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half-syllable, choked rather than spoken. Daveed heard 34
    her and renewed his protests, outraged that she would sit so close without feeding him. His fury reminded her of Beyon, though her eldest would never have gone quiet. At least that was what she believed; she had never made Beyon wait, and so she did not know.
    Was it easier to die as a baby? She thought of her son Yusuf, who had yielded to the same fever that killed so many of Tahal’s children. It had rushed through like a flooding river, sweeping them all away and leaving Beyon as the eldest boy. How she had thanked Herzu then, making sacrifices daily, for pestilence was His province but Beyon had been spared. She thought perhaps he’d been chosen by the gods, and urged Emperor Tahal to protect and favour her son over all others.
    She laughed at that, all bitter edges, cutting across the baby’s cries. Yes; I should just kill him now. His brother is the hand of heaven, and the gods are careless. Even Tuvaini had managed the deaths of all Beyon’s wives during his short reign. Women she had hand-picked and trained from a young age—staked out in the courtyard for Eyul’s bow. The throne was purchased and maintained through death and blood.
    Nessaket raised the cushion and stared down at Daveed’s red, angry cheeks. He had Beyon’s eyes and that curl of hair at his temple. He did not resemble his father; for that she was thankful.
    There had been a time, before her husband had betrayed her, when she had loved and been loved, when she had looked to the future with happiness. When she remembered those days, it was to recall another woman, not herself. That woman had been hollowed out of her, bite by bitter bite, until all she felt empty. The same emptiness had forced Siri to jump from the roof of the palace after little Kashim died, the roof where she had kept a beautiful garden, where the children had played.
    She had watched Eyul Knife-Sworn drag his blade over Amile’s throat. Had Amile wondered, in those last moments, whether his life had always been meant to end that way? Whether his lessons and songs and embraces had been for nothing? Had he felt the betrayal, had he felt unloved? It weighed on her like a stone, making her arms heavy, the cushion heavy. She dropped it.
    It just covered Daveed’s little body. She leaned over the crib, letting the heaviness weigh her down, letting it press her hands against the silk. A lullaby came to her lips. Sleep now little child, your father tames the sands so wild, over dune and under star, your dreams will take you very far. Daveed struggled a moment, his little feet kicking at the tassels, then went still.
    “No!” Nessaket threw the pillow from the cradle. Had he died so quickly? But he blinked at her, angrier than ever, and let out a long, shuddering wail. “Oh, Daveed,” she said, picking him up, “oh, my child.” And so I still have something yet to lose. She gave him her breast, wondering if some part of him would remember this and hate her, just as Beyon had. Now she had betrayed all of her children, except for Yusuf. Dear, sweet Yusuf had died not knowing anything but her love.
    Daveed would not die. She would make sure of that now.
    I will be a better mother this time.
    Once Daveed’s stomach was full, his eyelids drooped. Nessaket placed him in his cradle and turned to the mirror. She saw herself in the silver, still a bit heavy from giving birth, her hair finally showing a streak of grey. “Dreshka? Where is my body-slave?” she called out, though she knew the woman always stood in the shadowed niches of the hallway.
    “Your Majesty?” Dreshka hurried in and prostrated herself on the rug. “I need my hair done, and my face.”
    Dreshka came to stand behind Nessaket and picked up a brush. “How would you like your hair today, Majesty?”
    “Down.”
    Dreshka asked no more questions. Within a few minutes Nessaket’s hair gleamed and kohl lined her eyes. Now she saw at least a trace of the