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He glanced at the sword lying a few feet away. “Your left hand or your right?” By all Usmim’s trials, what was he asking? Whatwasthis? Did he think this was some kind of epic poem where princes could blithely ask their kahyalar to work miracles?
But . . . Zeliha’s life. Eyne’s. Hehadto be sure. He had to push. He had to harry Evemer right unto the outermost bounds of his faith.
He looked back at Evemer, who was looking down at his hands where they lay flat on his thighs. “I’m right-handed,” he said. “But I obey my lord’s command.”
“Left, then.”
Evemer nodded sharply. “May I tie a tourniquet?”
“Yes.”
Evemer unknotted his sash, pulled it free of his scabbard’s loops. He tried to push up the sleeve of his kaftan, but it was quickly clear that it would get in the way of his tourniquet’s knot. He shook the kaftan off his shoulders and let it pool in the grass around his hips. His smooth bare skin was golden in the sunshine, and his shoulders somehow seemed even broader. His musculature, his form and proportions—he looked like the dream of what a kahya should be. He knotted the sash around his forearm properly now, using his teeth to pull it tight. Not tight enough, Kadou saw. Not as tight as a surgeon’s would have been—probably not enough to fully stop the blood flow. But tight enough to reduce it, and better than nothing, the best that Evemer could do on himself without assistance. “Please step back, my lord.”
“I’m going to watch.”
“I don’t want to get blood on your clothes.”
Kadou didn’t move.
Evemer leaned over to get the sword. He braced his elbow across his leg, took a deep breath, and raised the blade.
“Stop,” Kadou said.
Evemer looked up curiously at him. “My lord?”
“Stop.”
Evemer lowered the sword. The veins on his strong golden arm were beginning to stand out. “My lord.”
“Get up. Get dressed. That’s enough.”
Evemer gazed at him for a long moment. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
After a moment, Evemer’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t look away from Kadou for a moment as he unknotted the tourniquet, flexed his hand to get the blood flowing again, sheathed the sword, pulled his kaftan back on and buttoned it, and tied his sash. He rubbed briefly at the place on his forearm where the tourniquet had been tied—it probably hadn’t taken long enough for his skin to bruise or show a mark beyond the imprinted creases of the fabric, but Kadou wondered how long the invisible band of lingering ache would last.
Evemer got to his feet and bowed. “Thank you, my lord.”
Kadou led him back to the pavilion. “Here’s one, at least.”
Eozena was nearly apoplectic. “What in the gods’ names?”
“Well,” said Zeliha. “I suppose that’s . . . a method. No good using it on the others, though. They know the ending now.”
“Majesty. Commander,” said Evemer, and saluted smartly. “I am at your service. What are your orders?”
“First, stop giving me a fuckingheart attack,” Eozena snapped. “That goes for both of you! Gods! What’s wrong with you?” She put a hand to her forehead. “Gods, Hoskadem! Would you really have—”
“Yes,” Evemer said.
She seized him by the front of his kaftan and shook him. “You’re not supposed to obey orders if they’re criminal!” she screamed. “Do you know what a criminal order is?”
“Yes. His Highness asked me to put my sword to his throat.”
“He refused, but don’t court-martial him,” Kadou said. He put his hand on Eozena’s arm, tried to pry her off Evemer.
She rounded on him. “Andyou! Do you think I saved you from drowning in ten inches of water to have you pull that kind of nonsense?”
