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

I nodded, relaying her instructions in Skaldic. Erich worked the point of the dagger into the holes, enlarging them. Despite the cold air, beads of sweat stood on his forehead.

"Like so," the Carthaginian said, going to help him. Together, they fit the upper board back in place. It held. The lower board proved more stubborn, two of the nails bent. "Here," she said, passing it back, mim ing pounding with a hammer. "Someone. The nails must be made straight."

Taking the board gingerly, two Ephesian women laid it on the floor and began beating at the bent nails with the heels of their slippers. By now, nearly half the zenana had crowded around to watch. A Chowati berated them, attempting to describe a better method. One of the Akkadian eunuchs came over to kneel beside them, drawing his dagger and pounding the nails with the hilt.

"Rushad," I murmured, slipping through the crowd to find him. "Someone should watch for Nariman's return."

"It is already being done, lady." He pointed toward the latticed door, where two Menekhetans stood watch at careful angles.

A stifled cheer went up from the assembled group; the nails were straightened, and the board fit snug once more. To the casual observer, it looked unaltered. Erich removed the boards, and they came easily. He leaned them both against the alcove, and went back to take up his post once more, sitting with his back to the wall.

Everyone else stood staring spellbound at two feet of cold air and grey light.

Imriel, taut and quivering, caught my eye, and there was a naked plea on his face.

"Yes." I nodded. "Go."

Like a flash, he crawled through the gap. Now that it was done, no one else dared follow, awed by the audacity of what we had done. I stood irresolute, longing to go, but fearful of putting myself forward. Whatever had happened here, it was a fragile alliance. If they remem bered how much they despised me, it would die an early death.

"Lady," said Uru-Azag, pointing at me. "Your place is second."

It was better, coming from him. It left me no choice. Walking slowly through the crowd, I mounted the stair, gathering my skirts about me. I had to duck low to clamber through the opening, and the rough planks caught at my hair.

And then I was through, and there was frozen earth beneath my knees, a dizzying sense of openness above me. I stood up, gasping, filling my lungs with searingly cold air. Elua, the sky! It was wintry and grey and utterly magnificent. At the farthest corner of the garden stood Imriel, arms wrapped about himself, teeth chattering, a look of pure delight on his face.

Others followed, after that; not many, when all was said and done. The Carthaginian carpenter's daughter came, and two Chowati. An Akkadian woman with haughty brows, but none of the eunuchs. I did not blame them. They had done as much as they dared, and more. One of the Ephesians poked her head through the opening and withdrew, shiv ering. It was cold, it is true, terribly cold. For once, I did not care, nor that the garden was completely barren. It was mayhap thirty paces on each side, a dry fountain at its center, stone walls thrice as high as a man's head encompassing dead soil and crumbling paths. I saw tears in the eyes of the carpenter's daughter as she stumbled across the frozen sod, gazing at the sky.

In that place, it was a paradise.

"Smell," said one of the Chowati, sniffing the air. "Spring comes behind the cold."

It put me in mind of Drucilla's warning, but even that could not dampen the exhilaration. All too soon, someone gave a sharp whistle— Uru-Azag, I daresay—and it filled us with urgent terror, setting off a scrambling race to return to the zenana. I made myself wait, going last. No one objected. For a moment, I feared that they would seal the boards and leave me—but no, there was Rushad on the inside, his eyes wide with fear as he extended a hand to help me through. Uru-Azag, his face oily with sweat, shoved the boards in place.

That evening, before the Mahrkagir's summons, Imriel came to my chamber.

He hovered inside the beaded doorway, uncertain and frowning in the light of my single oil lamp. I sat cross-legged on my bed, waiting. I lack Joscelin's gift with children, but this one, this child, I understood.

"Why did you say my mother sent you?" he asked.

"Because it is true," I replied. "She asked me to find you."

"No." Imriel shook his head, eyeing me suspiciously. "My mother is dead, and my father, too. They died of an ague aboard a Serenissiman ship and asked Brother Selbert to take care of me. I know, he told me so. Why would Brother Selbert lie? How do you know him?"

"Your father is dead, that much is true. But when you were eight," I said, ignoring his questions, "Brother Selbert took you to La Serenissima. And you met a lady there."

"No." A look of alarm crossed his face, and his mouth formed a hard line. "Never."

I remembered what he had been told; that the lady was his patron, and that she would be in grave danger if he revealed it. "It was partly true, Imriel, and the lie only to protect you. Brother Selbert believed his actions in accordance with the precept of Blessed Elua."

"Elua!" The word was an agonized curse in his mouth. "Elua is a lie!"

For that, I had no words; none that I could speak to this boy. Mayhap a priest or a priestess could have done, I do not know. I know none who have endured Daršanga. "She is your mother, Imriel," I said instead. "The Lady Melisande."

"Why?

