Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3)

Naamah, I thought, the prayer coming unbidden as I awaited my turn. Gracious lady, mistress of my soul, I have consented to this; consented, as you did, once upon a time. For love of Blessed Elua, you lay down with the Great King of Persis. Because Elua has asked it of me, I do the same, though Persis is fallen and the king who remains in this isolated corner of it styles himself the Lord of Death. My lady Naamah, if you have a care for your faithful Servant, ward me well in this place.

For an instant—only an instant—I thought I smelled attar of roses, and heard a sound like the quick, fluttering wings of a dove taking flight. And then it was my turn, and the hard hands of a Drujani guard patted me down, lingering on my body, his face leering before me.

It is an anguissette's nightmare. I kept my chin aloft, and betrayed no sign.

"Go on," he said to the others in Persian, jerking his head. "He's waiting."

And so we went, down the darkened hallways, a single torch light ing our way. Two of the other women wept and dragged their feet; one of the eunuchs—not my escort, but another—cursed and struck one across the back. The others walked with leaden steps. The Menekhetan boy straggled, his ambling path sending him wandering from one side of the hall to the other. The Drujani guards pushed him and laughed, making jests about wagering on where his next staggering step would fall.

"Enough!" I said fiercely, unable to curb my tongue. "Can you not see he is injured?"

"Shut up." The one with the torch thrust it toward my face, laugh ing when I flinched. "He entertained a few of the Shahryar's friends, is all. You'll be lucky if you can walk, you will, when his lordship's done with you!"

Shahryar; sovereign lord. Nariman had said it, too. They acknowl edged him that in Drujan, the bastard-born son of Hoshdar Ahzad. I kept my mouth closed, fearing further retribution. With a sidelong glance at me, my Akkadian escort stepped to the boy's side, guiding him gently.

We were nearing the festal hall.

I could see it; the dull glow of a fireplace at one end and a few torches in between, much as the audience hall had been. It was different, though. That had been empty, subdued. We heard the roar from halfway down the hall. There were men here, many men, and drink flowing. I did not understand, at first, what it must be.

And then I saw the vaulted ceiling, rising to a sealed dome, and the low well beneath it, capped with rubble, and I knew. Men, elderly men, with white beards and filthy robes, waited on hands and knees, ropes around their necks, their faces a study in despair. They were Magi. I knew, I had seen them in the city.

This had been a fire-temple, once; the private temple of the princes of Daršanga.

Now it was the festal hall of the Mahrkagir.

Long, wooden tables had been set within the temple, and they were lined with men; Drujani, mostly, and some others with hard faces and slanted eyes whom I took to be Tatars, their expressions guarded and watchful. Starveling dogs scavenged beneath them for the remnants of the evening meal.

"My lords!" one of our guards cried in Persian, hoisting his torch. "I bring you tonight's offering, from the zenana of the Shahryar Mahrkagir!"

Someone shoved me hard, from behind; I stumbled forward, trip ping on my gown and falling heavily to my knees. The men shouted and beat their cups on the tables, the sound dinning against my ears like the beating of distant wings; no dove's, these, but Kushiel's.

At the end of the aisle, in the darkness, a figure stepped forward.

I lifted up my head and met his eyes.

Fine pinpricks of light illuminated the silver embroidery that chased his black surcoat, and he was smiling, smiling as he extended his hand. His eyes, fixed on mine, were lustrous and black, utterly black, utterly mad. My blood ran ice-cold in my veins, heat blazing between my thighs. I pressed my brow to the cold stones, then rose. His smile beckoned me homeward. I took one step, then another, my legs be longing to someone else. Home. I put my hand in his; his fingers closed over it, cold and dry. A strange rill of energy surged between us. I tasted fear and desire, his mad smile, and lost myself in his dilated eyes.

Home.

In a dreadful parody of courtesy, the Mahrkagir escorted me to his table, seating me beside him. I sat facing the dim-lit hall, the savage, cheering men. Already the women who had accompanied me were cir culating among them—ostensibly, to refill their cups with beer or wine or rankly pungent kumis, the fermented mare's milk favored by the Tatars. In truth, they were entertainment, there to be groped and fon dled by any man bold enough to dare. One unruly group had the little Menekhetan boy atop their table, performing agonized back-bends and somersaults amid a gauntlet of naked blades; he had trained as an acrobat, once.

I sat and watched it in a state of shock, unmoving. The Mahrkagir smiled, one hand at the nape of my neck, and the icy touch of his fingers against my flesh held me riveted. I could feel my heart beating like a drum within my breast, my pulse beating between my thighs. Blessed Elua, what have you done to me? The Menekhetan boy whim pered, his limbs trembling as he sought to hold his pose. The Drujani laughed, two of them tossing daggers back and forth under his arched back. Elsewhere, one of the men moved his cup teasingly as an Ephesian woman sought to pour, forcing her to lean further and further over him; he bit her, then, on the upper curve of her breast, hard enough to leave the impress of his teeth. She cried out and dropped the pitcher. When it shattered, the Drujani laughed uproariously and pushed her to her knees, forcing her to lap the spilled beer with her tongue.

