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“I have seen it.” I remembered, sickened. “And thus he gained power?”

“Yes,” Rushad said, still whispering. “All of them. They called upon Death, and Death answered. Daeva Vahumisa ate his brother’s heart, and Daeva Dâdarshi, his wife’s … oh, there are many. And the people … the people were angry, because Ahura Mazda had not protected them. When they saw that the Âka-Magi held power, they followed. And there was a, a mighty rebellion. The Âka-Magi raised up the Mahrkagir, and the people followed. First…” he swallowed, “… first, they overthrew the temples. And then riders went out, all across the land, riders went out to the borders, the fortresses, quenching the fires …”

“They took the borders,” I said. “And slew the garrison at Daršanga.”

Rushad nodded, relieved at not having to explain it. “He laughed,” he said. “The Mahrkagir laughed as he fought, spattered with blood from head to toe. No one touched him. The Âka-Magi would not let them, and Tahmuras protected him, Tahmuras and his morningstar. And shadows fled squealing along the walls, and Akkadians fought among themselves, and my lord Zaggisi-Sin died, choking on his own tongue, that someone cut off and shoved in his throat. And in the
zenana
…” He fell silent, looking at the wall. “They let me live because I was Persian. Sometimes I am sorry they did. I know … I know what happened thirty years ago, when General Chus-sar-Usar defeated Hoshdar Ahzad’s forces. I have heard the stories, although I was not born, then. My lord … my lord was not like that. And his lady wife …” Rushad shook his head. “Well,” he said. “They are dead, now. And the Mahrkagir rules. Soon,” he added, “I think he will rule more than Drujan.”

I thought about it, frowning. “Who rules whom, Rushad? Does the Mahrkagir rule the Âka-Magi, or is it the other way around?”

“Truly?” He shrugged, hugging his knees, sitting on my carpeted floor. “Lady … who is to say? The people …” He gave his nervous glance. “The people fear the Âka-Magi, and the soldiers follow the Mahrkagir. Both need the other. Who rules who? I cannot say.”

“So the Mahrkagir does not possess the power of an Âka-Magus,” I said.

“No,” Rushad said simply. “He cannot, because he cannot make the vahmyâcam, the offering. The Mahrkagir remembers nothing of love, only death. Though he seeks, he has nothing pure to offer upon the altar. Nothing that is
his
. Daeva Gashtaham … Daeva Gashtaham says he is the doorway. The will of Angra Mainyu flows
through
him, to be made manifest in the Âka-Magi.” Still holding his knees, he shuddered. “How fearful he would be if he held that power!”

Truly, I thought; fearful indeed.

And I remembered how the priest Gashtaham had smiled, like a cat licking cream.

It made my blood run cold to think on it.

Because my lord Delaunay trained me to seek answers, because he raised me to believe all knowledge, no matter what the cost, is worth having, I pursued the matter. It was not hard to do. In the festal hall, Daeva Gashtaham was ever at hand, the resident Âka-Magus of Darsanga, spreading his invisible cloak of protection over the Mahrkagir. In truth, he sought me out, hovering at my shoulder like a blowfly over a corpse. I do not know why. That it was part of his greater plan-yes, that I was coming to understand. But there was an attraction that ran deeper. It may be only that it pleased him to see me flinch when his shadow fell over my flesh.

Or it may have been something deeper, something the Drujani priest himself did not understand. I cannot say. It is a question for the theologians to settle, for I do not like to think on it. Nonetheless, I made myself speak to him.

The priest was sitting at my left side on the night that I chose, watching that evening’s entertainment: an impromptu “chariot” race staged by a pair of the rowdier young soldiers, using the Magi-the true Magi, priests of Ahura Mazda-as horses. It was painful to watch, the elderly men scrambling undignified on hands and knees, lengths of rope between their teeth, filthy robes hiked up to reveal spindly, aging shanks. The soldiers trotted behind them, holding the ropes like reins in one hand, whooping, lashing the Magi with crops when they slowed.

“Ah, Arshaka.” Gashtaham smiled, shaking his head, watching the eldest of the Magi scramble, tripping over his own beard. “Old man,” he said, caressing the length of his jet-headed staff, “you should have had the courage to die.”

Almost as if he had heard, the ancient Magus lifted up his head, gazing at Gashtaham. The priest continued to smile and stroke his staff, dark shadows pooling in the eye-sockets of his boar’s-skull helm. Something in the Magus’ gaze blazed, then quailed; lowering his head, he scurried forward, unsuccessfully seeking to avoid a soldier’s boot planted between his scrawny buttocks. To my right, the Mahrkagir laughed, clapping.