One word; a single demand. It is the question children ask most, I am told. It was a question of immense proportion, coming from Imriel de la Courcel's lips, and most of what it encompassed, I could not answer. I do not know the will of the gods. If Blessed Elua had willed Imriel’s presence here, I could not say why. But Melisande Shahrizai, I knew, and it was to that I spoke. I had thought long and hard how I would answer this question without revealing the tale in all its horror. "Your mother did somewhat foolish, once, Imri," I said gently. "It is why she cannot leave La Serenissima, and it is why she has enemies. Because she loves you, she did not wish her enemies to become yours. And that is why she and Brother Selbert sought to protect you with a lie."

He looked away and I could see the shimmer in his twilight eyes, but his jaw clenched and no tears fell. I remembered the girl Beryl at the Sanctuary of Elua, composed beyond her years, speaking of Imri. He was afraid of anyone seeing him cry. My heart ached for the boy. "I don't believe you," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't believe you! Even if it were true, why would my mother send you?" His voice made his loathing plain. "Death's Whore!"

"Mayhap," I said, unflinching. "All the same, I found you."

And then Nariman came to summon me, and we spoke no more that evening.

It was a beginning.

FIFTY-ONE

the skotophagotis knew.I was not sure, not until the night he urged the Mahrkagir to share me among his men. If I have not made it clear, I may say so now; Gashtaham was clever. Sometimes the Mahrkagir listened to him, and sometimes he did not. The priest had a knack of knowing when he was able to exert his will over the ruler of Drujan, and plying it expertly.

It was at one such time that he convinced the Mahrkagir to share me.

I could not hear what he said, not all of it. The priest murmured low into his lord's ear. I caught a word here and there, enough to gather the gist of it. I had grown haughty, over-proud, confident in the Mahrkagir's favoritism; I ruled the zenana like a queen, threatening to invoke my lord's displeasure on any who opposed me.

It was a lie, of course. Nothing had changed in the zenana except that I was viewed by some with wary skepticism instead of outright despite. The spirit of conspiracy that had opened the garden had not died, but it had returned to dormancy, waiting. And I had no plan to reawaken it, nor yet to make use of it.

"No favorite, my lord, but has known herself fit prey at the Mahrkagir's whim for the wolves of Angra Mainyu," the priest said smoothly. "It would be duzhvarshta indeed to shatter this hollow arrogance."

Restless with drink and boredom, the Mahrkagir agreed, a mad gleam in his eyes. "Tonight!" he shouted, banging his cup on the table. "Let it be tonight, then!" Grabbing my wrist, he rose to his feet, bring ing me with him, holding my arm above my head as if to display a trophy. My lips formed a protest, but he was already addressing him. "This will be tonight's entertainment! Let the wolves of Angra Mainyu fight amongst themselves, and whosoever among you prevail shall have my lady Phèdre!"

They were on their feet, roaring, fierce, filthy warriors in piecemeal armor. It was all Drujani that night, no Tatars among them. I saw, for an instant, the dreadful shock register on Joscelin's face. "My lord, no," I whispered, even as the Mahrkagir dragged me by the wrist into the aisle between the tables, pushing me into a forming mêlée. "No."

After that, it was chaos. A Drujani warrior caught me in his arms, pulling me close and laughing; then another struck him hard atop the head with a dagger-hilt, and someone else grabbed me from behind. I don't know what happened to him. From the corner of my eye, I saw Joscelin borne down by a swarm of Drujani. One of them had leapt from the table atop his shoulders; he'd never even had a chance to draw his sword. I daresay he might have, that night. A pile of leather and steel and limbs writhed on the floor, giving evidence to his struggle. The others pressed close around me and I felt like Imriel, fighting with tooth and claw to keep them off as I was jostled and groped and snatched from one man by the next.

To no avail; a Drujani wielding a broadsword cleared a space around him and then flung down his blade, seizing me and bending me backward over a table, the heel of his hand under my chin. "Do it, Kishpa!" a voice behind him laughed. "We'll ward your back if you'll give us a turn!" The edge of the table pressed hard against my buttocks, and my neck was strained. Someone was holding my arms. Tears stung my eyes as he pressed himself between my thighs, fumbling at my skirts.

Then came shouting, and the sound of someone else waded into the fray. The pressure left my chin and my limbs were free. I straight ened to see Tahmuras in the thick of battle, his morningstar a spiked blur as he whipped it in deadly patterns with effortless skill. Men yelped and dove out of the way. One was already down, the side of his head crushed and bleeding. Behind Tahmuras stood the Mahrkagir, unarmed, calm amid the chaos, his mad eyes watching. No one laid a finger on him; no one would dare. There was Tahmuras, for one thing—and a few paces away, there was Gashtaham, stroking his staff of office, gathering darkness around him. None of them seemed to care in the least that Drujani were being maimed or killed.