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words, ill deeds; the three-fold path of Angra Mainyu.”
    “Go away, Gashtaham.” The Mahrkagir spoke for the first time; his fingers caressed my neck. He smiled at his priest. “You brought her to me, now she is mine, and she does not need your counsel.” He turned his smile on me and I stared at him, helpless. “She has ill thoughts already. I hear them, licking at mine, begging. Is it not so?” he added, asking me.
    Hypnotized by my twin reflections in the black moons of his eyes, I whispered, “Yes.”
    “You are the first.” He watched the priest take his leave with a displeased bow. “I have sent my priests, the Âka-Magi of Angra Mainyu, abroad, far abroad, to see if any god dare stand against them. In mighty Khebbel-im-Akkad, in Menekhet, in Ephesus, even in Hellas, their servants quail with fear, and my zenana grows. The lords of Ch’in and Bodhistan send careless gifts, thinking I may one day prove an ally. They do not understand I am planting the seeds of death in my zenana . But you, ah!” The Mahrkagir took my chin in one hand, studying my face, his dilated gaze lingering on my moted left eye. “You,” he said, caressing my cheek, “are different. I feel it, I feel how the blood leaps in your veins to follow my touch.” His hand trailed down my throat, cupping one breast. “Duzhvarshta,” he murmured, pinching my erect nipple as hard as he could, fingers cold even through my gown. “Ill deeds.”
    A bolt of pain shot through me and I stifled a moan.
    “Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.” He smiled tenderly at me, maintaining a pincer-like grip. The pain was like a red-hot wire; my hips moved, thrusting involuntarily. “You crave these things. I know. I knew it when you knelt before me. Phè-dre.” My name was drawn out on his lips, and I whimpered in reply, my breathing shallow. “Your gods have chosen you for defilement. Is it not so?”
    I closed my eyes. “Yes.”
    The Mahrkagir released me, and the sudden absence of pain was a loss. “For a long time, I sought one of your kind. Now, the gods of Terre d’Ange tremble with fear and send tribute to the altar of Angra Mainyu!” he breathed. I opened my eyes to see his face flushed and exalted. “Soft and weak, they may be, but gods nonetheless!” He laughed, then, free and boyish. “You are the first to be summoned,” he said, caressing me lovingly. “The first.”
    Unruly as the hall may have been, it heeded its master. At some point, they had fallen silent and begun to watch what transpired between us. They could not hear what was said, but they had seen-seen what he did to me, seen my response. The men looked vaguely awed; the women had expressions of scarce-veiled contempt.
    And Joscelin ...
    Joscelin.
    In all the years we had been together, as consort and mistress, as lovers, as courtesan and Cassiline, he had never seen me with a patron-not truly, not as the anguissette I am.
    He had now.
    We stared at each other unblinking. It was Joscelin who looked away.
    “Enjoy, my lords.” The Mahrkagir rose to his feet, tugging me after him. With his free hand, he made a sweeping gesture, his black eyes wide and wild. “Tonight, what is mine is yours! Angra Mainyu has given me a sign. Let your deeds gladden his heart!”
    And with that, he led me away.

Forty-Six
    I DO not like to speak of this night, nor of the many that followed.
    I had thought, before Drujan, that I knew somewhat of the darkness of the mortal heart, mine own included. I was wrong. I knew nothing.
    The Mahrkagir’s quarters were cold and barren, like the rest of Daršanga, the walls stripped of adornment, booty piled in careless piles on the floor. His faithful guard Tahmuras escorted us there, taking up a post in the hallway when the doors were barred. I shivered in my gown-the saffron riding-attire that Favrielle nó Eglantine had made for me, in light wool for the Jebean heat-and looked about me.
    Dirt and debris were mounded in the corners, and there were stains on the uncarpeted stone floor of the bedchamber. There was a flagellary ... I suppose one would call it a flagellary. In Terre d’Ange, the implements of pleasure, violent or otherwise, are lovingly tended. Whips are cleaned and oiled, shackles polished, the mechanisms of stocks and barrels and wheels exquisitely maintained. Aides d’amour are kept in velvet-lined cases. Even Melisande ... I remembered her flechettes, immaculate and gleaming, honed to a razor-blue edge.
    Not here.
    I