“One of those being Sethon.” I tried to imagine what it was like to be Sethon; always second harem son, and now second to a nephew who had, more or less, the same birth rank. “You think Sethon truly believes his claim is equal to yours? That it is not only ambition that fuels his ruthlessness, but a sense of entitlement?”
“My father was right, you are sharp-witted,” the emperor said. “Xsu-Ree says that we must find the key to our enemy. His weakness. I think this arrogance is the key to my uncle. What do you think?”
“‘When a man lifts his chin in pride, he cannot see the chasm at his feet,’” I said, quoting the great poet Cho. I frowned, teasing out the idea of Sethon as a man weakened by arrogance. It did not feel right. “High Lord Sethon has waged many battles and not been tripped up by pride,” I said. “It might even be the core of his success.”
The emperor smiled. “You have not disappointed me, Lady Eona.”
I sat back, wary at his amused tone. He touched my arm and drew me close again.
“Lady, you have punched me, crossed swords with me, abused my decisions, and disagreed with my judgments.” The warmth in his voice held me still. “It is not often that an emperor finds someone who will do all of this in the name of friendship. I need someone who is not afraid to stand up to me. Who will tell me when I am failing my father’s legacy or speaking from inexperience.” He took a deep breath. “I am asking you to be my Naiso, Lady Eona.”
The night sounds around me dropped away into the sudden roar of my heartbeat. The Naiso was the emperor’s most important advisor — the only appointment in the court that could be refused with impunity. In the ancient language it was the word for “bringer of truth,” but it meant more than that— it meant brother, protector, and perhaps most dangerously, the king’s conscience. It was the responsibility of the Naiso to challenge the sovereign’s decisions, criticize his logic, and tell him the truth, however hard and unpalatable.
It was often a very short-lived position.
I stared out into the darkness, fighting through the tumult in my mind. The Naiso was always an older man. A wise man. Never a woman. A female Naiso was almost as unthinkable as a female Dragoneye. A small, mad laugh caught in my throat. I was already unthinkable — maybe I could be twice unthinkable. Yet I had no business advising a king. I had no experience in the deadly politics of an empire. I had no knowledge of warfare or battle.
“Your Majesty, I am only a girl. I am no one. I cannot advise you.”
“As you so rightly reminded me, you are the Ascendant Dragoneye.”
“Yuso would be a better choice,” I said, glancing back at the silent figure walking the perimeter. “He is a career soldier. Or Ryko.”
“No, both of them have trained me,” the emperor said. “They are good men, but there must be no memory of the student when challenging the king.”
“Lady Dela?” I ventured.
“She is a courtier and a Contraire. I am not asking you because you are the only one available in our small troop. No emperor is compelled to appoint a Naiso. I am asking you because I believe you will tell me the truth when others would lie and pander.” His voice hardened. “And betray.”
“But I lied to you about who I was,” I said. “I lied to everyone.”
“You came to my father’s ghost watch and told me the truth when you could have been halfway to the islands. Even when it has put you in mortal danger, you have never worked against me. I trust that.”
Trust: the word pierced me. I had given up the right to be trusted, and yet here was my emperor willing to place his life in my hands.
If I said yes, I would step into a quicksand of influence and responsibility.
If I said no, I would lose that trust and his good opinion. I would lose the way he leaned toward me as if what I said was worth an emperor’s attention.
Could I be what he wanted me to be? A king’s conscience.
I took a deep breath and within in it was a prayer to any god who listened: Help me be his truth. And help me know my own truth.
“I am honored to be your Naiso, Majesty,” I said, and bowed.
“As I am honored by your acceptance,” he said, a grin overtaking the formality. “You may call me Kygo; the emperor and the Naiso meet as equals.”
I tensed. No doubt he believed what he said, but I had seen his idea of equality weeks ago, in the Pavilion of Earthly Enlightenment. The pavilion was supposedly a place where minds of all rank could meet, but when his teacher had crossed his will, suddenly equality had been forced into a groveling bow. There seemed to be many levels of equality; I had to find which one he meant for me.
“There is another part to that old maxim know your enemy, Kygo,” I said, stumbling over his name. “‘Know yourself.’ What is your weakness? What will High Lord Sethon use against you?”
“Inexperience,” he said promptly.
“Perhaps.” I narrowed my eyes and tried to see this young man as his uncle would see him. Inexperienced, by his own admission. Untried in war, but courageous and well trained. Progressive and merciful, like his sire, and upholding the same ideals — the very ideals that Sethon hated. “I think your weakness is that you seek to emulate your father.”
He drew back. “I do not consider that a weakness.”
“Nor do I,” I said quickly, “but I think High Lord Sethon will. He has already defeated your father once.”
He flinched at my blunt appraisal. I dared not move — dared not breathe — in case his idea of our equality did not match mine.
“My heart does not want to believe you, Naiso,” he said. “But my gut says you are right. Thank you.”
And then he bowed.
It was no more than a dip of his head, but it sent a chill through me.
It was too much equality. Too much trust. I had done nothing to deserve an emperor’s bow. I had not even fulfilled my first duty as Naiso: to bring him the truth, however difficult and dangerous. And the truth that I still kept hidden was very dangerous, indeed.
He had offered me his trust. If I was to be his Naiso, I had to offer him the proof that I too could be trusted.
“I cannot call my dragon.” Even as the words left my mouth, I wanted to claw them back.
His head snapped up. “What?”
“I cannot use my power.”
He stared at me. “At all?”
“If I try, the ten beasts who have lost their Dragoneyes rush us. Everything around me is destroyed.”
“Holy gods!” He rubbed at his forehead as if the pressure would force the bad news into his head. “When did you find this out?”
“At the fishing village. When I healed Ryko.”
“Tell me,” he said sternly. “Everything.”
With a tight hold on my emotions, I described calling the Mirror Dragon, healing Ryko, and the destructive force of the other beasts as they sought union with us. Finally, I told him about Lord Ido’s return.
“Are you saying you cannot use your power without Ido?”
“No! I am saying that he knows how to stop the other dragons, and I don’t. I’ve had no training. I was beginning to learn, but then—” I shrugged. He knew only too well the events that had stopped my training.
“What about the red journal? You told me it had the secrets of your power.”
“I’m hoping it has the secrets,” I said. “It is written in an old form of Woman Script, and in code. Dela is deciphering it as fast as she can, but even if she could read the whole book to me now, it would be of no use. If I called my dragon to practice its secrets, the other beasts would overwhelm me before I could do anything.”