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remembers nothing of love, only death ... How fearful he would be if he held that power !
I remembered Rushad’s words and Gashtaham’s smile, and the Mahrkagir of Drujan caressed my quivering flesh, stamping it his, his own, every fiber of my Dart-stricken being answering to his icy touch, and I gazed into his black, black eyes, gleaming with madness and pride, and cursed the inevitable return of that flicker of consciousness within my skull, Delaunay-trained, proclaiming the awareness of self .
Because, knowing it, I could not fail to recognize the answering stir within the Mahrkagir himself; the tender line of his mouth, the lambency of his gaze, all announcing as loud as trumpets the dawning of that which he had never known, of that sacred mystery which is the province of Blessed Elua himself.
Love.
The only mercy was that he had no idea. I realized it the night he sought to scar my face, drawing the point of a rusty awl along my cheekbone. “Ishtâ,” he whispered, watching me shudder and force myself to stillness. The point of the awl crawled over my skin. “Such beauty! It would be duzhvarshta indeed to despoil it.”
Ill deeds. I closed my eyes, unable to bear it. Hot, stinging tears seeped from under my lids. I felt the awl, tear-moistened, tracing rusty patterns on my face, the tip prodding my cheek. Elua! Must I lose this, too?
When the awl clattered into the corner, I wasn’t sure what had transpired. I opened my eyes to see his face, the wide black eyes bright with wonder. “I could not do it!” he said, gazing at his empty hands. A laugh burst from him, loose and free. “Do you know, ishtâ, I could not do it! How strange.”
At that, I flung both arms about his neck and kissed him, all over his face.
In some ways, those were the worst times of all.
In the zenana , when I had nothing else to do, I would have my carpet moved so I could sit near the couches of the Jebeans and listen to their conversation, quietly shaping their words to myself. Kaneka and the others watched me with irritation, but dared not interfere. Imriel, as ever, lingered at a distance. I dreaded the day that the Mahrkagir would summon him to the festal hall. There had been a time in autumn, Drucilla had told me, when Imriel was a regular favorite; the Mahrkagir had kept him close by his side, and allowed no one else to touch him.
“Did he ...” I had closed my eyes, “... have him?”
Drucilla was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said at length. “I don’t think so. But he wouldn’t let me examine him, after. He might, now. But one day Gashtaham, the priest, came to the zenana . He spoke to Nariman. Since then, Imri has not been summoned.”
“Do you know why?” I asked.
She shook her head. “The Mahrkagir was saving him for something ... special. He was waiting for spring. Since you have come ... Phèdre, I am uncertain. He has never favored anyone as he does you.”
“I know,” I murmured. “Elua help me, I know.”
There was pity in her gaze. It will not spare him, you know.” She told me, then, of Jagun; a warlord of the Kereyit Tatars, the fiercest of the lot, and like to return with the spring thaws, when the Mahrkagir’s plans for conquest would be laid. And Jagun had a fondness for boys, especially Imriel, whom he had coveted with fierce desire. “He made an offer,” she told me with reluctance. “The Mahrkagir refused, but-”
A boy of surpassing beauty, worth, mayhap, the allegiance of an entire Tatar tribe.
“Now he may be saving him for Jagun?” I had asked.
Drucilla had hesitated, then nodded. “I think so, yes. If you had not come ... well, it may have been different. For a while, when he was summoned often, I thought Imri wished to die. Now ...” Her mouth twisted. “Now he lives, filled with defiance. It will make the destruction of his hopes all the sweeter. The Mahrkagir,” she had added, glancing at the Skaldi lad, “enjoys that. You would do well to remember it.”
As if I were in danger of forgetting.
I knelt on my carpet, remembering what she had said, letting the distant Jebean words flow over me as I echoed them to myself, feeling sick at heart. Ah, Elua! It brought me hope to hear that Imriel might not have suffered what I had at the Mahrkagir’s hands-but what a bitter jest that would be, if I had usurped his place only to condemn him to life as a Tatar’s catamite. Spring. What season was it? Winter, still, I thought; I could not be sure.
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