"It is!" He beamed. "It will adorn you, srira. 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 Daranga, 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 was attending Jagun, solicitously filling the Tatar's cup. I gave thanks to Blessed Elua that the Kereyit warlord's attention was fixed on the offering-ceremony. Joscelin, unobtrusive, hovered a few paces away, a thing none of the Tatars had noticed. It was a small thing in which to discern that the hand of Elua was guiding us, but it was all I had.

How long would it take, before the effects of the opium became evident? An hour, mayhap longer. No one knew for sure. Drucilla had calculated it to the best of her ability, but there was no telling. The drug was diluted, and some drank more than others.

And some less. The glowering Tahmuras, for one.

I wondered when the vahmyacam would begin.

Anywhere else, this would be a sacred rite, with all the attendant solemnities. It did not mean in Daranga what it meant elsewhere. This profane revelry, held in a desecrated temple-in Angra Mainyu's worship, it was ritual. Not all who were there knew, or cared. It didn't matter. The aka-Magi knew, and their acolytes. The Mahrkagir knew. And I knew it.

And the god . . . Blessed Elua, the god himself knew it. Living under that dark, ravening presence, I had grown half-used to it. I felt it anew that night. Spring had come to Daranga, and the offering approached the altar. Angra Mainyu was roused, the bottomless maw of hunger yawning open, eager to devour the world. When I blinked, I saw the walls of Daranga running red with blood. It was in the faces of the men, keen and wolflike. It was in the mad, beautiful eyes of the Mahrkagir, in the loving smile he bent upon me. It was in the air we breathed, heavy as thunder.

Kill. . . die . . . destroy.

Blessed Elua, I prayed in the silence of my heart, hold us safe in your hand. "Shahryar Mahrkagir," murmured Gashtaham, bending his head in obeisance. "Angra Mainyu's will is manifest. May we begin the vahmyacam?"

"Yes!" The Mahrkagir laughed, happy and excited as a boy at his natal festivities. "Go on, Gashtaham, get on with it! I am eager for my gift."

"So be it." The priest glanced at me, his smile hidden in shadows. "You look very beautiful tonight, my lady."

"You are kind." I forced the words through frozen lips. Let him know I was afraid; it didn't matter.

Everyone was afraid, in the zenana. I had lived in fear since Nineveh. I couldn't remember what it was like to be without it, except in the Mahrkagir's bed. And that was worse.

Bowing to his lord, Gashtaham walked the aisle and mounted the dais, the other aka-Magi falling in beside him, bearing shrouded burdens in their arms. There were a dozen, all told. The sullen torchlight flickered on their polished boar's-skull helms, the black robes, the finger-bone girdles. Daeva Gashtaham raised his arms, the ebony staff in his left hand.

In the festal hall, silence fell like a hammer.

"Angra Mainyu," he said, and his voice whispered in every corner of the hall, "we stand before you to profess our faith. Of this world we are created, and in death we are reborn in your name. The works of Ahura Mazda, we abjure! His livestock, we starve and slaughter; his earth, we salt and render barren.

We embrace darkness and the lie, abhorring all truths. Your three-fold path, we walk in faith: Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds. Let your presence among us be made manifest, and your will spread, until the hearts of all mankind seek only destruction, and brother turns upon brother, and all is laid waste."

There was power in his words, terrible power. And I, who sat next to the smiling source of it, shivered until the bangles on my wrist tinkled sweetly and I had to grip my hands together in my lap to halt it.

"Come." Gashtaham beckoned. "Let those who have made the vahmyacam and served their apprenticeship come forth to receive their reward."

Nine men came forward, some clad in armor, some in common garb, each with a girdle of finger-bones about his waist. One by one, they knelt before the dais and unknotted their girdles, laying them before them. I saw Arshaka, the old Head Magus, weening with horror at the side of the dais. As each man approached, the aka-Magi tended him. Two sheared his hair, letting it fall in careless handfuls. One eased a black robe over his shoulders, and another tied the finger-bone girdle about it. A fifth placed a hollowed boar's-skull helm over his shorn head, and one last bowed, handing the new Aka-Magus an ebony rod, topped with a gleaming 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 ka-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 vahmyacam 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 aka-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 aka-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 vahmyacam. 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, ishta," 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 vahmyacam?"

