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Persian. “Whether I like it or not, I am the Mahrkagir’s favorite. If you don’t stay out of my way, I will ask him for your head on a platter. And if he’s in a good mood, he may well grant it to me. Do you think he loves you so well, for opening the door to the Akkadians thirty years ago? Your position here is a bitter jest that has outlived its time.”
    He blanched. “Favorites change,” he hissed. “Or die. Accidents happen, in the zenana .”
    “Yes,” I said, unimpressed. “And if one happens to me, I promise you, you will have a horde of angry Âka-Magi here wondering why.”
    Nariman went.
    Kaneka folded her arms and looked at me.
    “Erich,” I said, ignoring her, “Rushad said you spoke no zenyan.”
    “A little,” he replied in Skaldic. “No more. I learned to listen, watching you. And I have been here a long time.” His gaze was bright and grim behind his tangled yellow hair. “You escaped from Waldemar Selig’s steading in the dead of winter. I know. We tell stories about it. I knew you by your eyes, and the scarlet mark. Do you have a plan to escape from here?”
    “I might,” I said. “Only it will take the zenana ’s aid to do it.”
    “Is the sword-priest with you?” he asked. “The one who defeated Selig at the holmgang?”
    I hesitated. “Yes.”
    “Good.” Erich smiled, cold as death. “Whatever it takes, I will do it. And don’t... don’t worry about the boy. What happens to him now, he will survive, if his will is strong. Lord Death and his bone-priests, they have told him, if he does what is asked of him, he will keep his manhood. That he is being saved for something special.” His mouth twisted. “They won’t unman him until he believes it.”
    I swallowed, tears in my eyes. “I am sorry, Erich.”
    His shoulders moved in a shrug. “I am paying for someone’s sins. Maybe Selig’s, who knows? I was six. It does not matter to the gods. If I live, I will ask a priest of All-Father Odhinn why I was chosen for this, if I die ...” He shrugged again. “Let me do it with a sword in my hand, and I will die with your name on my lips, whether you are my enemy or no. You should go, now, and talk to the tall black one before she throttles you. She could lead a steading, that one. Many women would follow her lead.”
    I glanced involuntarily at Kaneka, who raised her eyebrows. “I will. Erich, thank you. I swear to you, I am not your enemy. Not here, not in this place-and not after, either. I will not blame the Skaldi for Waldemar Selig’s war.”
    “It does not matter.” He closed his eyes. “You sang me songs of home. I would have died blessing you for that alone.”
    I would have said something else, but at that point, Kaneka’s hand closed on my shoulder. “It is time, little one,” she said dourly, turning me to face her. “Time we talked.”
    “Yes.” I eyed her ivory hairpins. “It is, Fedabin.”
    I led her into my chamber and lit the oil lamp, fumbling with the flint to strike a spark. Kaneka drew up the single stool and sat watching, her eyes gleaming in the near-darkness. At last the lamp kindled, a warm glow illuminating the room. I sank onto my pallet with a sigh, raw and aching with pain, unwashed, aware of it in every part now that Kushiel’s presence had left me entirely.
    “Who are you?” Kaneka asked. “Why are you here?”
    I looked squarely at her. “Erich spoke truly. I am Phèdre nó Delaunay, Comtesse de Montrève, Naamah’s Servant and Kushiel’s Chosen. And I have come for the boy, Imriel.”
    “The Skaldi knew you.”
    “His country invaded mine, once. I did somewhat to stop it.”
    Kaneka showed her teeth in a smile. “Something they tell stories about.”
    “Yes,” I said. “It seems they do.”
    “You must have been a child at the time.” She looked at me, considering. “Do they tell stories of you in your homeland, little one?”
    “Some,” I said, thinking of my place in Thelesis de Mornay’s epic Ysandrine Cycle, of the poems of Gilles Lamiz, of the tales of the Night Court and the gossip of the palace and in the streets of the City of Elua. “Yes, Fedabin, they tell some.”
    “The boy does not know.”
    “No.” I shook my head. “He doesn’t. He was raised by priests, who took care he heard no such stories.”
    “He does not know you,” she said. “And yet you came for him. Why?”
    “Because,” I said, “I promised his mother that I would. And because my gods required it of me.” I