Jewel of Persia (29 page)

She let out the expected sound of protest and raised her chin. “Here I had been siding with Menelaus, thinking how sorely he must miss his wife, to go to such effort to get her back. Perhaps I ought to cheer on Paris instead. He obviously loved her enough to steal her.”

“It need not be love that motivated him either—it could have been the desire to possess the most beautiful woman in the world.”

His grin said he jested, so she smiled back. But the fog crept close again.

“We shall hear the end this evening. Perhaps Homer will address the question of love for you, sweet one. Although if I recall, it is more about desecrating remains and the choice between long life or a glorious death . . .”

The concerns of men. Kasia pinned her smile in place by sheer force of will and looked out over the ruins. “I look forward to the minstrel’s song. He is a talented musician.”

“The best.” They paused beside a perfectly preserved well. Xerxes peered down into it. “And the story inspires a man to live tall and die proud.”

A soldier Kasia did not recognize stepped forward. “We ought to offer libations, my lord, to the heroes who fell here. The magi could prepare suitable sacrifices to honor them.”

A shadow slithered through the fog. The arch of Xerxes’ brow looked far too amenable. “Not a bad idea. It would be a fitting end to the telling of the tale.”

“Xerxes.” She kept her voice low, but her heart thundered in her chest. “Will your god not be angry if you offer libations to the deities of the very people you march against?”

Because she knew hers would be.

His arm fell away from her waist. “Of course not. We would only be honoring the fighting men.”

It would be a mistake. She knew it, but his face told her that he would not hear a warning—that he already read it in her eyes and dismissed it.

His mouth had gone tight, his eyes sharp, his message clear. She was to hold her tongue. If she mentioned Jehovah here, in this company, she would be punished.

She swallowed and nodded. “As you will. I need to return to the camp and make myself ready for the meal.” She needed to pray.

He undoubtedly knew her real intent. Otherwise his “Of course” would have sounded more gracious.

Though she turned to leave, her feet would not budge. She drew in a steadying breath and met Xerxes’ hard gaze. “I love you,” she whispered.

His face relaxed, his smile reemerged. He lifted her hand and kissed it. “And I you.”

A few minutes later she was in her tent, on her rug, consumed by what Theron called her prayerful stupor. It was better than the fog. It could beat back the shadows.

When she opened her eyes again, the land was draped in twilight. “Mistress, you must rise. You are nearly late for the feast.”

She pulled herself to a seat as Desma knelt beside her with a hairbrush. “Mistress, please—you must pull yourself out of this. You drift like a cloud from day to day, place to place. Only in your prayers do you show any intensity. I cannot think Jehovah wills you live like this.”

If not, he would have to show her how to grasp hold of life again, because this was the best she could do. She dug up a smile for her friend. “I am all right.”

“You are not.” Desma blinked back tears that stung Kasia’s conscience as surely as they did her friend’s eyes. “You have lost a babe—you deserve to grieve. But Jehovah preserved your life for a reason, and it is not so you can give up now.”

“I have not given up. I just . . . I cannot . . .”

Desma sighed and made quick work of the brushing. “I know. Come, Leda has a fresh chiton and your jewelry.”

It took only a moment to slip into the soft, draping fabric, to secure the ropes of gold around her waist and throat. It took only a few minutes more to hurry across the camp to the tent that housed the feast.

She paused just inside it and looked around. The women usually gathered in a corner, but since arriving in Troy they had interspersed throughout, so that they might hear the singing of the epic with their husbands. She had enjoyed leaning close to Xerxes, pretending he would not send her away as soon as the minstrel concluded for the night.

She spotted him flanked by Lalasa and Diona—both bejeweled and looking smug. Odd. Lately, if one was satisfied the other was annoyed.

Xerxes did not look at either of them. He was saying something to one of Diona’s maids, something that made the girl simper and laugh. Then he took her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm.

Her heart gave one thud, then seemed to stop. It should not distress her. She should not care if the king dallied with one of the slaves—it was his right. And obviously had Diona’s approval.

But the fog came rushing in, forcing her back a step.

He had three concubines with him. Dozens of wives at home. Must he seek entertainment outside the marriage bonds? Did he think this girl could please him when those who knew him well could not?

Angry tears burned at her eyes, and she spun back to her tent. Perhaps this was how the other wives felt when they saw the new additions to the harem. Perhaps they wondered why he always needed more women, younger and prettier, when he had
them
already.

After that first week, she had never minded the other wives. Through her prayers she saw that they went to him in the pursuit of holy union and lawful heirs, not an evening’s recreation.

No, that was unfair. This was not about the morality—masters had a right to their slaves, even in the Law. She had learned not to be jealous of the other wives because she had always known he loved her best. She was the one he called most. The one he always wanted. The one that he never tired of.

An assurance she had no longer.

She did not want to be consumed so by jealousy. Madness lay down that road, or bitter hatred. This feeling spiraling through her was the abyss from which intrigue sprang. Slander, maligning . . . even murder. She would not succumb. She would
not
.

Back inside the sanctuary of her tent, she tore the necklace from her neck and tossed it into her trunk. She squeezed her eyes shut when the smack of gold on wood reminded her of Xerxes’ tempers.

He was a man of passions, strong and shifting. She loved him for it, even as she hated this newest manifestation.

Desma positioned the gold more carefully and frowned. “What has upset you, mistress? Shall we tell the king you are unwell?”

“Let him wonder.” As soon as the words escaped, she winced. “I sound like Amestris.”

“Never.” Desma grinned, though she sobered quickly. “What has upset you?”

