I didn't bother to wake Rushad, only gave myself a cursory wash with tepid water from the morning's basin and crawled onto my pallet. There I lay, wakeful, listening to the sounds of others returning. It was not often I had that chance. I knew their steps—the Akkadians' heavier treads; Nazneen the Ephesian, who moved like a weary dancer; the swift, angry pace of Jolanta. I heard Imriel among them, too, his agility gone, his steps stumbling and leaden.
But alive, and walking. I lay down my head and slept.
And awakened to piercing screams.
The sound was indescribable, ear-splitting, deafening. If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed a mortal throat, a single boy, could utter such a sound—and I say that as one who endured the mourning wails of La Dolorosa for days on end. There was nothing of grief in this sound, only utter terror. It sent me bolt upright in bed, my heart racing like a distance-runner's, knowing be yond surety it was him.
In the zenana, women groaned, complained, uttered curses and or ders to be silent, covered their heads with cushions. Clad only in my shift, I make my way amid the couches.
"Nightmares," Drucilla said in Caerdicci, meeting me halfway. Her shawl was clutched about her, her eyes dull with sleep. "He had them in autumn, too. I have valerian."
"No," I said. "I'll go." After a moment, she nodded and stepped aside.
Shrill and endless, the screams echoed from the walls, until I had to grit my teeth against the sound. Only a few lamps were burning, and by the dim light, I saw Imriel curled into a thrashing ball, his hands fisted, eyes clenched tight, mouth stretched wide in a rictus of terror.
The cords in his throat stood out like cables as he screamed and screamed, never seeming to draw breath.
"Imriel," I whispered, speaking in D'Angeline, kneeling at his side, not daring to touch him for fear of what it might invoke in his dreams, "Imriel, I'm here, it's all right, I'm here."
His eyes flew open, and the sound stopped. He stared at me un comprehending, then drew in a long, ragged breath and burst into tears.
It was like a dam breaking. His arms came around my neck, chokingly tight, and I held him while he sobbed, raw and gasping, his entire body wracked with the force of it. Tears stood unheeded in my eyes as I murmured meaningless reassurances. His cheek was hard against mine, silky child's skin, sticky and hot with anguish, his shoulders heaving.
He was afraid of anyone seeing him cry.
I am not strong, but I am strong enough; he was only ten years old, and light with it. I picked him up in my arms and carried him to my chamber, the private chamber of the Mahrkagir's favorite, his arms wound tight about my neck, his grief echoing at my ear. And there I lay down with him on my pallet and he clung to me, Melisande's son, burying his face against my throat, still jerking with the force of his misery, soaking my shift with hot tears, until at last his sobbing subsided and his limbs grew still and he passed, grief spent, into the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion with a child's thoughtless ease, one hand still clutching my shift, the other knotted in my hair.
"Imriel," I whispered, kissing his brow. "Oh, Imriel!"
And I lay for a long time sleepless, aware of the unaccustomed weight, slight though it was, of a child at my side, of his clinging arms. I knew, that night, that my life had changed. I was not sure how, nor why. And since the gods gave no answer—not cruel Kushiel, nor Naamah, nor Blessed Elua himself—in time, I slept.
When I awoke, I knew myself watched.
He sat perched on the stool, heels hooked on the rung, elbows propped on knees, watching me sleep. It was passing strange to wake to that gaze, his mother's sapphire eyes, in a child's considering face.
"Did Elua send you here to die?" he asked me.
Only in the zenana of Daršanga would that question sound so nat ural.
"No," I said. "I don't think so." And I told him my plan.
He listened carefully, frowning, all traces of the nightmare-ridden child gone. I did not overstate our odds. Imriel had been in Daršanga too long to believe a pleasant fiction; longer than I. And besides, I would not consider it wise, at any time, to mince truths with Melisande's son—nor Ysandre's cousin. I saw it for the first time that day, the lineage of House Courcel in his features.
"Imriel." I took hold of his shoulders. "He is my consort. He won't touch you."
His face worked; he was trying to make sense of it. "He came here. . . ?"
"He came here with me," I said. "Because I asked it of him, and because he swore a vow, long ago, to Cassiel, to protect and serve me. To damnation and beyond, that is what he swore. And that is what I asked."
"A Cassiline," he echoed. "That's why he never smiles."
I nodded. It was close enough. "Will you tell him what I have told you? On the night of the vahmyâcam, he is to drink no wine, only water. A quarter of an hour after the Mahrkagir retires with me, he is to go to the upper entrance to the zenana, and dispose of the guards. If he can procure other weapons, it is all to the good. If not ..." I shrugged. "We will do what we can."
