, he told himself. He looked out on the great cedars, which were as old as the very line of his family, and exhaled silently, the happiness nothing more than a passing brightness across his face. No more. A king must always think of who might be near, even when they were those he loved best in the world.
    And those he loved best must never be aware of their position, for that would mean their lives were cast into the Game. The unending game, of who does what to whom in this world.
    I am past sixty, an aged man. A monarch past his prime.
    I am the most powerful person in this world.
    And yet. He looked out across the gardens, past the assembled diners and the hordes of courtiers and attendants who flitted across the grass in the lamplight, beyond to where young voices could be heard under the deeper shadow of the woods.
    Look at these children, playing beneath the stars. They are my sons and daughters, and I know them not. They are to be reared like blood stock, brought to maturity and then winnowed out, until I can find one worthy to hold all this in his hands. His hands.
    Bel, Lord of sunshine and song and fruitfulness, look upon me now. Your brother, Mot, has brought a second great storm into my world, and I need you now. I need a way to look into the hearts of my enemies.
    He stared out, impassive, at the night-time garden, the quiet river, the playing children who were his and yet not his. He strove to hoard the memory of it, to set this scene in amber, or imperishable crystal, and set it aside in some untwisted portion of his mind. He knew how to do this. He had practised it for many years. As long as he had been a king.
    Give them time. Give me time. Lord of us all, lend me your patience.
    ‘Majesty.’ It was Dyarnes, faithful as a hound, ever beside him. His father Midarnes had died at Kunaksa, leading the Honai, and now the son stood in his place.
    God-of-all, Ashurnan thought – has it really been thirty years since that day?
    ‘Yes, Dyarnes.’
    ‘There is an intruder in the gardens – my men have him. Will you give me leave to see to it?’
    ‘Of course. You will miss the best of the wine, Dyarnes. I will have Malakeh keep you a cup.’
    Dyarnes bowed deeply, then fastened his komis about his face and strode off.
    Kouros paused with his cup halfway to his beard. ‘Is something amiss, father?’
    ‘Dyarnes has it. Enjoy your wine, Kouros. Smell the stars. Drink with your brother and let me see you be civil to one another.’
    Kouros was one of those known across the empire as a Black Kefre. His hair was dark as a crow’s back and he was heavily built, but he had the eyes of the high castes. His mother was not here tonight – she disliked dining out of doors – and he had inherited her colouring.
    Beautiful Orsana, whom Ashurnan had taken as First Wife some thirty-five years before. She came from Bokosa, capital of the vast, rich satrapy of Arakosia. Back in the half-mythic past before the Great Wars, her ancestors had been kings, and Ashurnan’s union with her had bound the proud Arakosans ever closer to the imperial family.
    Ashurnan remembered the first few years of their marriage. It had been like coupling with a panther, and he could not help but smile at the memory.
    His gaze travelled down the table. Rakhsar and Roshana, the twins borne by his second wife. They had their mother’s looks, as fine and graceful as the thoroughbreds her country reared. Ashana had been a beautiful, willowy girl, a gentle soul. Ashurnan had married the spitfire Orsana out of political necessity and pure lust, but Ashana had taken his heart. A Niseian princess, she had seemed too good for this world, and so it had proved. She had given Ashurnan the twins, and then died soon after – of a fever. Or so it had been decided. Ashurnan had not gone back to his First Wife’s bed since,