Had she not seen the exchange in the tent, or did it not strike her as out of the ordinary? “Does the king often entertain himself with his wives’ maidservants?”

Realization lit her friend’s eyes. “I should have warned you. Leda overheard the plan while you were praying. Lalasa and Diona are tired and frustrated and have decided to give your husband their maidservants, so that they might share the burden.”

Burden? She sank to the ground and wrapped her arms around her knees. What she would not give to share that burden again, to take her portion and theirs. “I see.”

“Mistress.” Leda crouched down beside her. “It is his love for you that makes him refuse his desire for you, which has led to this. Be comforted. You still have his heart.”

She nodded and pulled in a long breath. “Thank you. Please tell him I am not feeling well.”

She would miss hearing the end of the epic tonight, but she would rather wonder about that than watch Xerxes watch Diona’s slave. Besides, if he went through with sacrifices as planned, she had no desire to be there.

No good could come of it.

~*~

Xerxes jolted up, the cry still raw in his throat. Already the nightmare sprinted away, too fleet of foot for him to pin down any one image. But the unease lingered—worse, grew stronger with each beat of blood through his veins. Something was wrong.

The woman beside him whimpered and thrashed, nearly smacking him. He jerked away with a curse. “Wake up, woman. It is only a dream.”

The wench screamed, sobbed. Xerxes grabbed his tunic and pulled it over his head as he stood. More screams pierced the air than what came from Diona’s girl.

“Master?” Zethar’s voice shook as he entered. Xerxes blinked at the influx of torchlight. “You are needed. Everyone—it is as if demons chase them all in their sleep.”

Yes, that was what it had felt like. Some devil bearing down on him, teeth gnashing, talons flashing . . . he gave his head a fierce shake to dislodge the image. “It sounds like a massacre.”

“It started all at once. Those of us awake looked around for some enemy, but there is none.”

His breath came faster than he would have liked as he strode from the tent. The cries surrounded him, loud as a storm with an undertone of whimpers. It was as though Fear had taken form and slunk among them.

His other eunuchs staggered over to them. He nodded a greeting. “Wake everyone you can and have them do the same with their neighbors. It is better when out of the clutches of the nightmare.”

He took off at a run for Kasia’s tent. This did not feel like the god, not exactly. Perhaps the screams sounded like his uncle’s had when he awoke from the dream Ahura Mazda had sent, but Xerxes had never felt him like this.

Still, what if it were from him? What if, yet again, his wrath focused on Kasia? If he lost her now, after the torture of staying away from her—

Zethar’s breath shuddered beside him. “I fear for my mother, master. What if something like this has struck Persia? She has no one, no one to comfort her.”

“My son!” came a shout from his right. “Spare my son, god!”

Xerxes halted, listened. From every direction came cries of names and relations, occasionally an object. The ones dearest to each heart? The things they most feared for?

He surged forward again, and reached Kasia’s tent within a few strides. Light spilled out when Zethar pulled the flap open for him.

He knew not what he expected. To find her in agony and near death was his worst fear. At the least, she ought to be crying out like everyone else. He admitted the possibility that she would have already taken to her prayer rug and would be beseeching her God for whatever she thought Jehovah could do.

He did not expect this. Kasia sat in the center of her tent on a mound of pillows, singing to a collection of at least twenty children. His own he spotted immediately. A few of the others he recognized as belonging to the concubines of his brothers and cousins.

“What in Hades is going on here?”

Theron bowed and stepped near. “They started coming an hour ago, tugging nurses along with them.” He motioned to the servants sleeping against the outer wall. Peacefully. “Mistress had been praying ever since the sacrifices. She stopped seconds before the first ones entered—your three, master. She welcomed them as if she had been expecting them and started singing to them. The rest arrived soon after.”

The sacrifices. Of course. Ahura Madza had been displeased, had sent the spirit of fear to show them what they could expect without his blessing.

Yet . . . that did nothing to explain how Kasia managed an oasis of peace.

Twenty-Two

Susa, Persia

Zechariah craned his head around, though he still could not take in all the splendor. “You were right, Ruana, even you could not damage his treasury. This house . . .”

Ruana graced him with her usual coy grin. “It is beautiful, is it not? The king rewarded Asho generously for the service in Egypt that injured his leg.” She motioned him down a corridor. “My room is this way. I considered bringing the table you crafted for me before, but it was far too small.”

“Too small?” He chuckled and followed her into the cavernous room at the end of the hall. When he stepped inside, his eyebrows rose. “Yes, I suppose it would have been. How do you not get lost in here?”

“I like space to move around.” She twirled in proof. “My husband assures me his home in Persepolis is even grander, but I do not regret that we will remain in Susa this summer. I will enjoy putting my touch on this house.”

His gaze drifted to the bed behind her. The masterpiece had taken him, his father, and Joshua months to perfect. How they maneuvered it into the room he could not say. “You are pleased with the bedframe?”

“It is the most amazing thing I have ever seen.” Her dimples flashed. “Were you terribly tormented while making it?”

He laughed, but a few images sprang up before his eyes. “Terribly—I could neither eat nor sleep. I became a mere ghost of a man.”

“I am glad to hear it.” She chuckled and settled her fingers on his arm. It took monumental effort to ignore the heat that seared his flesh. “The table will go right over here, if you would like to measure the space.”

He nodded and hoped he looked nonchalant as he moved away. Never would he admit that she had been in his thoughts nearly as much as he joked. But night after night she had inspired dreams that he had beaten from his mind in the morning with relentless training.