Moving Water by Sylvia Kelso

you don’t understand Math, but even an imbecile knows Ammath when it touches him. And this is Ammath. You’re not a Sky-lord, however much incense they burn for you. Do you taste all those butchered sheep? Four, of course you don’t. You’ve perverted something like—that—” He gestured at it, not looking. “And for what? What pleasure is there in playing morsyr to ten lives’ favorites?” I knew he meant the black spider who eats her mates. “Working some bastard form of Fengthir on poor clowns like those?” He jerked his head at the guards. “Terrorizing decent soldiers, emasculating your nobles, toying with an empire? Believe me”—the plea deepened—“it might do for a while. It won’t fill an ‘eternal’ life.”
    She bent her head away, a swan’s pure curve. A little, willful smile played on her lips.
    â€œBut,” she cooed, “it amuses me.”
    â€œAmuse—!” He caught his breath and wiped sweat off with a jerk. “Moriana, there are other, more amusing things for an aedr to do. Four, you’ve never been prenticed! When I talked about Pharaone you didn’t know what I meant.” It was pity, rigorously concealed. “You rot away by your little fountain, abusing something that—well, never mind that—and you think there’s the rest of time to do it in. When it may already be too late.”
    She leant back, feigning consideration. Her voice half-teased, half-protested, a flirting woman’s denial that she is ready to yield. But I knew this No was real.
    â€œIf I left this . . . I’d turn into a hag.”
    â€œFor Math’s love! You’ll come down a girl, you just won’t stay that way. Women! It’s your head that matters, not your face!”
    â€œOh.” Blandly demure. “But . . . what would I do—out there?”
    â€œYou could begin,” he answered grimly, “with amends to Assharral.”
    Her eyelids lifted. She gave him a long, silent stare.
    â€œSo,” he said after a moment. “That may be true. It wouldn’t matter. Not if—”
    â€œNot matter?” Her fingers arched on the globe. “I’m to leave my palace, renounce an empire, give up ‘eternal’ life. And then, when my ‘loving subjects’ hound me into exile, probably hunting my blood, when I’m out in the road, growing old, ‘ignorant,’ ugly, not to mention penniless—then just what becomes of me?”
    The grimness shattered, burst by spring-light that was all too familiar, all too inevitable. I never had time to bellow, No! Not here! Not now!
    â€œWelllll,” it came in a drawl. He cocked his head, appraising her like a tavern wench. “Even then . . . I’d probably marry you.”
    Her eyes spat. Her cheeks flamed. In a flash she was not merely aged but hideous.
    â€œYou ape! You oaf! You limping hobbledehoy! You—” Her eyes slashed past him. “You gaping ninnies, take him! Truss him up! Cripple him!”
    He spun on the advancing guards, I felt some blind compulsion seize me and found I was advancing too, sword out lest he resisted, mind aware of what he was and that I was a friend to him, limb and muscle refusing to hear and will accepting it.
    He whirled back to me. I saw his eyes flare, green-white, blinding, and knew he would use A’sparre, in a moment I should be dead as Gevos. I had no way of preventing it, and no fear. Whatever impelled me did not care.
    His back arched, his breath drew in. Then, like a bough breaking, the intent snapped.
    As my sword-point touched his ribs he said, “I won’t fight, Alkir.”
    I could not feel relief, let alone thankfulness. Something was appeased, I knew that. I also knew where we were to go. Down into the city, to the Treasury, whose vaults had once been the imperial prison for rebels of common blood. There were still chains