Nearing the place where the Skaldi lad Erich slouched despondent along the wall, Imriel made his bid for freedom, lunging to hurdle the Skaldi's legs as if he were no more than a piece of furniture.
Without a word, Erich reached out a single, brawny hand, catching the back of Imriel's shirt and holding him fast. His eyes, grey-blue under a thatch of unwashed blond hair, met mine.
Elua knows, he was fast; I'd seen it before, and I'd no doubt it took considerable speed to plant the knife in Fadil Chouma's thigh, not to mention the serving fork in the attendant. The Scions of Elua are gifted. But I am D'Angeline too, and if the blood that flows in my veins is not nobly gotten, it holds no less of the lineage of Elua and his Com panions for it. My mother was an adept of the Night Court, and in Terre d'Ange, it means as much to be a whore's daughter as a prince's son. Even as his arm flashed out, I reacted, half-expecting it. After all, he was Melisande's son.
I caught his wrist, his clawed fingers reaching for my eyes, and held it, inches from my face. "Your mother sent me to find you."
For a moment he only stared, like an animal in a snare, trapped and vulnerable. And then rage suffused his features, vivid blood surging to stain his alabaster skin. "You lie” he hissed, convulsing, tearing himself free from my grip, from the Skaldi's restraining hand. At loose, he spat violently onto the floor between us. "My mother is dead!"
"No." I watched him retreat, opening my empty hands to show I meant him no threat. "Imriel, I speak the truth. It is Brother Selbert who lied to you."
It stopped him in his tracks, and there was an instant of recognition. For a moment, we merely looked at one another. Then, with a low sound, Imriel turned and bolted, a rabbit fleeing the trap. I let him go, kneeling beside the Skaldi. "Thank you," I said gravely to him. "If there is aught I might do, aught that might increase your comfort. . ."
Without a sound, Erich turned away, facing the wall. I sighed, stooping, and kissed his brow, then returned to my chamber.
After that, Imriel shadowed me at a distance, warily curious. I let him. No matter what he had survived—and I shuddered to think on it—he was a boy, carrying a hurt and rage few adults could bear. If he were pushed, he would lash out; and if I pushed before he was ready, it would be I who suffered for it. One word of betrayal was all it would take. I would not risk it coming from the lips of a hurt, angry child.
One good thing came of the encounter, and that was that it restored the Persian eunuch Rushad's allegiance to me. His beloved Erich had reacted, had undertaken some action affirming life. It was enough, for him. He came to speak with me thereafter, and did me small kindnesses unasked.
"Drucilla said you were here, when it happened," I said to him one day, "serving the Akkadian commander. How did it happen, Rushad? How did the Mahrkagir rise to power? Who are the Skotophagoti, the ka-Magi? Do they truly hold power over life and death?"
"You ask many questions, lady," he murmured, picking up the fig urine of the jade dog and studying it. "I was a slave, only, tending to my lord's wife in the zenana. I know only what I have heard."
"What have you heard?" I asked, coaxing the story from him.
From what I gathered, much of the rebellion had taken place un derground, as it were, among the lower echelons of Drujani society. Hoshdar Ahzad's family was slain, and most of the Old Persian nobles among them. The Mahrkagir, rescued by Tahmuras, was raised in secret, amid the legions of servants who attended upon General Zaggisi-Sin, the Akkadian commander of Daršanga; a strange boy, eyes all pupil, unable to bear the light, prone to laugh at inappropriate times. Still, he was Hoshdar Ahzad's son, and as he came of age, the stories circulated.
And they came to other ears. It was the priest Gashtaham who divined the signs, who determined what the Mahrkagir's strangeness portended. Somehow I was not surprised to hear it. A Magus-in- training, it was he who first put forth the notion of turning away from Ahura Mazda, the Lord of Light, to embrace the worship of Angra Mainyu.
"He killed his own father," Rushad whispered, dropping his voice even in the relative privacy of my chamber. "That is what they say. It is the offering, the glorification; vahmyâcam, they call it. The dedication to Angra Mainyu: to destroy that which is pure and good. To kill what one loves the most." He looked nervously from side to side, confiding, "He ate his father's heart. And he wears his finger-bones at his waist."
"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 ka-Magi held power, they followed. And there was a, a mighty rebellion. The ka-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 Darsanga."
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 ka-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 hap pened 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 ka-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 ka-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 Aka-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 ka-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 Aka-Magus of Darśanga, 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 theo logians 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 ka-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 clutch ing at his robe over his heart. The soldier behind him cursed and whipped him about the head and shoulders.