Kushiel's Avatar

shifted on the bed, experimenting. The liniment was doing its work. The sting was fading, and the pain with it. A few hours of sleep had done the rest. I was Kushiel’s Chosen. I would heal, whether I liked it or not. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t even know himself. I have to try.”
    “You know there is nothing I can do to aid you.” Drucilla held out both hands before her, worn and maimed, the tissue pink and scarred on the stumps of her fourth and fifth fingers. “This is all I have; this, and some Tatar horse-liniment.”
    “You have Imriel’s ear,” I said. “Convince him, if you can, to hear me. And you can look at me as if I am not something one finds on the bottom of one’s shoe.”
    Drucilla nodded doubtfully, unconvinced of either skill. “What of the D’Angeline lordling?” she asked, standing to go. “The one who swore his sword to his lordship’s service?”
    There were limits to my trust. I was willing to risk my life. Not Joscelin’s. I shook my head, letting a touch of frost into my voice. “His business is his own.”
    So passed my first day as the Mahrkagir’s favorite.
    That night, he sent for me again. I went, of course; I had no choice in the matter. My companions were different ones. The Menekhetan boy had died-of internal injuries, Drucilla thought. A chirurgeon might have saved him, though perhaps not.
    It was different, this time. Word spread quickly in Daršanga, and anyway, they knew. Like the women of the zenana , they had seen it last night. I was different. I was Death’s Whore. The Drujani greeted me with obscene cheers. The kneeling Magi lifted up their faces as I passed to stare at me with horror and disgust. The priest Gashtaham smiled to himself like a cat licking cream. The Mahrkagir ... he was smiling, too, his manic smile, one hand extended as I went to him, black eyes gleaming. I took my place at his side.
    How many nights did I sit there beside him, at the head table in the festal hall? I cannot say. I could not bear to count them. In truth, I am not certain which was worse, the bedchamber or the festal hall. What passed between us in private was horrible. I came to know, in that cold chamber, the lowest depths to which I was capable of sinking, the worst depravities. And the more I became the thing I despised the most, the more I craved them, the more I yearned for punishment and humiliation. It is not a place I willingly visit in my memories.
    But the hall ... the hall had Joscelin.
    And that was harder to bear.
    I had to see him, his beloved face as impassive as stone and twice as hard, and know that he was watching it all, hearing it all. I couldn’t fail to see him in that dark, sullen hall, his fair hair gleaming, the proud, austere lines of his face, as splendid as distant mountains. And I knew, with every breath I drew, that he was living in hell.
    He held his own among them, Joscelin did, although they tried him. A Tatar tribesman tried it that second night-ferocious, drunk on kumis and dangerous with it. I didn’t see how it began, only heard the roar of approval when the fight was engaged. They cleared a space amid the tables, and the wagers went fast and furious. The Mahrkagir watched it with unalloyed pleasure, one hand on his wine-cup, one hand on me, eager as a boy for the spectacle. I watched it with my heart in my throat, digging my nails into my palms, my face expressionless.
    The Tatar bristled with weapons, clad in furs and plated leather. In one hand he held a short spear, and the other a sword. Stamping his feet, he roared out a challenge in an unintelligible tongue. I never did learn to speak Tatar, or the myriad dialects of it. Joscelin merely bowed, crossed vambraces visible beneath the sleeves of his sheepskin coat. The hilt of his sword rode over his shoulder, untouched. He held his daggers instead.
    “Will he win, do you think?” the Mahrkagir asked me.
    “Yes, my lord.” I kept my voice dull. “He will win.”
    The Tatar moved, feigning a drunken stagger. On crouched legs, Joscelin slid to his left, daggers held low. With near-sober aplomb, the Tatar cocked his spear and threw it, hard, at point-blank range.
    Joscelin’s daggers swept up, crossing, catching the spear in mid-flight, honed edges biting into the wooden shaft, its point mere inches from his face. The Drujani roared, loving it. When all was said and done, Joscelin Verreuil had never lacked a flair for the dramatic. I bit my lip to hold back the tears,