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dedication to Angra Mainyu: to destroy that which is pure and good. To kill what one loves the most.” He looked nervously from side to side, confiding, “He ate his father’s heart. And he wears his finger-bones at his waist.”
    “I have seen it.” I remembered, sickened. “And thus he gained power?”
    “Yes,” Rushad said, still whispering. “All of them. They called upon Death, and Death answered. Daeva Vahumisa ate his brother’s heart, and Daeva Dâdarshi, his wife’s ... oh, there are many. And the people ... the people were angry, because Ahura Mazda had not protected them. When they saw that the Âka-Magi held power, they followed. And there was a, a mighty rebellion. The Âka-Magi raised up the Mahrkagir, and the people followed. First...” he swallowed, “... first, they overthrew the temples. And then riders went out, all across the land, riders went out to the borders, the fortresses, quenching the fires ...”
    “They took the borders,” I said. “And slew the garrison at Daršanga.”
    Rushad nodded, relieved at not having to explain it. “He laughed,” he said. “The Mahrkagir laughed as he fought, spattered with blood from head to toe. No one touched him. The Âka-Magi would not let them, and Tahmuras protected him, Tahmuras and his morningstar. And shadows fled squealing along the walls, and Akkadians fought among themselves, and my lord Zaggisi-Sin died, choking on his own tongue, that someone cut off and shoved in his throat. And in the zenana ...” He fell silent, looking at the wall. “They let me live because I was Persian. Sometimes I am sorry they did. I know ... I know what happened thirty years ago, when General Chus-sar-Usar defeated Hoshdar Ahzad’s forces. I have heard the stories, although I was not born, then. My lord ... my lord was not like that. And his lady wife ...” Rushad shook his head. “Well,” he said. “They are dead, now. And the Mahrkagir rules. Soon,” he added, “I think he will rule more than Drujan.”
    I thought about it, frowning. “Who rules whom, Rushad? Does the Mahrkagir rule the Âka-Magi, or is it the other way around?”
    “Truly?” He shrugged, hugging his knees, sitting on my carpeted floor. “Lady ... who is to say? The people ...” He gave his nervous glance. “The people fear the Âka-Magi, and the soldiers follow the Mahrkagir. Both need the other. Who rules who? I cannot say.”
    “So the Mahrkagir does not possess the power of an Âka-Magus,” I said.
    “No,” Rushad said simply. “He cannot, because he cannot make the vahmyâcam, the offering. The Mahrkagir remembers nothing of love, only death. Though he seeks, he has nothing pure to offer upon the altar. Nothing that is his . Daeva Gashtaham ... Daeva Gashtaham says he is the doorway. The will of Angra Mainyu flows through him, to be made manifest in the Âka-Magi.” Still holding his knees, he shuddered. “How fearful he would be if he held that power!”
    Truly, I thought; fearful indeed.
    And I remembered how the priest Gashtaham had smiled, like a cat licking cream.
    It made my blood run cold to think on it.
    Because my lord Delaunay trained me to seek answers, because he raised me to believe all knowledge, no matter what the cost, is worth having, I pursued the matter. It was not hard to do. In the festal hall, Daeva Gashtaham was ever at hand, the resident Âka-Magus of Darsanga, spreading his invisible cloak of protection over the Mahrkagir. In truth, he sought me out, hovering at my shoulder like a blowfly over a corpse. I do not know why. That it was part of his greater plan-yes, that I was coming to understand. But there was an attraction that ran deeper. It may be only that it pleased him to see me flinch when his shadow fell over my flesh.
    Or it may have been something deeper, something the Drujani priest himself did not understand. I cannot say. It is a question for the theologians to settle, for I do not like to think on it. Nonetheless, I made myself speak to him.
    The priest was sitting at my left side on the night that I chose, watching that evening’s entertainment: an impromptu “chariot” race staged by a pair of the rowdier young soldiers, using the Magi-the true Magi, priests of Ahura Mazda-as horses. It was painful to watch, the elderly men scrambling undignified on hands and knees, lengths of rope between their teeth, filthy robes hiked up to reveal spindly, aging shanks. The soldiers trotted behind them, holding the ropes like