“The Magus fears you, Daeva Gashtaham,” I said in a low voice.

“Should he not?” The priest bent his smile upon me. It held no madness, only the promise of vile things wriggling in the darkness. “He was a wise man, once, the Chief Magus.”

“And wise men fear.” I held his gaze, quelling the urge to shrink away from it. “In Menekhet, they name you Eaters-of-Darkness; they believe they will die before sundown, if your shadow touches their flesh.”

“You have borne its touch,” Gashtaham said, “and lived. Do you believe?”

“I do not know,” I said honestly. “In Daršanga, they say only that the Âka-Magi hold power over life and death. I do not know if it is true, Daeva Gashtaham.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Then you shall see, since you asked it.” Rising to his feet, he extended his staff, pointing across the tables, pointing to the open space beyond, directly at the second chariot-Magus as he crawled frantically across the flagstones of the desecrated temple, the rope bit between his teeth. I saw the Magus stiffen, rising to his knees, the rope falling as his mouth gaped wide, both age-spotted hands clutching at his robe over his heart. The soldier behind him cursed and whipped him about the head and shoulders.

’Twas to no avail; a deep tremor shook him, and his eyes glazed. His body crumpled sideways, making little sound as it fell.

“Death,” Daeva Gashtaham mused, taking his seat, ignoring my horror-stricken expression and the rumbles of annoyance from the Drujani audience deprived of its amusement. “It is a constant presence among us, do you not think, Phèdre nó Delaunay? Every instant, waking or sleeping, we are but one step away from it, holding it at bay with each breath we take. You may have …” he reached out with one long finger to touch my breastbone, “… such a flaw in your heart, waiting to burst. Or perhaps you might trip upon your skirts …” he twitched the folds of my gown almost coyly, “… and fall upon the stairs, splitting open your skull. It may be a disease, yes; a pox, an ague, a wasting sickness. In the
zenana
, a woman coughs; is there death in her sputum? It may be so. Perhaps your horse will stumble, and drag you; perhaps a raft will overturn, and you will be swept away in the torrents. Or perhaps …” he smiled, and caressed my cheek, “it lies within.”

I shuddered to the bone, and hid it. “You have made an ally of Death.”

“I have.” Gashtaham looked at me with something like regret. “‘Tis a pity you are a woman. If my apprentices were half so clever, I would be pleased. Still, you may serve your purpose.”

What that was, I did not ask.

I was afraid I already knew.

Forty-Nine

I HAVE not spoken of the desire, nor how long I resisted it.

Mayhap it is that such a thing need not be said. At times, I kept it at bay; for long hours, sometimes. In the
zenana
, I relied upon my wits, constantly observing, gauging the ebb and flow of hatred, the secret alliances, the undercurrents of despair. Where the dim spark of defiance sputtered and refused to die, I took note, finding it in Drucilla’s endless physician’s rounds, in the bitter survival of the Akkadian warrior-eunuchs, in Kaneka’s impromptu court of superstition. I found it in the dignity of the fasting Bhodistani, until they died; I found it too in individual women, here and there, especially the fierce Chowati. I found it in Erich the Skaldi’s single gesture, and the fact that he had not yet abandoned life.

Most of all, I found it in Imriel de la Courcel, who was at odds with everyone and everything, and who continued to skulk at the edges of my existence.

I had a carpet set outside the door to my chamber, and there I would sit or kneel, watching the
zenana
. It drew comments, which I ignored. I could not afford to lurk within my walls and remain ignorant. I watched Imriel return time and again to the garden passageway, worrying at the boards. Like his mother, he despised his cage, and yearned for a glimpse of sky. When Nariman the Chief Eunuch was watching, the Akkadian attendants would pull him away. And he fought them, tooth and claw; it was one of the Akkadians he had stabbed with a fork. For all that, I saw, they accorded him a certain forbearance. It may have been due to the Mahrkagir’s plans for him, though I suspected they harbored an appreciation for Imriel’s defiant spirit.

Once, one brought him to my carpet, slung over his broad shoulder, spitting and kicking. It was the attendant from the first night-Uru-Azag, his name was-who had guided the Menekhetan boy.

“Khannat, Uru-Azag,” I said to him, bowing from my seated position. “Thank you.”

Something glimmered in the Akkadian’s dark eyes. “Yamodan,” he replied briefly, shaking his forearm where Imriel had bitten him; you are welcome.

