Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3)

Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3) Page 59

"He has been cut," the attendant replied, "and does not wish to live." His eyes glittered feverishly, and I knew by his accent he was Akkadian—that was when I began to understand, then, at least a little. "Do you blame him, lady? I do not. He is no longer a man."

I understood, though I didn't wish to. The Skaldi lad wanted to die; and I, I could not blame him. He was alone, the only one of his kind. It was not right, but there was no help for it. What fell on him would not fall on someone else, not that day. He was alone, and so was I.

So I sought an empty couch, and lay coiled onto my own perfect despair. I had attained my goal, the goal I never wanted, becoming a concubine of the Mahrkagir of Drujan. I had come a thousand miles to destroy the only true love I'd ever known. I had condemned Hyacinthe to age forever on his lonely isle. Of my own will, I had done these things. And for all of it, I had not found Imriel de la Courcel, whose face had haunted my dreams. It was fearful to contemplate what abuse he had undergone in this place, and I could only pray he had been spared the worst of it. What did it mean that the Mahrkagir kept him alive? For his three-fold path, the Chief Eunuch had said. I thought of the Skaldi lad and shuddered. If the Mahrkagir had a special purpose in mind, it could only be worse.

There was no comfort in the distant memory of Blessed Elua's presence. The gods are cruel, to lay such burdens on their mortal heirs. How can immortals reckon the cost to mere flesh? I did not know if I could endure this.

I slept, and prayed I would awaken elsewhere.

I didn't.

I awoke, stiff and sore, on a couch in the zenana of Daršanga, huddled in my stained travelling clothes and Valère L'Envers' marten- skin coat. Well and so, I thought; I am still Phèdre nó Delaunay, and I will be no less. The zenana was stirring, attendants bringing wheat- porridge on platters, and honey to a select few. Though I had no ap petite, I made myself eat. Charcoal braziers were chasing off the night's chill, though the hypocaust which warmed the stagnant pool and the floors kept the zenana temperate. I thought with rue of my visit to the bath-house in Iskandria.

"Is it possible to bathe?" I asked the attendant when he returned. He stared at me a moment and jerked his chin toward the pool, clearing my tray. I shook my head. I had smelled that water, and I would have to become a good deal more desperate before I let it touch my skin.

Some women, I saw, had better luck; here and there, a few had small luxuries—a ewer of clean water, a comb, a bottle of scented oil. These held court on their islanded couches, sharing out their favors, combing one another's hair, lowering their gowns to dab scent between their breasts with the dispassionate immodesty of women condemned to live publicly with one another. There was no joy in it and little pleasure.

"You are new."

It was one of the eunuchs who addressed me, speaking in the zenyan argot; Persian, I guessed by his tone. He was young and slender, and had a gentle look to him.

"Yes," I said.

He shifted the tray he carried, balancing it on one hip. "If you wish . . . if you wish, I will bring you a basin, and soap."

If his hands had been free, I would have kissed them. Instead, I made myself incline my head and answer graciously. "You are very kind."

He went away. I sat cross-legged on my couch and watched the zenana. In the Night Court, pageants are often staged for wealthy pa trons; the Pasha's Hareem was a common one, with scant-clad adepts reclining on cushions and disporting themselves in erotic play to the accompaniment of musicians. This was a dreadful parody of that sensual fantasy. The only pleasure I saw taken was in the smoking of opium, for there were water-pipes at many of the islands, and those women who smoked them fell back in heavy-lidded dreaminess. I saw one Ephesian woman tend to a crying boy of some eight years by blowing a thin stream of blue smoke from her own mouth into his. Presently he ceased to cry, and lay listless at her breast.

"It seems a kindness," I said aloud, watching.

"It is." It was the Persian eunuch returning, kneeling carefully to set a steaming basin of water on the carpet before my couch. "Until the Mahrkagir takes it away. Then they will suffer fresh torments and wish anew to die." He looked up at me. "I am Rushad, lady."

"Thank you, Rushad." Since there was nothing else for it, I un dressed with the ease of long practice, kneeling opposite him in front of the basin. Rushad drew in his breath in a hiss, seeing my marque.

"What is that?"

"A sign that I am dedicated to the service of our goddess Naamah." I plunged both arms to my elbows in the steaming water, then took up the soap and began to raise a lather. "I am Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève of Terre d'Ange."

"Terre d'Ange," he repeated. "Yes. There is one ... a boy . . . who looks like you, who has your. . . your beauty. But he does not speak our tongue. How is it that you do?"

"You have seen him?" I paused in the middle of my ablutions.

"Yes, of course." Rushad seemed surprised. "He is being . . . con fined."

