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his waist. He had killed his own father and eaten his heart, and there was no annoyance at the Mahrkagir’s rebuke in his expression, only the guarded satisfaction of a man who has confirmed a long-held theory. It made my skin crawl to see it, so I looked away. At the far end of the opposite bench, Tahmuras was wiping blood and bits of hair and flesh from his spiked mace. He gave me a long, measuring gaze, and there was hatred in his eyes.
    He knew, too.
    And he did not welcome the news.
    That night, the Mahrkagir was zealous in his attentions and there was something new in his manner, heated and triumphant. With his hands and teeth, he tore at my flesh, leaving his mark on my skin. It was a conquest, not only of me, but of all others who sought to possess me, and his victory was in my yielding. I knew it well, for many of my patrons have been possessive. Whether he knew to name it or not-and I do not think he did-the Mahrkagir of Drujan had discovered the hot pleasures of jealousy that night.
    It was what Gashtaham had sought to confirm.
    Afterward, in the zenana , I asked Rushad how the vahmyâcam was made.
    “As for that, lady, I cannot say. Only that the Âka-Magus-in-training makes a dedication of his offering, and they are linked in the sight of Angra Mainyu. After ...” He hesitated. “It is done alone, in darkness. I have heard it must be done with bare hands, or with an iron knife. And I have heard the victim must be throttled with the girdle of a living Magus. I do not know.”
    “But the others, the other Âka-Magi, are not present?”
    “For the dedication. For the offering ...” He shook his head. “No. The pact is made alone. No aid may be given, no support. Only death and darkness.”
    I nodded. “Thank you, Rushad.”
    Outside Daršanga, spring was coming to Drujan. It was not often that Nariman the Chief Eunuch was absent from the zenana long enough for anyone to venture into the garden, but there were times. I went, when I could, and gauged the rising warmth in the air, the moisture of spring winds, wondering when the northern passes would thaw. And I gauged, too, the height of the garden walls. It was useless as a means of escape, leading only to the pitched roofs of the inner palace. A man with a grappling hook and a rope might be able to scale them, though. I wondered if Joscelin would dare.
    Probably.
    But I didn’t think it was worth the risk.
    It would have been a simple enough matter to get a message to him, if there was anyone summoned to the festal hall whom I dared trust. There wasn’t, not yet. So I waited, living out endless days in my private hell. Drucilla tended my injuries without comment. Time and again, my flesh healed cleanly, only to be torn and ravaged anew. I grew inured to the pain. Not the nights of iron and blood-no, never that-but the inevitable dull aftermath. Ignoring it, I walked the length and breadth of the zenana , considering escape routes.
    Unfortunately, there weren’t any.
    “You’re mad,” Drucilla said. “You’ll get us all killed!”
    “For what? Walking and thinking?” I cocked my head at her. “Drucilla, has anyone ever tried to kill the Mahrkagir?”
    “What?” Her face went pale. “You are mad.”
    “They search us for weapons. Someone must have tried.”
    “Someone did,” she said grimly. “It did not end well. Her punishment ... well, there may be worse ways to die, but I cannot think of any. Ask someone else, if you want to know it; I do not care to remember. His lordship may be insane, Phèdre, but he’s a trained warrior, and not careless with his life when his priests are not there to protect him.”
    Unless it was someone he trusted, I thought; someone he loved .
    And the surety of it gripped me like a storm, until I had to bow my head in horror and weep, mumbling for Drucilla to leave me, that I needed to lie still against the pain. I lay curled on my bed, staring at the jade dog figurine on my shelf. Once upon a time, the Mahrkagir had been a boy with a dog. I did not know if I could do it. Blessed Elua, I prayed, is this your will? Might even he not be redeemed through love?
    I already knew the answer. The boy with the dog had grown into a monster. And as much as it might pain him, as much as his black, black eyes might grow lustrous with tears, he would take the gift of love and offer it on the altar of Angra Mainyu. He would make me beg for death and grant it as a final, loving boon, whispering endearments as he ate