"I will tell him," Imriel said. He hunched his shoulders and looked at me. "Do you think we will live?"
"I don't know," I said steadily. "But we will try."
At that, he came off his stool, flinging his arms about my neck and burying his face in my hair. "I am glad," he said in a muffled voice, "that you came here."
"So am I, Imriel," I said to him, meaning it. "So am I."
FIFTY-FOUR
ON THE third day before the vahmyâcam, the Mahrkagir knew.I did not need to be told. I saw it, the instant I entered the festal hall. His eyes, always bright, glowed like black suns. He was overjoyed. He was transcendent with it. His hands, when they took mine, were trembling; ice-cold and trembling.
"Ishta," he murmured, embracing me. "Ishta, beloved!" He took a step back and gave a radiant smile. "I knew, I knew from the first! I knew that you were special. Such a gift, îshta, such a gift you have given me. I sought, and knew not what I sought. I did not know it had a name, until Daeva Gashtaham told me."
I smiled back, my hands in his. "Everything I have is yours, my lord; everything I am. Of what do you speak?"
He laughed, buoyant and joyous. "Not everything, not yet! Oh, but I cannot tell you. It is a surprise, the greatest surprise." Embracing me again, he nuzzled my neck. These things, these tender niceties, I had taught him. "You will live forever, îshta, through me; for ten thousand years! It is the greatest surprise, I promise."
And so I smiled and smiled and pretended I could not wait for the great surprise, and the ka-Magi smiled too, Gashtaham most of all, smiling at my innocent pleasure. It was the single greatest performance of my life. Even Joscelin smiled, cool and amused, his arm about Imriel’s waist while Jagun the Kereyit gnashed his teeth in fury. Imriel played his part to perfection, resentful and withdrawn, pulling away at every opportunity.
In the Mahrkagir's bedchamber . . . Elua.
Some things are better left unsaid.
If there was anything to offset the horror of it, it was seeing the life return to Imriel's features after the first night he was sent to Joscelin, the spark of defiance rekindled in his eyes. "Even the Drujani are afraid of him," he said, gloating. "No one will touch me while the Mahrkagir has given me to him! And he says he will not let them, ever."
"Did you tell him our plan?" I asked.
Imriel nodded, both feet hooked about the rungs of the stool. "He says you are as mad as the Mahrkagir, and we are all like to die."
I hadn't expected anything different. "Will he do it?"
"Yes."
And so our plan progressed. The palace of Daršanga boiled with activity. A dais was constructed in the festal hall, to the rear of the covered well where once the eternal flame of Ahura Mazda had burned. There were a good many new faces; ka-Magi, their acolytes and ap prentices, and bewildered others—parents, siblings, loved ones, the un witting victims of the vahmyâcam-to-be. Negotiations continued, too, with the Tatar tribesmen, with a handful of fierce Circassians who arrived unannounced.
The Mahrkagir could scarce contain his glee. If all went as planned, he told me, Drujan would march on Nineveh within the month. And when Nineveh fell . . . they would sweep south between the rivers, and city by city, Khebbel-im-Akkad would be theirs, as it had been in days of old.
"It is a beginning, îshta," he told me. "Only a beginning!" His black eyes shone. "From thence . . . where to go? The ka-Magi have travelled, these nine years—to Hellas, to Menekhet, to Ephesus, even Caerdicca Unitas! No one can stand against us. And Terre d'Ange . . ." He caressed me, smiling. "Terre d'Ange, I think, will be the greatest prize of all. I have heard stories of your land. It is for this I had the ka-Magi seek out one of your kind, one without peer, that your gods might know of me and tremble, that I might plant the seeds of death among them, and Angra Mainyu would be mightily pleased." He laughed, soft and delighted. "They brought me the boy, and I served notice upon his flesh at the end of a lash! I marked him well, beloved. And they heard me, îshta, your gods heard me and knew fear. I thought he would serve at the end—but I was wrong, îshta; so wrong. This is more glorious than I could have imagined. Still, it was well that I waited, for his pain carried the message." He smiled at me. "You heard it, didn't you?"
I thought of my dreams, of Imriel kneeling in the Skotophagotis shadow, if we failed, it would be no more than the truth. I could only pray, for all our sakes, that our desperate gamble succeeded. "Yes, my lord," I said softly. "Oh, yes. I heard it."
"As did your gods." He laughed again, caressing my cheek with cold, cold fingers. "And the gods of Terre d'Ange have already given their answer, have they not?"
"Yes, my lord," I said, shivering. "Truly, they have."