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Too many fields lay fallow, dead and grey, naught of winter’s doing.

Too many flocks struggled, slat-ribbed and gaunt, with staring coats.

“What has happened here?” I asked Tizrav, my voice shaking. “How can a kingdom that makes Khebbel-im-Akkad itself tremble come to such an impasse?”

The Persian shrugged. “You wished to come to Drujan, lady; the kingdom that died and lives. Behold, if you will, life-in-death.”

I did not like it.
Turn back
, I thought; the words were on my lips, near to being spoken with every stride our mounts took. I did not utter it. I thought of that moment in Prince Sinaddan’s hall instead, the slow, dreadful withdrawal of Elua’s presence, and the emptiness that awaited.
Farewell
. And I gazed at their bitter, resentful faces, the starving Drujani, until my heart ached within me. They had not chosen this, I thought. What commoner ever does? Caught between the hammer of warfare and the anvil of survival, they endure; endure, and hate, seeing us ride of our own volition unto hell, on our well-fed horses with gold jangling at our bits, clad in silks and fur.

There were no fires, either. Jahanadar, the Land of Fires, lay sullen and bleak.

“Tell me of the faith of your forefathers,” I asked Tizrav one night as we made camp.

He looked at me, his single eye like a cold ember. “My lady wishes to know?”

“I do,” I said. “Truly, son of Tizmaht, I do.”

He nodded, and swallowed, and looked away, then busied himself building up our campfire until it roared like a pyre, sending showers of sparks into the cold night air. “You see?” he asked quietly, watching the sparks ascend. “In fire there is light, warmth … life. It is Truth. Ahura Mazda is all these things; Lord of Light, the Truth.” His mouth curved in a deprecating smile. “Good thoughts, good words, good deeds. It is the trifold way taught to me in secret by my father, and his father’s father before him. And the fire … ah, the fire is proof, a living, burning flame set before us to purify the Lie.”

In the heart of the fire, a pair of crossed branches crumbled, and the flames subsided.

“So.” Tizrav’s mouth twisted. “Darkness returns. Even the great prophet Zoroaster did not deny it would hold sway on this earth.”

“Still,” I said to him. “Morning will follow, and the dawn.”

“Dawn, aye.” He fed the fire and did not look at me. “The Lion of the Sun, the face of Shamash. The Akkadians have stolen the light of day, and named it their own. And Ahura Mazda made no protest, but let his people die beneath their swords. Do you wonder that the Drujani have laid claim to the darkness?”

“No,” I said. “No, son of Tizmaht, I do not.”

Tizrav shrugged. “My father was a fool, and his father’s father before him. I place my faith in the only light that endures, yellow and unwinking: The bright sheen of gold.”

To that, I had no words.

Forty-Two

THE SKOTOPHAGOTI knew we were coming.

That is not what they call themselves, to be sure, but it is the first name I knew, and the one that stays with me. After all, I have heard it in my dreams. We saw him at a distance, this one; he did not approach unseen. No, he came down the old royal road, the city of Daršanga rising behind him, its bulwarks and spires silhouetted against the wintry sea.

He rode a wild ass without stirrups or bridle, his legs dangling, and it would have been comical if it was not terrifying. Sunlight from the east gleamed on his boar’s-skull helmet, and his staff of office lay athwart his ass’s withers. I saw that he wore a girdle, too; finger-bones. I had not noticed, in Iskandria, that the
Skotophagoti
wore such things, but I had never been so close to one, either.

“You have come for the Mahrkagir.” He pointed with his staff, lazily, the wavering ball of jet taking in all three of us. It seemed to linger longest upon me. I was glad I wore the veil, and did not have to meet his eyes.

“I have.” Joscelin kneed his Akkadian mount forward, a long-legged black gelding with three white socks. His sword-hilt protruded from beneath the collar of his sheepskin coat and his gaze was as cold and blue as a Drujani winter sky. “Will he see me?”

The
Skotophagotis
merely looked at him, calm astride his ass, his shadow thrown before him, foreshortened and deadly on the old royal road, its fireclay bricks crumbling for lack of repair. “Yes,” he said presently. “The Mahrkagir will see you.”

We rode behind him into the city of Daršanga.

There was more life in the city than we had seen in the countryside and villages … more life, and more fear. How not, when we rode in company with an Eater-of-Darkness? People hurried to the sides of the streets as we passed, prostrating themselves before the priest, pressing their brows to the earth. The
Skotophagotis
took no notice.