Imriel crouched, one hand touching the floor, regarding me warily. “Uru-Azag is not your enemy,” I said to him in D’Angeline. “You do wrong to fight him.”

“Death’s Whore!” He bared his teeth in a snarl, black hair falling in a tangle over his brow. “Mother of Lies! I know who my enemies are!”

“Do you?” I asked. “So do I. Fadil Chouma was your enemy, was he not? He is dead, now; did you know it? You stabbed him, in Iskandria-stabbed him in the thigh with a carving knife. The wound took septic, and he died. I know your enemies better than you do, Imriel.”

Alarm widened his twilight-blue eyes and his mouth worked soundlessly. Deprived of adequate words, he spat once more onto the tiles between us, and fled, overturning an Ephesian water-pipe in his flight. Muzzy curses followed him, which he ignored, taking refuge at the couch-island of some Hellenes, who were glad enough of a boy-child to stroke and pet, having none of their own. His eyes, his mother’s eyes, continued to watch me, gauging my reaction.

Those were the good times in the
zenana
.

During the bad times … during the bad times, I was conscious of the desire. I remembered it, the blood-dark throbbing, Kushiel’s brazen wings buffeting my ears and the light, the glittering light, the cold iron nubs rending my flesh. I wanted it again; Elua, but I did! When I was weak, when I let myself remember, horrified, the face of the poor Magus, seized in a rictus of death, I knew the chains of blood-guilt lay heavy on my soul. I had undergone the
thetalos
. I knew. And I saw Joscelin and his deadly smile, playing cat-and-mouse with the Tatar. My fault; my doing. And it seemed, at those times, that nothing would redeem me, that the only absolution I might find lay within the Mahrkagir’s bedchamber, the dank air and his icy fingers digging into my flanks, oiled leather straps creaking as I welcomed the reaving iron into my flesh.

My title, my name, my very will … all laid upon the altar of destruction.

Only then would it
stop
.

In time, I asked him for it. No; that is wrong. In time, I begged. I do not pretend to be more than I am. There were times, in that place, when the tides of my soul ebbed, and I saw only darkness, only despair. You must make of the self a vessel where the self is not, Eleazar ben Enokh had told me, and this I sought; not in perfect love, but perfect self-loathing. Of a surety, he prompted me, the Mahrkagir, whispering in my ear as he used his rusted implements of pain, as he took me in some other orifice-do you not want
this
?He knew. There is a cunning in madness. As he whispered in my ear, Angra Mainyu whispered in his, and the dark wind blew through us both.

I begged.

And the Mahrkagir gave.

I was wrong, though; wrong about one thing. It did not make an end to it. For a time, it did; a time bounded by the endurance of my flesh-and his. Mad or no, the Mahrkagir was mortal. When it was over, it was over, and I was still alive, still Phèdre. Those are the times when I would lie shaking, curled on my side, throbbing with the aftermath of pain and fulfillment, and he would stroke my sweat-dampened hair as tendrils grew clammy on my brow, whispering endearments in Old Persian; ishtâ, he called me, beloved, smiling to see me tremble, srîra, beautiful one.

He was mortal, only a man, spent.

The Mahrkagir remembers nothing of love, only death … How fearful he would be if he held that power
!

I remembered Rushad’s words and Gashtaham’s smile, and the Mahrkagir of Drujan caressed my quivering flesh, stamping it his, his own, every fiber of my Dart-stricken being answering to his icy touch, and I gazed into his black, black eyes, gleaming with madness and pride, and cursed the inevitable return of that flicker of consciousness within my skull, Delaunay-trained, proclaiming the awareness of
self
.

Because, knowing it, I could not fail to recognize the answering stir within the Mahrkagir himself; the tender line of his mouth, the lambency of his gaze, all announcing as loud as trumpets the dawning of that which he had never known, of that sacred mystery which is the province of Blessed Elua himself.

Love.

The only mercy was that he had no idea. I realized it the night he sought to scar my face, drawing the point of a rusty awl along my cheekbone. “Ishtâ,” he whispered, watching me shudder and force myself to stillness. The point of the awl crawled over my skin. “Such beauty! It would be duzhvarshta indeed to despoil it.”

Ill deeds. I closed my eyes, unable to bear it. Hot, stinging tears seeped from under my lids. I felt the awl, tear-moistened, tracing rusty patterns on my face, the tip prodding my cheek. Elua! Must I lose this, too?