'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, wak ing 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 po sition. "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 sound lessly. 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 Ma gus, 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 de struction.

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 after math 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 my self 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?

When the awl clattered into the corner, I wasn't sure what had transpired. I opened my eyes to see his face, the wide black eyes bright with wonder. "I could not do it!" he said, gazing at his empty hands. A laugh burst from him, loose and free. "Do you know, ishtâ, I could not do it! How strange."

At that, I flung both arms about his neck and kissed him, all over his face.

In some ways, those were the worst times of all.

In the zenana, when I had nothing else to do, I would have my carpet moved so I could sit near the couches of the Jebeans and listen to their conversation, quietly shaping their words to myself. Kaneka and the others watched me with irritation, but dared not interfere. Imriel, as ever, lingered at a distance. I dreaded the day that the Mahrkagir would summon him to the festal hall. There had been a time in autumn, Drucilla had told me, when Imriel was a regular favorite; the Mahrkagir had kept him close by his side, and allowed no one else to touch him.

"Did he ..." I had closed my eyes, ". . . have him?"

Drucilla was silent for a moment. "I don't know," she said at length. "I don't think so. But he wouldn't let me examine him, after. He might, now. But one day Gashtaham, the priest, came to the zenana. He spoke to Nariman. Since then, Imri has not been summoned."

"Do you know why?" I asked.

She shook her head. "The Mahrkagir was saving him for something . . . special. He was waiting for spring. Since you have come . . . Phèdre, I am uncertain. He has never favored anyone as he does you."

"I know," I murmured. "Elua help me, I know."

A boy of surpassing beauty, worth, mayhap, the allegiance of an entire Tatar tribe.

"Now he may be saving him for Jagun?" I had asked.

Drucilla had hesitated, then nodded. "I think so, yes. If you had not come . . . well, it may have been different. For a while, when he was summoned often, I thought Imri wished to die. Now ..." Her mouth twisted. "Now he lives, filled with defiance. It will make the destruction of his hopes all the sweeter. The Mahrkagir," she had added, glancing at the Skaldi lad, "enjoys that. You would do well to remember it."