Although there seemed no marketplace and no shops, there was trade of a sort, furtive and joyless; foodstuffs, mostly, a good deal of fish, and bread and oil. A man pushing a two-wheeled cart sold tallow candles; another, needles and skeins of thread. A cobbler sat on a wooden stool, measuring a Drujani soldier’s foot for a boot. The soldier did not kneel, but bowed low as we passed.

Here and there, I could hear the sound of smithies at work, the ringing clangor of hammer and anvil, and the acrid scent of heated steel in the air. Daršanga might be poor and hungry, but it was able to feed its forges. It had the odor of war.

At the heart of the city, we passed a low plaza that might have been gracious, once. It had columns set at the four corners, but these had been toppled and shattered. In the center a marble-rimmed well was set nearly flush to the paving. A dome had stood over it, a hollow structure with three arched doorways. Now great chunks of debris filled the well and only the truncated foundation remained.

“It was a fire-temple,” Tizrav said in a low voice.

Three elderly men crouched beside a scarred marble bench at the outermost verge of the plaza, clad in robes the indeterminate color of filth. Long, unkempt beards grew nearly to their waists, and the smell was fearful. I did not see, at first, the shackles that bound them; not until the
Skotophagotis
stopped before them, pointing with his staff. Then they moved, stiffly, going to their knees, and I saw the shackles at their ankles and the long chain leading to a mighty bolt sunk deep into the flagstones. All three made the prostration. The
Skotophagotis
nodded once and lowered his staff, riding onward.

“Who are they?” I asked Tizrav.

“They were Magi.” His face behind the eyepatch was impassive. “Priests of the Lord of Light. Now they are beggars. It pleases the Mahrkagir to let them live and breed fear.”

I looked behind me once as we left, twisting in the saddle. The Magi were huddled once more. They had made a den beneath the marble bench, blocking the wind with hunks of rubble and scraps of hide and blankets. At the furthest reach of their chain was the midden-heap, stinking of ordure. I wondered at their tenacity in clinging to life, for the conditions seemed unbearable.
Men will embrace anything to live
, the Drujani scout had said. Mayhap it was true.

And then we reached the palace.

It had been a pleasant structure in former days, charming and well-protected, seated on an outcropping of rock that overlooked the Sea of Khaspar. There had been a time, Tizrav had told me, when the Great Kings of Persis would use it as a summer palace, hosted by the Princes of Drujan, and they would hunt the length of the peninsula and ride hawking in the mountains. The windows stood open to catch the cooling breezes. The inner roofs had been tiled in blue and banners had flown from the towers.

Now the roofs were black with tar-pitch and the towers were barren, every window was barred and shuttered and the high walls bristling with battlements. The palace of Daršanga waited, weathered-grey and grim. I thought about the Akkadian chronicle I had read and how blood had run in channels down its halls. My mouth was dry with fear.

A squadron of Drujani soldiers met us in the front courtyard, armed to the teeth and clad in armor of boiled leather and steel plate, none uniform, all serviceable. They bowed to the
Skotophagotis
, making a corridor to allow us passage. The
Skotophagotis
dismounted, and we followed suit. Someone put a rope around the neck of the priest’s ass, wary of its snapping teeth. Our mounts were led away to stable. No one asked Joscelin to surrender his weapons. The soldiers made jests under their breath, eyeing us with unpleasant interest. One rapped at the massive doors with the butt of his dagger, giving a password at the grate.

On the far side, a bar was drawn, a bolt thrown. The doors creaked open onto the darkness within.

“Come,” said the
Skotophagotis
and strode inside.

I stood where I was, utterly paralyzed with fear. With a spat curse, Joscelin grabbed my wrist in a painful grip, dragging me after him as he followed the priest. It was dark inside the palace and my veil obscured my vision. I stumbled, tripping over the hem of my gown as I sought to keep up with Joscelin’s long strides, filled with a terror so vast it seemed to stop my very mouth. At the rear, Tizrav hurried to keep up with us.

It was cold in Daršanga palace, cold and dark. At the time, I thought it was poorly built, or mayhap the city lacked for fuel. Now I know better. It was at the Mahrkagir’s order, despising as he did light and fire. The torches in the wall-sconces were unlit, save every third or fourth one, shedding a guttering light. The walls themselves were bare, and no carpet adorned the floor. I saw dark stains in the cracks between the flagstones, and shuddered.

