Jewel of Persia (48 page)

~*~

His vision blurred. His blood pounded. His muscles bunched and coiled. Xerxes could not remember the last time the rage had come upon him so intensely. When the bridge was destroyed? No, this was worse. This was not about wood and rope, earth and water.

This was about flesh of his flesh, wife of his heart.

How could he? How could his son—his own son, the boy he had spoiled, had taught, had handed the reins of his kingdom to—do this to him? He knew—
knew
—what Kasia meant to him. He could take any other woman—blast it, most any other
wife
— with minimal consequences. But not her.

Not. Her.

Why had he thought it worth the risk? Had she encouraged him in some way? Never—he had no doubt Kasia fought him with all the might she could spare, but she had been weak with the pregnancy and would have feared hurting their child.

Poor Kasia, having to endure such a thing. No wonder she refused to look at the prince, no wonder she changed the subject whenever he came up. What agony must she feel around him? He could not blame her for not telling him. It would hurt too much, and she would fear his reaction. But he knew exactly who to blame.

His son would pay.

He stormed to the palace that had once been his father’s personal quarters, the one he had given to his son upon his wedding. Just inside the front columns, he halted and spun to face his servants. “You come no farther.”

The furrow in Zethar’s brow was deep as a canal. “But master—”

He slashed a hand through the air. “No. This is between me and my son. Stay here.”

Knowing they would obey whether they liked it or not, Xerxes strode forward again, through the cavernous entryway, through the empty receiving rooms. Where was he? “Darius!”

He pounded into the bed chamber when all others proved empty, sending the door crashing into the wall. If his son were not here—

A startled cry drew his gaze to the corner of the room. Artaynte stood by one of the low windows, hand clutching her throat.

Xerxes was in no mood for female dramatics. “Where is your husband?”

Her hand fell away, and with it went all expression from her face. She looked as cold as he felt molten. “I do not know. Probably off trying to get a glimpse of your wife.”

The blackest of curses tripped off his tongue as his hand sought and found something to send into the wall. Its crash resonated perfectly with the notes of fury within him. “You know.”

Artaynte made no reaction to the display of temper. “I would have to be blind not to see the way he looks at her. And deaf not to hear him cry her name when it should be mine.”

A roar left his throat raw and aching, like the rest of him. “Do you know what he did in Sardis? Do you know he forced himself upon her?”

“I saw him kiss her and assumed the rest.” Her voice was low, but it throbbed. “I thought I could still take back his heart. I was a fool.”

“I will not forgive this.” But how to punish him?

Artaynte turned her face away. “What good is forgiveness? I would see him humbled.”

“Humbled? He is all pride.”

And he was his heir. Xerxes could not smite Darius without smiting himself, not if he took any public action.

“Then I shall strip him of his pride.” The girl trembled as she spat the words.

“How?” Then again, it had not been a public crime. It had been a private one, an intimate one.

She raised her chin. “The same way he stripped me of mine. I shall give myself to another and let the court laugh at
him
.”

He realized his vision had been edged with red only when it went dark. The room felt heavy, shadowed in spite of the afternoon sunlight.

His voice sounded strange to his ears, too cold for the rage slicking through his veins. “Who did you have in mind?”

~*~

Something was wrong. Kasia could not put her finger on what, but she could feel it. A discord, a pebble in life’s shoe.

She studied her husband as she bounced little Zillah gently against her shoulder. They sat in the gardens, the sun bright and warm, the flora fragrant. But sorrow lurked in the corners of his smile, tension shadowed his eyes. It had been there for weeks, but she could not figure out why.

Xerxes caught her gaze and quirked a brow. “Why do you look at me like that, my love? Have I an epic inscribed on my forehead?”

She refused to smile, though it took some effort. “I will figure it out eventually, you know.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” Yet the sorrow flickered before he smiled it away. “Unless perhaps that you will figure out what gift you ought to request during my birthday feast?”

She breathed a laugh. “I maintain it is a dangerous practice—granting everyone whatever they want on your birthday, unable to say no . . .”

“I have to
agree
to grant them something—then I am powerless to deny them. Hence why I only allow a few requests every year.” He stroked Zillah’s bald head—Kasia was not certain where all that dark hair had gone—and grinned. “And I am eager to extend the right of request to you this year, my love.”

“Unnecessary.” She kissed his hand, then the babe’s head. “I have everything I want already.”

“Oh, come now. You could ask for that city you have always wanted. Up to half my kingdom—say the word and it is yours.”

Laughter bubbled up and spilled out. “Very likely. Perhaps I shall instead ask that you tell me what troubles you.”

His grin faded away. “There is nothing to tell.”

“Xerxes.”

He sighed and cupped her cheek. “And if there is, and I want to spare you the concern of it, you ought to grant me the indulgence. It is my birthday.”

“It is not.” But he needed the indulgence. Anything to banish that sadness from his eyes. “Your birthday is next week, and I think it strange you take seven days to celebrate it.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps that was how long the empire celebrated when I was born.”

“Ha! At the time, you were only another son.”

Something flickered across his face when she said
son
. Whatever bothered him was linked to Darius then.

In which case, she would stay out of it. “Very well, I will relent. Consider it the first of my gifts to you.”

