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reins in one hand, whooping, lashing the Magi with crops when they slowed.
    “Ah, Arshaka.” Gashtaham smiled, shaking his head, watching the eldest of the Magi scramble, tripping over his own beard. “Old man,” he said, caressing the length of his jet-headed staff, “you should have had the courage to die.”
    Almost as if he had heard, the ancient Magus lifted up his head, gazing at Gashtaham. The priest continued to smile and stroke his staff, dark shadows pooling in the eye-sockets of his boar’s-skull helm. Something in the Magus’ gaze blazed, then quailed; lowering his head, he scurried forward, unsuccessfully seeking to avoid a soldier’s boot planted between his scrawny buttocks. To my right, the Mahrkagir laughed, clapping.
    “The Magus fears you, Daeva Gashtaham,” I said in a low voice.
    “Should he not?” The priest bent his smile upon me. It held no madness, only the promise of vile things wriggling in the darkness. “He was a wise man, once, the Chief Magus.”
    “And wise men fear.” I held his gaze, quelling the urge to shrink away from it. “In Menekhet, they name you Eaters-of-Darkness; they believe they will die before sundown, if your shadow touches their flesh.”
    “You have borne its touch,” Gashtaham said, “and lived. Do you believe?”
    “I do not know,” I said honestly. “In Daršanga, they say only that the Âka-Magi hold power over life and death. I do not know if it is true, Daeva Gashtaham.”
    “Ah.” He nodded. “Then you shall see, since you asked it.” Rising to his feet, he extended his staff, pointing across the tables, pointing to the open space beyond, directly at the second chariot-Magus as he crawled frantically across the flagstones of the desecrated temple, the rope bit between his teeth. I saw the Magus stiffen, rising to his knees, the rope falling as his mouth gaped wide, both age-spotted hands clutching at his robe over his heart. The soldier behind him cursed and whipped him about the head and shoulders.
    ’Twas to no avail; a deep tremor shook him, and his eyes glazed. His body crumpled sideways, making little sound as it fell.
    “Death,” Daeva Gashtaham mused, taking his seat, ignoring my horror-stricken expression and the rumbles of annoyance from the Drujani audience deprived of its amusement. “It is a constant presence among us, do you not think, Phèdre nó Delaunay? Every instant, waking or sleeping, we are but one step away from it, holding it at bay with each breath we take. You may have ...” he reached out with one long finger to touch my breastbone, “... such a flaw in your heart, waiting to burst. Or perhaps you might trip upon your skirts ...” he twitched the folds of my gown almost coyly, “... and fall upon the stairs, splitting open your skull. It may be a disease, yes; a pox, an ague, a wasting sickness. In the zenana , a woman coughs; is there death in her sputum? It may be so. Perhaps your horse will stumble, and drag you; perhaps a raft will overturn, and you will be swept away in the torrents. Or perhaps ...” he smiled, and caressed my cheek, “it lies within.”
    I shuddered to the bone, and hid it. “You have made an ally of Death.”
    “I have.” Gashtaham looked at me with something like regret. “‘Tis a pity you are a woman. If my apprentices were half so clever, I would be pleased. Still, you may serve your purpose.”
    What that was, I did not ask.
    I was afraid I already knew.

Forty-Nine
    I HAVE not spoken of the desire, nor how long I resisted it.
    Mayhap it is that such a thing need not be said. At times, I kept it at bay; for long hours, sometimes. In the zenana , I relied upon my wits, constantly observing, gauging the ebb and flow of hatred, the secret alliances, the undercurrents of despair. Where the dim spark of defiance sputtered and refused to die, I took note, finding it in Drucilla’s endless physician’s rounds, in the bitter survival of the Akkadian warrior-eunuchs, in Kaneka’s impromptu court of superstition. I found it in the dignity of the fasting Bhodistani, until they died; I found it too in individual women, here and there, especially the fierce Chowati. I found it in Erich the Skaldi’s single gesture, and the fact that he had not yet abandoned life.
    Most of all, I found it in Imriel de la Courcel, who was at odds with everyone and everything, and who continued to skulk at the edges of my existence.
    I had a carpet set outside the door to my chamber, and there I