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embroidery. “Do you like it?” he asked in an anxious tone. “It belonged to Hoshdar Ahzad’s Queen, my father’s first wife. Gashtaham said it would be well to make the most of your beauty for the vahmyâcam.”
    “It is beautiful, my lord,” I murmured.
    “It is!” He beamed. “It will adorn you, srîra. And this, and these ... you will wear these as well.” With careless hands, he scooped a queen’s ransom of jewelry into my lap-ruby ear-drops, a collar of interlacing gold chains, bangles for both arms. “I, too, want you to be your most beautiful,” he whispered in my ear.
    “I will try, my lord,” I promised him.
    I could not have done it alone, when the day came, and fear knotted my belly. For all our preparation, I felt unready, uncertain and horribly aware of the danger.
    The women of the zenana helped to dress me, combining their skills and means. A Caerdicci seamstress working with a bone needle and unraveled threads from Drucilla’s shawl made cunning alterations to the gown so that it might fit me becomingly. A once-vain Menekhetan girl who had made kohl out of lamp-soot painted my eyes, grave as a squire arming a warrior for battle, while an Aragonian dabbed sandalwood oil at my wrists and throat. Two of the Ch’in, with lovely, porcelain faces, worked my hair into an elaborate upswept coif, affixing it in place with a pair of combs and Kaneka’s ivory hairpins.
    It was done.
    Jolanta showed me my reflection in a tiny hand-mirror she had stolen from somewhere. I did not think Daeva Gashtaham and the Mahrkagir would be displeased. In the dim light of the zenana , the crimson gown glowed, shimmering with gold trim. Rubies shone at my ears, and gold gleamed at my throat and wrists. If my face was pale, my eyes were pools of darkness, the scarlet mote echoing the color of the gown. The ivory hairpins were unobtrusive in the elegantly coiled locks of my hair, mere delicate accents.
    “This one,” one of the Ch’in women said in her limited, lilting zenyan, guiding my hand to the rightmost hairpin. “You pull. Hair not fall.”
    “Thank you.” My throat was tight with fear.
    Uru-Azag, entering the zenana , checked at the sight of me. “It is time, lady,” he said as I rose. “Nariman is coming with the summons. You are to attend the feast, and the others to come later, when the wine is poured.”
    “I am ready.” I looked for Imriel. He came forward slowly, dragging his feet, all the fear I felt reflected in his face. “Imriel,” I said, stooping to cup his face in my hands. “Whatever happens, stay with Joscelin, do you understand? The Mahrkagir will send you to Jagun, but he will be affected by the wine. Whatever you do, don’t leave the festal hall with him. Get away as quickly as you can. Joscelin will do what he can to protect you.”
    He nodded miserably. I kissed his brow and rose. There was no more I could do.
    And so I went to the festal hall for the last time.
    There was a little silence when I entered the hall. It seemed to take forever to cross it. They are not used to seeing beauty adorned, in Daršanga, and it was not customary for women to dine among the men. The ancient Magi, the true Magi, were huddled in a group under the shadow of the dais; they drew back in disgust as I passed. The men, Drujani and Tatar, stared. Daeva Gashtaham steepled his fingers and smiled.
    “My Queen,” the Mahrkagir announced, his eyes shining. “My beloved!”
    With that, the feast commenced. I do not remember what was served-fish, I suppose, and boar. There was a good deal of fresh boar, due to the hunt. It might have been sawdust for all that I tasted it. I do not remember what I said, nor how I endured it. Once I caught a glimpse of Rushad lingering inside the doorway leading to the kitchens, and my heart beat so fiercely I thought the Mahrkagir must see it through my gown. I didn’t even dare glance at Joscelin.
    Dinner lasted an eternity, and when it was done, I wished it had been longer. Servants began bearing wine-jugs from the kitchen, Rushad among them, eyes downcast and humble. The first round would be unlaced; we had all agreed it was safest. Let their palates grow numb before we served the drug. Wine was poured, beer and kumis. The level of noise grew as the men drank, and the women of the zenana entered the hall.
    No one betrayed a thing. I, who knew, could see it. The careful pavane of jugs, orchestrated by a terrified Rushad, served by stone-faced women. Imriel