“You are the only gift I need.” His eyes slid closed as he rested his forehead against hers. “Join me at the feasts. I know you have not been purified yet, but I read these Levitical laws. There will be nothing sacred—”

“No, my love. I do not feel up to presenting myself before the court yet. Between nursing and diaper changes and restless nights—”

He pulled away with a hum. “Did I not tell you to ask for a nurse to help during the nights, at least?”

“And in the middle of the night, I am tempted to do so.” She offered him a cheeky smile. “But in the morning, I cannot bear the thought of letting another give her life instead of me.”

“Stubborn woman.”

“I must be, to hold my own against you.”

He offered her a crooked smile. “And on that note, I must go.” He pushed himself to his feet and helped her to hers. “I love you.”

She echoed the sentiment and watched him walk away, his shoulders hunched. A frown tugged at her brows. What could be between him and Darius, to cause such distress? Had he discovered that the prince approached her in Sardis?

No, it could not be that. If he knew, he would not be sad—he would be angry. He would rant and rage, and Zethar would call on her to soothe his temper. He had not.

She would give it some prayer. With a smile for her servants, she headed toward her room.

“Kasia?”

She paused at the semi-familiar female voice. Another wife approached her, one a decade her senior. One who had muttered against her before the war. She had not interacted with her since. “Good morning, Aglea.”

The woman gave her a flustered smile. “Good morning. May I walk with you back to your room?”

“Oh . . . of course.” She repositioned Zillah and tried not to look too curious. “How have you and your children been?”

“Quite well.” Aglea sucked in a breath. “It is my son I wanted to discuss.”

Kasia’s brows lifted. What advice could Aglea possibly need from her? “I saw him yesterday—he brought his little sister to the garden when I was telling stories.”

Aglea smiled. “He said he enjoyed it. That he put a few questions to you and recited a Persian poem that was similiar to the Hebrew psalm you sang.”

Her lips tugged up at the memory. “He is a clever boy.”

“I know.” Aglea stopped, and put a soft hand on Kasia’s arm. “That is the thing. When the king left, Damon struggled in his studies, and our husband more or less dismissed him from consideration for future offices. I know the tutors will give him a good report now, but it would . . . he would believe it more readily if you spoke to him. If you told him what a smart young man he has become.”

She could only stare, then remind herself to blink. “You want me to speak to the king about your son for you?”

Aglea dropped her gaze. “I know it is much to ask. I have a tapestry I have been working on that I would be happy to give you in exchange—”

“No. No, you need not purchase my goodwill.” She patted Aglea’s hand. “I already told Xerxes about how well Damon recited, the cleverness of his questions.”

“You did?” Tears glimmered in Aglea’s eyes. “Thank you. You cannot know what this means to us.”

Perhaps not. She was not even certain what it meant to her. Yes, Diona and Lalasa had asked favors of her from time to time, but they were fellow concubines, friends. Aglea was the daughter of a king, a wife of such high rank . . . yet asking her for help.

Desma leaned close as they continued toward her chamber after Aglea dashed away. “We told you this would happen, did we not?”

“You did.” But she was unaccustomed to receiving respect from these women. She felt better capable of handling their derision than this.

~*~

Artaynte twisted the bedcover between her fingers. Her heart pounded, but not from passion. Oh, she could forget he was more than a man when he held her, but the moment he eased away, it all crashed down again.

She had taken the king as a lover, and the weight of it may just suffocate her. He was no less terrifying than ever, especially given the look on his face now, as he sat up and stared ahead. Panic curled inside her. He may have offered himself as a conspirator in this plan, but each time he came to her, he seemed a little more on edge, a little more deadly.

He despised her for this. She saw it in the shutter of his eyes, the tension in his arms as he reached for his tunic. It was only a matter of time before he called a halt to it and instructed her to pretend it never happened.

But Darius had not caught on yet, and she would not let this be for nothing. All the terror, the nausea that seized her after each tryst—what was the point of it, if her husband did not even realize what she had done? He could not be humbled if it remained a secret.

And surely the king wanted him to know too. How was it a punishment otherwise?

She cleared her throat and prayed the god would steady her voice. “My lord.”

He paused but did not look at her. He never looked at her, except when his eyes were glazed with animal instinct. “Hmm?”

She drew in a deep breath. “I need a boon.”

Now his hard gaze rested on her, and she wished it did not. “A boon.”

She looked at the bed cover, woven with gold in an intricate pattern. “Yes. Your son does not pay enough attention to me to realize what is going on, but it is pointless unless he does.”

The king sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “What do you want?”

Her gaze fell on the shawl still draped carelessly over a chair. The moment she thought to ask for a favor, she knew exactly what it must be. She nodded at it.

His face twisted. “No. Not that.”

“Nothing else will work, my lord. He will know the moment he sees it on me what has happened.”

“As will everyone else.”

Yes, that was the point. Humility would not be complete if it were private—not when all the court whispered that Darius had no use for his wife. “If you are worried of what Kasia will think, you need not be. No one will speak of it to her.”

He gripped the frame of the bed until his knuckles went white. “But what of Amestris? She will not appreciate that I have given the work of her hands to her son’s wife.”

Amestris—Artaynte had done her best to avoid the former queen all her life, and for good reason. But since the woman could not appear anywhere the king did, she would be safe enough wearing it to the birthday feasts. “I want the shawl.”

Even when pleading, he looked fierce. “Would you not rather have a city? Ten cities?”