It is said that La Dolorosa, the fortress on the black isle of La Serenissima, is one of the most foreboding places on earth. Well, and I should know, having been a prisoner there. This was worse. La Dolorosa, for all its ills, is steeped in grief and madness. Folly was committed, terrible horrors, but it was the eternal mourning of Asherat-of-the-Sea that drove men to madness. Mortals are not made to bear the grief of gods.

The palace of Daršanga stank of deliberate human cruelty.

And it had invoked something worse.

I felt it on my skin, a crawling darkness, filling my mouth with the taste of foulness. I had not reckoned, before this, what it would be like to enter the stronghold of Angra Mainyu, enemy of life, Lord of Darkness. D’Angeline though I am, I have stood in the presence of other gods and known no such terror. Respect, yes; and fear. Never had I felt myself so utterly
despised
. It was … it was like nothing I can describe.

There are a thousand gods in the world; angry gods, vengeful gods, jealous gods. There are gods who delight in cruelty and mischief, gods who demand tribute in blood, gods who punish the weak and reward the tyrannical. Gods, yes; and goddesses, too. I know this to be true. There are gods who devour their young, gods whose followers sing as they slaughter, gods who raise the seas and shake the earth in their wrath, heedless of the count of mortal lives.

This presence was different.

It was all of these things at once; wrath, retribution, jealousy and hunger-Elua, the
hunger
! Demanding, unthinking, a bloodlust that could never be slaked, no, not if it devoured a thousand lives, a hundred thousand, for the fulfillment lay in the destroying and not the consuming. If the world itself lay desolate and barren, still it would howl for more, its maw agape, yearning and ravening. It was destruction, pure and simple, almost beautiful in its absoluteness.

And if it had been mindless, it would have been terrifying enough … but it was not. It was a presence that thought, cunning and aware.

“Angra Mainyu,” I whispered.

“Ah.” The
Skotophagotis
halted outside the doors to the great hall of the palace and looked at me with eyes slitted with thoughtful pleasure. “The lady senses his presence. Come, then, and meet his greatest servant, who shall become your Master.”

We entered the hall.

It was dark, of course, and draughty. A sullen fire burned in the hearth at the near end and a few hanging lamps made pools of light in the air. The hall was vast, and mostly empty. A carved frieze ran the length of the walls depicting a tribute procession, but the faces were chipped and smashed. There were holes and blank spaces on the walls and furnishings where gilt trim had been stripped away.

A dais and throne stood at the far end of the hall, but no one was seated on it. Guards idled nearby, and a handful of men stood conversing. One was clad all in furs; the others wore long brocade coats over trousers and tunics. They fell silent as the
Skotophagotis
entered, and the guards straightened to attention, a giant of a man among them, with a chest like a bull, towering over the Drujani lord beside him.

They all bowed as the
Skotophagotis
approached.

All except the one standing next to the giant.

“Daeva Gashtaham,” he said with interest. “What have you brought me?”

And this time, it was the priest who bowed, lowing his skull-helmed head, finger-bones rattling at his waist. “Mahrkagir,” he said smoothly. “This lord of Terre d’Ange seeks an audience.”

The Mahrkagir of Drujan wore no crown, no diadem, no badge of office; only black, unalleviated save for the worn silver brocade on his coat. Of average stature, he was unimposing in build, and he was young; younger than I had expected, scarce older than I. “Speak.”

Joscelin released my wrist and bowed, crossing his vambraces. “Lord Mahrkagir.” His voice was harsh, his words practiced. “I, Joscelin Verreuil, seek asylum in Drujan. In exchange, I offer my sword, sworn unto your service, and-” he said it without faltering, “-this woman for your seraglio.”

The fur-clad lord laughed deep in his chest, and one of the others made a jest. Two of the guards laughed; the giant crossed his massive arms over his leather-clad chest. The Mahrkagir gazed unblinking at Joscelin. “Why?”

Joscelin conferred with Tizrav, who offered him words to say. “Mahrkagir,” said the
Skotophagotis
priest Gashtaham. “This lordling had committed rape against this woman.” He touched his ear beneath the boar’s skull. “The night wind has spoken; her kinsmen gather at the border, with a company of Sinaddan’s men from Nineveh, who rattle their spears and shout vain challenges.”