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sheep and goats.
    We were not welcome there.
    I saw it, on the faces of the villagers as we rode past, travelling now on the old roads, crumbling and still passable, that had once formed part of the mighty empire of Persis. They stared at us with hatred, and I did not even know why. In one village-it had a name, I suppose, but Tizrav did not know it-a woman stood beside the road, clutching her listless child in her arms, and watched us with hungry eyes, despair and contempt in her sunken gaze.
    Too many fields lay fallow, dead and grey, naught of winter’s doing.
    Too many flocks struggled, slat-ribbed and gaunt, with staring coats.
    “What has happened here?” I asked Tizrav, my voice shaking. “How can a kingdom that makes Khebbel-im-Akkad itself tremble come to such an impasse?”
    The Persian shrugged. “You wished to come to Drujan, lady; the kingdom that died and lives. Behold, if you will, life-in-death.”
    I did not like it. Turn back , I thought; the words were on my lips, near to being spoken with every stride our mounts took. I did not utter it. I thought of that moment in Prince Sinaddan’s hall instead, the slow, dreadful withdrawal of Elua’s presence, and the emptiness that awaited. Farewell . And I gazed at their bitter, resentful faces, the starving Drujani, until my heart ached within me. They had not chosen this, I thought. What commoner ever does? Caught between the hammer of warfare and the anvil of survival, they endure; endure, and hate, seeing us ride of our own volition unto hell, on our well-fed horses with gold jangling at our bits, clad in silks and fur.
    There were no fires, either. Jahanadar, the Land of Fires, lay sullen and bleak.
    “Tell me of the faith of your forefathers,” I asked Tizrav one night as we made camp.
    He looked at me, his single eye like a cold ember. “My lady wishes to know?”
    “I do,” I said. “Truly, son of Tizmaht, I do.”
    He nodded, and swallowed, and looked away, then busied himself building up our campfire until it roared like a pyre, sending showers of sparks into the cold night air. “You see?” he asked quietly, watching the sparks ascend. “In fire there is light, warmth ... life. It is Truth. Ahura Mazda is all these things; Lord of Light, the Truth.” His mouth curved in a deprecating smile. “Good thoughts, good words, good deeds. It is the trifold way taught to me in secret by my father, and his father’s father before him. And the fire ... ah, the fire is proof, a living, burning flame set before us to purify the Lie.”
    In the heart of the fire, a pair of crossed branches crumbled, and the flames subsided.
    “So.” Tizrav’s mouth twisted. “Darkness returns. Even the great prophet Zoroaster did not deny it would hold sway on this earth.”
    “Still,” I said to him. “Morning will follow, and the dawn.”
    “Dawn, aye.” He fed the fire and did not look at me. “The Lion of the Sun, the face of Shamash. The Akkadians have stolen the light of day, and named it their own. And Ahura Mazda made no protest, but let his people die beneath their swords. Do you wonder that the Drujani have laid claim to the darkness?”
    “No,” I said. “No, son of Tizmaht, I do not.”
    Tizrav shrugged. “My father was a fool, and his father’s father before him. I place my faith in the only light that endures, yellow and unwinking: The bright sheen of gold.”
    To that, I had no words.

Forty-Two
    THE SKOTOPHAGOTI knew we were coming.
    That is not what they call themselves, to be sure, but it is the first name I knew, and the one that stays with me. After all, I have heard it in my dreams. We saw him at a distance, this one; he did not approach unseen. No, he came down the old royal road, the city of Daršanga rising behind him, its bulwarks and spires silhouetted against the wintry sea.
    He rode a wild ass without stirrups or bridle, his legs dangling, and it would have been comical if it was not terrifying. Sunlight from the east gleamed on his boar’s-skull helmet, and his staff of office lay athwart his ass’s withers. I saw that he wore a girdle, too; finger-bones. I had not noticed, in Iskandria, that the Skotophagoti wore such things, but I had never been so close to one, either.
    “You have come for the Mahrkagir.” He pointed with his staff, lazily, the wavering ball of jet taking in all three of us. It seemed to linger longest upon me. I was glad I wore the veil, and did not have to meet his eyes.
    “I have.”