"For stabbing someone with a fork. I heard." I sat back on my heels, thinking. "Can you take me to him?”

"No!" He shook his head in alarm. "I would not dare. I am not like the Akkadians, who are unafraid to die. I have done you a courtesy. You must not ask such things of me."

"Why did you?" I asked him, continuing my bath.

Rushad considered, glancing over at the young Skaldi man I'd spo ken to last night, who was now sitting against a wall, knees drawn up, his head low. "They say . . . they say you talked to him last night, to Erich. That you spoke in his tongue. He was my friend, before, although we could not speak, not even in zenyan. Now . . ." He shrugged. "He will not even try. I thought, maybe . . ."

"It is Skaldic," I said. "I think there is no trace of it in this . . . zenyan, you call it? Nothing he would understand. But he would not speak to me, either."

"Perhaps in time," Rushad murmured.

"Mayhap." Reluctantly, I donned my travel-stained attire. "I will continue to try, if you will help me find a way to the D'Angeline boy."

"He will be back in the zenana soon enough." Rushad fussed with the basin, avoiding my eyes. "You will see him then, if. . ." His voice trailed off. "Well, if you are here, you will see him."

With that, he left me.

If there is anything worse than terror, it is terror and tedium com mingled. I sat on my couch, combing out my damp, tangled hair with my fingers, taking the measure of the zenana, of many dozens of lives condemned to spin themselves out beneath the vast, brooding shadow of the Mahrkagir's palace. How, I wondered, did they feel it? Did they sense it, the dire presence I had felt above? Did they know its name? Did they pray to their gods?

Some did, I know; I saw it, then and later.

There was a tall Jebean woman who told fortunes with bones, hold ing court on a carpeted island. Sometimes, with great ceremony, she would unravel a single crimson thread from her frayed garments and make a knotted talisman, handing it over in exchange for some small

gift. There was a Chowati woman who sat on the floor with her hands

on her knees, rocking back and forth and uttering ceaseless prayers, eyes shut tight, diagonal scars marking her cheeks.

There were three Bhodistani who had plainly resolved to die, hollow-eyed, their skin touched with the translucence that comes of drinking only water and taking no sustenance. They had drawn their couches into a triangle and knelt facing one another, hands folded. I envied them their serenity. No one seemed inclined to stop them.

Of hope . . . there was none.

And not one of them, I thought, had known desire at the Mahrk agir's touch.

I didn't like to think about it.

If Imriel had been here—if he had, then what? For all my vaunted skills in the arts of covertcy, I'd come here without a plan, placing myself in Blessed Elua's hand. The zenana was guarded, the Akkadian eunuchs wearing short, curved knives at their belts. Mayhap Joscelin could have fought his way through a dozen of them . . . but Joscelin could not aid me here. No, he was sworn into the Mahrkagir's service, surrounded by the men who had defeated and unmanned the Akkadians, clad in leather and steel plate, heavily armed. Even if he tried, they were enough to stop him; enough, and more.

And there were the Skotophagoti.

Blessed Elua, I thought, what have I done?

What have you done to me?

FORTY-FOUR

"You haven't wept."The sound of a voice speaking Caerdicci—a civilized tongue, the scholar's language, nearly my milk-tongue—jolted me awake. I hadn't realized I'd been dozing. I stared uncomprehending at the woman stand ing before me, strong-featured and handsome. There was blood spat tered on her woolen gown, which was cut in the Tiberian manner, a long shawl worn over it.

"Forgive me," I said, nearly stammering. "My lady . . . ?" "Drucilla." She sat down on the far end of my couch uninvited, fixing me with a disconcertingly level grey-blue gaze. "It will do. You are D'Angeline."

"Yes." I sat upright, running my hands over my face. "Phèdre nó Delaunay ."

"Phèdre." Drucilla nodded once. "That's an ill-luck name." "So it seems," I said, eyeing her. She bore it with composure, only flinching a little and tucking her hands into the folds of her shawl. I saw before she did that the fourth and fifth fingers were missing the furthest joint on both hands. "Are you wounded, my lady?"

"No." She shook her head. "I have come from seeing Hiu-Mei, who is newly returned from his lordship's attentions. She is his favorite. In a fit of anger, he struck her face with a— ' Seeing me blanch, she switched mid-sentence. "It is not my blood. I was a physician, once. I do what I can to tend to the living."

"Ah." I swallowed. "Truly, it is admirable, my lady." "It keeps despair at bay," Drucilla said matter-of-factly. "One clings to what one knows, until. . . well." She glanced at her hidden hands. "Until one can cling no longer. They are speaking of you. I was cu rious.”