Kushiel's Avatar

terrified of revealing how much I loved him.
    After that, it was a foregone conclusion.
    A leopard among wolves, Drucilla had called him; I saw it, during that fight. With daggers against a sword, vambraces against armor, Joscelin toyed with his Tatar opponent, moving with grace through the elaborate Cassiline forms. After all, it was his strength-it is what they train for, this close-quarters combat.
    And he smiled as he fought, a deadly smile. It is the only time I saw him smile in Daršanga. I do not know how many times he cut his opponent, glancing blows, pricking his thighs, slipping through gaps in his rough armor. Many. Enough that the Tatar began to stumble for pain and loss of blood, swinging his sword with comic ineptness.
    It was cruel. The Drujani pounded their cups and shouted with approval; the Tatars merely grumbled. And Joscelin smiled up to the moment he slit his opponent’s throat with crossed daggers, opening bloody gills on either side of his neck. The Tatar gaped like a fish, his mouth opening and closing, dropping his sword, dropping to his knees, hands rising in vain. The Mahrkagir was laughing, flushed, boyish and happy.
    I had not thought, until then, what Joscelin would have to do to survive in that place, nor what it would cost him.
    With studied care, he wiped his blood-stained daggers on the Tatar’s furs, then turned to the Mahrkagir and gave his Cassiline bow, restored to impassivity. “Shahryar. This man doubted the skill of the wolves of Angra Mainyu.” His Persian, I thought, had become good; quite passable. He had learned more than I guessed, listening to Tizrav’s lessons on the road to Daršanga. Blessed Elua only knew what he had learned since.
    “Do you hear that?” The Mahrkagir rose, a hectic gleam in his eyes, lifting his cup. “It is folly to delay, my friends! Angra Mainyu prevails, and his time is coming. Once the Tatar agree-Kereyit, Kirghiz, Uighur, all the tribes-and Daeva Gashtaham and the other Âka-Magi decree it is time, the forces of Drujan will sweep across the land and armies fall and the priests of foreign gods will quail before us! Is it not so? Already, there is tribute sent. Jossalin Veruy,” he announced with a magnanimous gesture, “Bringer of Omens, I give you pick of any woman in the zenana ! If none here pleases you, go choose another.” I heard my breath hiss between my teeth.
    Joscelin stood unmoving. His gaze rested on me. “Shahryar Mahrkagir, I have given the only woman worth having to you,” he said in a flat voice. “After her, there is no other.”
    “Bring him a boy, then,” the Mahrkagir said, laughing, to Tahmuras. “What do you say? Shall we give him the D’Angeline boy, whose suffering caught the ear of his fearful gods? Why not, now? Perhaps it is a fitting step on the three-fold path!”
    Behind him, Daeva Gashtaham stirred. “Shahryar,” he murmured in warning.
    What it meant, I could not say; I was caught in Joscelin’s gaze, unable to look away. For an instant, a brief instant, I saw something human surface in his eyes. Does he know? it asked me. Does Imriel know? I gave my head an infinitesimal shake in reply. If I could, I would have told him to say yes, to accept the offer, to tell Imriel who we were, why we had come. But all I could do was answer the one silent question asked.
    “Shahryar.” Joscelin interrupted with a bow. “I desire nothing.” The Mahrkagir shrugged, already forgetting the impulse. “So be it. See, Gashtaham?” he added to the priest. “All is well.”
    I exhaled a breath it seemed I’d been holding for ages, and the evening’s amusements continued. I could have wept at the lost opportunity, at the brief glimpse of my beloved in the stranger’s face Joscelin wore. I didn’t. I sat at the Mahrkagir’s side and watched the unholy license my presence had unleashed. His decree of last night held; the women of the zenana were fair game. The men took them, right there in the hall, as shameless as dogs. There was a line forming behind the prettiest. No wonder, I thought, they despised me so. After a time, we retired to his bedchamber.
    My heart beat too fast, and there did not seem to be enough air in the cold, dark room. I knew, this time, what it was; I knew what to fear. It would be worse, this time, my flesh already torn and bruised. I could not help but look for it, sending fearful glances toward the cupboard. The Mahrkagir watched me, smiling.
    “This is what you fear, ishtâ,”