Kushiel's Avatar

ball of jet. When it was done, each new member took his place among their ranks.
    It took some time. I scanned the hall, trying to gauge events. The men were rapt, watching the ceremony, and drinking had slowed. Was the drug taking effect? It was too early to say. “Ishta,” the Mahrkagir said warmly, stroking my neck. “It will be soon!”
    The dedication was finished. Daeva Gashtaham raised his arms once more, now flanked by twenty-one Âka-Magi. “Angra Mainyu,” he said. “Destructive Spirit, Lord of Darkness, Demon of Ten Thousand Years! We have quenched the fires of your ancient enemy and plunged the land in terror. With your will to guide us, we will bring more, so much more, to your altar.” He raised his voice. “Let those who would make the vahmyâcam come forward with their offerings, save he who is last and greatest among us, beloved of Angra Mainyu!”
    The Mahrkagir leaned back, watching; it seemed we were to go last. Seventeen men came forward at Gashtaham’s announcement, each bringing a companion. They were the ones I had seen, the new faces-the parents, the siblings, the wives and children. I hadn’t seen the children before. A few of the chosen went willingly, proudly. Some went in terror. Each couple mounted the dais to stand before the Âka-Magi. Gashtaham laid his hands upon their shoulders, gazing into their eyes, reading their hearts and the will of Angra Mainyu.
    Three were dismissed, the sacrifice found unworthy. It must be love, I thought; truly love. The others were accepted, and to each was given a cord, wrenched from about the waist of one of the true Magi, Arshaka’s followers, the priests of Ahura Mazda. Each pair was dismissed, and an Âka-Magus assigned to follow. Where they went, I cannot say. To darkness and death, alone.
    So, I thought dully, that is how it is done. I am to be strangled, if I fail. Well, there are crueler deaths.
    And then there were no more couples, and Gashtaham raised his arms once more, his face flushed and triumphant beneath his skull-helm. “Angra Mainyu,” he crooned, “Father of Lies, I summon your best-beloved, your death-begotten son-on-earth to stand before you and make the vahmyâcam. I summon the Shahryar Mahrkagir!”
    The men cheered, shouting and banging their mugs; from the corner of my eye, I saw Jolanta startle and nudge the nearest woman with her elbow, circulating once more with the laced jugs of drink. The other women responded with alacrity, and the warriors drank, Drujani and Tatar alike, cheering their lord. Jagun the Kereyit was shouting, Imriel’s presence at his side forgotten. The Mahrkagir got to his feet, bowing in acknowledgment, savoring the moment, his smile dazzling in its joy.
    “Come, îshta,” he said to me, extending his hand. “It is time.”
    I took his hand and rose, and together we walked the aisle to the dais, where Daeva Gashtaham and the others awaited. I would have faltered, I think, if not for his hand on my elbow, a firm cold grip, guiding me as he smiled lovingly down at me.
    “So beautiful,” he whispered beneath the noise. “You look so beautiful, my Queen!”
    Together, we mounted the dais.
    Gashtaham laid one hand atop our shoulders, the black rod in his left angling behind the Mahrkagir’s neck. I felt a faint surge at his touch and my flesh recoiled; the presence of Angra Mainyu intensified. I felt terribly naked and exposed under the priest’s searching gaze, shivering so fiercely I could feel the ruby ear-drops tremble against my skin, terrified that the Ch’in combs would give way, sending my tresses tumbling, the ivory hairpins clattering to the floor of the dais, that any instant Gashtaham would see through my pathetic attempts at deception to the even more pathetic plot they sought to mask.
    He didn’t. His interest lay in the Mahrkagir, his pride and joy, the gateway of the god.
    “My lord,” he said, his voice as intimate as a lover’s, “is it your will to make of this woman the vahmyâcam?”
    “It is,” the Mahrkagir replied, squeezing my hand.
    “And do you love her?”
    He smiled down at my upturned face, a world of adoration in his shining black eyes, all the glory of Blessed Elua. “I do.”
    “Angra Mainyu,” said the priest, profoundly satisfied, “is pleased.” He turned to one of his comrades. “Daeva Dâdarshi, bring me the sacred girdle of Arshaka.”
    The old man struggled, pitiful to behold, as the Âka-Magi cut the filthy cord from about his waist.