My gorge rose until I thought I might vomit, but the awful pulse of desire did not abate.

And there, a mere table away, sat Joscelin, surrounded by compan ionable Drujani. I do not know how he endured it. Even when he looked me full in the eyes, his face was absolutely expressionless. I have seen dead men who showed more emotion.

And I, who sat throbbing under the Mahrkagir's touch, did not blame him for it.

An unearthly howl split the air, and a blazing trail of sparks; some one had tied a firebrand to a dog's tail. I raised one hand to my mouth, smothering an outcry as the poor beast raced around the hall, sparks igniting its fur.

"Dogs," a smooth voice said at my shoulder, "are sacred to the followers of Ahura Mazda, because they are loyal and do not lie."

I looked up to see the Skotophagotis, repressing a shudder as I realized his torch-cast shadow fell over me. "Daeva Gashtaham," I said, remembering what the Mahrkagir had called him.

The priest inclined his head, light gleaming redly from the polished boar's-skull helm. "You have a keen memory." He watched as the burning cur went into throes of agony. The noise was horrible. "Duzhmata," he said in an idle tone, "duzhûshta, duzhvarshta. Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds; the three-fold path of Angra Mainyu."

"Go away, Gashtaham." The Mahrkagir spoke for the first time; his fingers caressed my neck. He smiled at his priest. "You brought her to me, now she is mine, and she does not need your counsel." He turned his smile on me and I stared at him, helpless. "She has ill thoughts already. I hear them, licking at mine, begging. Is it not so?" he added, asking me.

Hypnotized by my twin reflections in the black moons of his eyes, I whispered, "Yes."

"You are the first." He watched the priest take his leave with a displeased bow. "I have sent my priests, the ka-Magi of Angra Mainyu, abroad, far abroad, to see if any god dare stand against them. In mighty Khebbel-im-Akkad, in Menekhet, in Ephesus, even in Hellas, their servants quail with fear, and my zenana grows. The lords of Ch'in and Bodhistan send careless gifts, thinking I may one day prove an ally. They do not understand I am planting the seeds of death in my zenana. But you, ah!" The Mahrkagir took my chin in one hand, studying my face, his dilated gaze lingering on my moted left eye. "You," he said, caressing my cheek, "are different. I feel it, I feel how the blood leaps in your veins to follow my touch." His hand trailed down my throat, cupping one breast. "Duzhvarshta," he murmured, pinching my erect nipple as hard as he could, fingers cold even through my gown. "Ill deeds.”

A bolt of pain shot through me and I stifled a moan.

"Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds." He smiled tenderly at me, main taining a pincerlike grip. The pain was like a red-hot wire; my hips moved, thrusting involuntarily. "You crave these things. I know. I knew it when you knelt before me. Phè-dre." My name was drawn out on his lips, and I whimpered in reply, my breathing shallow. "Your gods have chosen you for defilement. Is it not so?"

I closed my eyes. "Yes."

The Mahrkagir released me, and the sudden absence of pain was a loss. "For a long time, I sought one of your kind. Now, the gods of Terre d'Ange tremble with fear and send tribute to the altar of Angra Mainyu!" he breathed. I opened my eyes to see his face flushed and exalted. "Soft and weak, they may be, but gods nonetheless!" He laughed, then, free and boyish. "You are the first to be summoned," he said, caressing me lovingly. "The first."

Unruly as the hall may have been, it heeded its master. At some point, they had fallen silent and begun to watch what transpired between us. They could not hear what was said, but they had seen—seen what he did to me, seen my response. The men looked vaguely awed; the women had expressions of scarce-veiled contempt.

And Joscelin . . .

Joscelin.

In all the years we had been together, as consort and mistress, as lovers, as courtesan and Cassiline, he had never seen me with a patron— not truly, not as the anguissette I am.

He had now.

We stared at each other unblinking. It was Joscelin who looked away.

"Enjoy, my lords." The Mahrkagir rose to his feet, tugging me after him. With his free hand, he made a sweeping gesture, his black eyes wide and wild. "Tonight, what is mine is yours! Angra Mainyu has given me a sign. Let your deeds gladden his heart!"

And with that, he led me away.

FORTY-SIX

I DO not like to speak of this night, nor of the many that followed.I had thought, before Drujan, that I knew somewhat of the darkness of the mortal heart, mine own included. I was wrong. I knew nothing.