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I had not known, before tonight, that it was a part of their sacred regalia. Gashtaham held the cord in his hands, contemplating it. “I used my own girdle, that you tied about my waist with your own hands, old fool, to string my father’s finger-bones,” he said to the defeated Magus. “Yours, and your life, I have held in reserve, hoping and praying that this day might come. Now it is here.” Raising the cord to his lips, he kissed it, then laid it reverently across the Mahrkagir’s outstretched hands. “Take it, my lord, and her life with it. I will go with you myself, and stand watch outside your door. And when it is done ... ah, my lord, you have served your life in apprenticeship to this moment. Angra Mainyu will wait no longer. When it is done and you have laid open her breast and consumed her still-warm heart, you will truly be the avatar of darkness.” Gashtaham released the cord and bowed, his face suffused with deep emotion. “And Drujan shall conquer the earth!”
    A roar of approval answered his final words; those, they had heard. The Mahrkagir accepted the cord. “You see, îshta!” he said, exalted, letting me in on the glorious secret, taking my face in his hands, the foul-smelling cord against my cheeks, and kissing me. “It is a gift, the greatest gift of all! And you have given it to me.”
    From the corner of my eye, I saw Joscelin take a step closer to Imriel, hands hovering over the hilts of his daggers. At the side of the dais, the old Magus Arshaka fell to his knees and wept, his beard trailing on the flagstones.
    It was the last thing I saw as we left the hall.

Fifty-Five
    TRUE TO his word, Daeva Gashtaham accompanied us to the Mahrkagir’s quarters, along with the hulking Tahmuras. After the noise of the hall, it seemed strange, this silence, the familiar stone walls. All that, I thought, only to end here, where it began; no trappings, no ceremony. Only this, he and I, alone together again as we had been so many times before.
    “One lamp,” the priest cautioned, outside the double doors. “Enough to find her heart, and no more.”
    Tahmuras went ahead to make certain that it was so. The Mahrkagir only laughed. “When have I ever needed light, Gashtaham?” he asked, teasing, holding me close to him. “One lamp is enough and more to find my beloved’s heart.” The priest bowed; the huge guard exited the quarters with a curt nod that all was in order. The Mahrkagir ushered me inside. “I will summon you,” he said to the priest, “to see that all was done well.”
    And with that, he closed the doors.
    I reached one hand to my hair while his back was turned, sliding the rightmost ivory hairpin free from my upswept locks and turning it so that the long, daggerlike point lay along the inside of my forearm. My teeth were chattering. I held the hairpin in a death-grip, seeking to keep it from rattling against my bangles.
    There was a lamp, the single lamp, burning in an alcove. It was enough, for him, whom the light pained like fire; it must have been as bright as day. To me, it was dark. As it was supposed to be-in darkness and alone.
    “Do you see?” The Mahrkagir gestured, sweeping one hand. “It had to be here, where we have known such joy. Such deeds, îshta!” His eyes were bright. “Such ill deeds. I will always think of you, and remember your gift.” He came near, looping the cord about my neck, crossing it, drawing it tight across my throat, his lower body firm against mine. “Are you ready?” he asked tenderly. “If you are, we will begin, and I will grant you death when you ask for it. It will be my gift to you, beloved.”
    “My lord, no.” I laid my left hand flat upon his breast. “I beg you not to do this thing. Love is its own reward.”
    “Yes.” He smiled at me, his mad, beautiful eyes shining in the darkness. The cord tightened about my throat. “I know, îshta. I know.”
    Beneath the splayed fingers of my hand, I could feel his heart beating, a firm, steady pulse. I knew it well. I had felt it against my skin too many times to count, racing with the exertions of cruel desire. I brought my right hand up between us, placing the point of Kaneka’s hairpin between my left forefinger and thumb, directly over his heart, positioning it by touch, feather-light. Strong and beating, his life lay beneath my poised hand. If he had looked down, he would have seen it. He didn’t. “Gashtaham wishes it,” I whispered. “You can say no.”
    “No.”