Kushiel's Avatar

stayed with him until I was sure he would not awaken, aching with helpless tenderness. I had borne such marks upon my own skin-but I was Kushiel’s Chosen, and it was of my own volition. I had entered Naamah’s Service as an adult, aware of my own choices. Such a fate was never meant for a child. I waited until his breathing deepened in sleep, and then went at last to bathe.
    Afterward, he was fevered-out of trauma, Drucilla said, and not infection, but he talked aloud in his dreams, rambling, and I feared what he might say. “Be glad it’s only talking,” Drucilla said darkly, and I didn’t know what she meant, not then.
    It mattered naught to the Mahrkagir, who sent Imriel to attend to the Kereyit warlord in the hall the next night, and the next. The feasting continued, and games of combat, too. Again, Joscelin had to fight. He made it quicker, this time, conscious, I think, of Imriel’s fearful gaze. The boy actually shrank back against Jagun when Joscelin passed him. I could have wept to see it, though I understood. Melisande’s treachery had taken me thus. For a D’Angeline to betray his country is an unspeakable deed.
    After the combat, someone called out for Joscelin to fight Tahmuras, and the shouts of accord rose, wagers being placed. I do not think the massive Persian would have been anything loathe to do it. He glowered under his brows, toying with the haft of his morningstar, a bitter smile on his lips. I had seen him in battle, and I knew enough to be scared. Peerless swordsman or no, it was not a weapon Joscelin had faced before-and the giant was preternaturally gifted with it. Joscelin bowed calmly to the Mahrkagir, awaiting his pleasure, only a faint tightening of his jaw giving any hint of reserve.
    “What do you say?” the Mahrkagir asked, laughing. “The Midwife of my Birth-from-Death, my protector Tahmuras, against my Bringer of Omens? It would be a battle to shake the rafters!” He waited for the shouting to die before dashing their hopes of a spectacle, an impish gleam in his eyes. “No. These two, I need. Find someone I do not need to die!”
    They did. They found a pair of women of the zenana and made them fight, arming them with daggers and pricking them with spears until they had no choice. One was Jolanta, the Chowati; the other, a Kereyit Tatar, a gift of Jagun, who had very much hoped to be given Imriel in return. I never even knew her name.
    Neither of them wanted to do it. They circled one another, skirts knotted for freedom of movement, while the Drujani jabbed at their bare legs. Eventually, fighting to win became preferable to being pierced by a Drujani spear, and they did. Both of them knew how to use a knife. Jolanta knew better.
    I saw tears in her eyes as she straightened, the Tatar girl’s blood on her gown. If I had hated Jolanta for tormenting Imriel, I pitied her now. She met my gaze briefly across the crowded festal hall, while the Mahrkagir’s guests whooped and shouted, pleased at the display. When she looked away, I saw her hand rise. Making a blood-stained fist, she pressed it to her brow, and I knew it for a declaration of loyalty.
    “Come,” the Mahrkagir said, smiling at me. “It will be an early night. The young men are hunting boar in the morning, for the vahmyâcam.”
    I went with him.
    He didn’t know, not yet. Of that, I was certain. I wondered when the Âka-Magi would tell him, and if they feared he would refuse if he had time to consider it. I wished it were true. I was sure it was not. I was his gift, his rare gift, filling him with wonderment and delight, willing to wallow in the vilest of depravity. It would pain him, to lay that gift upon Angra Mainyu’s altar. But he would do it, and believe it his finest deed.
    The Âka-Magi watched us leave, and they all smiled.
    Everyone was returned early to the zenana that night, on account of the morning’s hunt. I wished I had known. It might have been better, to plan something when a good portion of the inhabitants were gone. It was how Joscelin and I had escaped from Selig’s steading. Still, if we had used the opium that night, they would not have gone a-hunting ... it does not matter, now. The date was chosen. The vahmyâcam, when they would least expect it, when they would drink deep in celebration, when the Âka-Magi were distracted, and when, I prayed, Angra Mainyu himself would be sufficiently sated with sacrifice that he was slow to take alarm.
    I didn’t bother to wake Rushad, only