Kushiel's Avatar

on hands and knees, ropes around their necks, their faces a study in despair. They were Magi. I knew, I had seen them in the city.
    This had been a fire-temple, once; the private temple of the princes of Daršanga.
    Now it was the festal hall of the Mahrkagir.
    Long, wooden tables had been set within the temple, and they were lined with men; Drujani, mostly, and some others with hard faces and slanted eyes whom I took to be Tatars, their expressions guarded and watchful. Starveling dogs scavenged beneath them for the remnants of the evening meal.
    “My lords!” one of our guards cried in Persian, hoisting his torch. “I bring you tonight’s offering, from the zenana of the Shahryar Mahrkagir!”
    Someone shoved me hard, from behind; I stumbled forward, tripping on my gown and falling heavily to my knees. The men shouted and beat their cups on the tables, the sound dinning against my ears like the beating of distant wings; no dove’s, these, but Kushiel’s.
    At the end of the aisle, in the darkness, a figure stepped forward.
    I lifted up my head and met his eyes.
    Fine pinpricks of light illuminated the silver embroidery that chased his black surcoat, and he was smiling, smiling as he extended his hand. His eyes, fixed on mine, were lustrous and black, utterly black, utterly mad. My blood ran ice-cold in my veins, heat blazing between my thighs. I pressed my brow to the cold stones, then rose. His smile beckoned me homeward. I took one step, then another, my legs belonging to someone else. Home. I put my hand in his; his fingers closed over it, cold and dry. A strange rill of energy surged between us. I tasted fear and desire, his mad smile, and lost myself in his dilated eyes.
    Home.
    In a dreadful parody of courtesy, the Mahrkagir escorted me to his table, seating me beside him. I sat facing the dim-lit hall, the savage, cheering men. Already the women who had accompanied me were circulating among them-ostensibly, to refill their cups with beer or wine or rankly pungent kumis, the fermented mare’s milk favored by the Tatars. In truth, they were entertainment, there to be groped and fondled by any man bold enough to dare. One unruly group had the little Menekhetan boy atop their table, performing agonized back-bends and somersaults amid a gauntlet of naked blades; he had trained as an acrobat, once.
    I sat and watched it in a state of shock, unmoving. The Mahrkagir smiled, one hand at the nape of my neck, and the icy touch of his fingers against my flesh held me riveted. I could feel my heart beating like a drum within my breast, my pulse beating between my thighs. Blessed Elua, what have you done to me ? The Menekhetan boy whimpered, his limbs trembling as he sought to hold his pose. The Drujani laughed, two of them tossing daggers back and forth under his arched back. Elsewhere, one of the men moved his cup teasingly as an Ephesian woman sought to pour, forcing her to lean further and further over him; he bit her, then, on the upper curve of her breast, hard enough to leave the impress of his teeth. She cried out and dropped the pitcher. When it shattered, the Drujani laughed uproariously and pushed her to her knees, forcing her to lap the spilled beer with her tongue.
    My gorge rose until I thought I might vomit, but the awful pulse of desire did not abate.
    And there, a mere table away, sat Joscelin, surrounded by companionable Drujani. I do not know how he endured it. Even when he looked me full in the eyes, his face was absolutely expressionless. I have seen dead men who showed more emotion.
    And I, who sat throbbing under the Mahrkagir’s touch, did not blame him for it.
    An unearthly howl split the air, and a blazing trail of sparks; someone had tied a firebrand to a dog’s tail. I raised one hand to my mouth, smothering an outcry as the poor beast raced around the hall, sparks igniting its fur.
    “Dogs,” a smooth voice said at my shoulder, “are sacred to the followers of Ahura Mazda, because they are loyal and do not lie.”
    I looked up to see the Skotophagotis , repressing a shudder as I realized his torch-cast shadow fell over me. “Daeva Gashtaham,” I said, remembering what the Mahrkagir had called him.
    The priest inclined his head, light gleaming redly from the polished boar’s-skull helm. “You have a keen memory.” He watched as the burning cur went into throes of agony. The noise was horrible. “Duzhmata,” he said in an idle tone, “duzhûshta, duzhvarshta. Ill thoughts, ill