"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 Dadarshi, bring me the sacred girdle of Arshaka."

The old man struggled, pitiful to behold, as the aka-Magi cut the filthy cord from about his waist. 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, ishta!" 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 frommy 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, ishta!" 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, ishta. 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." He shook his head gently, tightening the cord, never looking past my face. Why would he?

Whatever else was true, he trusted me. "Angra Mainyu wishes it, ishta, and so do you, in your heart of hearts." The cord was cutting off my air, and the darkness beginning to sparkle. The world was fading around me. Only his adoring smile hovered, vivid in my vision. "Your gods sent you as tribute."

The words were uttered in a tone of deepest love.

And beneath my hand lay his steady-beating heart.

"Half right," I gasped, choking. With all the strength that was in me, I shoved the ivory hairpin home into his resisting flesh. His mouth opened wide, his eyes astonished. "My gods did send me . . . but not as tribute."

Silent and shocked, the Mahrkagir of Drujan sank to his knees, the ivory haft of Kaneka's hairpin standing out from his chest. It was a small thing, pretty and decorative. It was enough. The point had pierced his heart.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, miserable. "I'm sorry."

His eyes rolled and his mouth worked. No words emerged. And like that, he died.

I covered my face with my hands and burst into tears.

That part, I told no one, not even Joscelin. It did not last long. He was a monster, and deserved to die. Iknew this to be true. But he had been a boy, once; a boy with a dog, a whore's royal get, brought into the zenana, and it was Akkadian atrocities that made him what he was. That, I could not forget.

And he had loved me.

When my tears had done, I gathered myself, kneeling on the floor beside the Mahrkagir's body, listening for signs of disturbance. There were none. I had not known what would happen when I killed him. I had thought, mayhap, that the Skotophagoti would know at once, sensing a change in the presence of Angra Mainyu's manifestation. But no; they had grown overdependent upon him, the Conqueror of Death, certain he would not die.

Not at the hands of a D'Angeline whore.

Well and so; they would know it, the first time they reached for Angra Mainyu's power and found it gone, the gateway closed by death. And the next step would be no easier than the last. I hunted through the clutter of the Mahrkagir's quarters until I found somewhat that would serve my purposes-a short spear and a leather bull-whip, encrusted with old blood. Like as not it was mine.

How long had passed since we left the hall? A quarter hour, at least; mayhap longer. I flung open the doors to his quarters, panic unfeigned. "My lord Mahrkagir!" I said urgently, pointing at the prostrate figure. "He is having seizures!"

With a muttered curse, Gashtaham shoved me out of the way and hurried into the room, Tahmuras hard on his heels. I slammed the doors closed behind them, shoving the shaft of the spear through the door handles and lashing it in place with the long thong of the bull-whip.

The doors shuddered under the impact of Tahmuras, on the far side, hurling himself against them. The spear buckled, and held. It would not hold him forever. I raced down the Mahrkagir's hidden passageway to the zenana, a path I could trace in the dark. That night, I did.

They were waiting, in the zenana. Nariman the Chief Eunuch lay silent on the floor, his plump throat slit like a pig's. Uru-Azag was smiling with grim pleasure.

"Is it done?" asked Kaneka.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

If anyone had been listening, the cheering that went up at my nod would have brought the wrath of Daranga down upon the zenana. No one was. A veritable mob bolted for the latticed door, and only the cool head of Erich, cursing and fending them off, kept them momentarily at bay. "The sword-priest is above?" he asked me in Skaldic, jerking his head at the stairs.

"I'll see," I said. "It was my plan."

Uru-Azag went with me, taking the stairs two at once, dragging me with him, his dagger in his free hand.

Behind us, the women of the zenana overran Erich, pushing hard. If Joscelin had not been there . . . if Joscelin had not been there, I daresay they would have torn the guards limb from limb.

But he was there, waiting, wearing a chain-mail shirt over a leather jerkin.

Hordes of women shoved their way into the empty hallway. Two Akkadian eunuchs knelt and began toefficiently strip the slain Drujani guards of their arms and armor. And I ignored it all, flinging my arms around Joscelin's neck, willing, in that moment, to die if only to feel him hold me one last time, chain-mail or no.

"Phedre," he murmured against my hair.