Jewel of Persia (52 page)

“Fine.” He sighed, his eyes sliding closed for a moment. “At first light, have the scouts go out into the city.”

“The king has made a wise decision.”

His first in weeks, though Kasia pressed her lips together against the words. The council retreated from her room, and Xerxes stepped closer. She backed up, which earned her another sigh and a pleading, “Kasia . . .”

She shook her head. “She was the only friend I had not already your wife, the only one I did not have to share you with. You robbed me of that.”

Regret twisted his face—but regret never changed anything. “I was not thinking. When I heard that my son had taken you in his arms, had shown no signs of stopping . . . I have never felt such rage.”

“Then you know how I feel now.”

He paced to the window, hands on hips. “You are remarkably measured for being enraged.”

True. It was not a flash, it was a throb. More pain than anger. More disappointment than thirst for revenge.

One of Xerxes’ lesser eunuchs stepped inside. “Master. Your brother just returned to his house and found his wife. She died in his arms, and he . . . he took off for the stable, shouting that he would rally an army against you in Bactra.”

He felt the pain too, she knew. Perhaps saw his empire waver before his eyes. If Masistes succeeded, it would mean civil war. Unrest. Uprisings, assassination plots. The weight of it aged him a decade before her eyes. “You must stop him . . . whatever it takes.”

They all knew what it would take.

Kasia sank onto her bed, wondering how many more deaths would stain this night. “Go to your son.”

“What?”

“Preserve what family you have left, Xerxes. Go to Darius and Artaynte. Beg their forgiveness, before your kingdom fractures beyond repair.”

He stood there a long moment measuring her. Then he dropped a kiss on Zillah’s head, kissed Kasia once before she could draw away, and sped from the room.

She closed her eyes and wished for the comfort of her mother’s arms. Wished she had fallen in love with someone other than a king who thought he could bend the world to his will. Wished for a simpler life.

Something she would never know. Too weary to hold the tears at bay another moment, she fell onto her bed and let herself cry. Wrapped her fingers around the torc, tugged it down to her wrist, pulled it off. She gripped it, unable to cast it aside as she had done once before, unable to put it back on.

She was trapped. Trapped between love and hate, between loyalty and disgust. There was nowhere to go from here.

~*~

Xerxes followed the sound of sobs through his son’s palace. So many haunting, taunting reminders of their shame. Pulling, tugging until he felt he would shatter.

It was not supposed to be this way. Perhaps he wanted Darius humble and apologetic. Perhaps he wanted to see in his son’s eyes the same pain Xerxes felt.

But not this. He had never wanted Parsisa’s gruesome death. And Masistes . . . his throat burned when he thought of his brother. This never should have involved his brother. How had the consequences reached so far, touched so many?

He stepped into the room and saw Artaynte curled into a ball on a chaise, Darius staring blankly out a window. And in the distance between them, in the stony look on his son’s face, he saw a million fractures that could splinter, break away, fester. A million ways this could go worse still.

Masistes had promised war. Darius could stage a coup. His empire, his father’s empire, could crumble and burn, Xerxes could end up dead at an assassin’s hand. Those loyal to him could be killed along with him, or forced into exile.

What a bloody, ugly world hid under the polish and shine. And all for a miscalculated revenge.

Somewhere in the tangle of thorns and fangs, there must be a path to safety. There must be a way that would strengthen rather than break.

For the first time in months, his soul yearned for the guidance of someone larger than himself. He could not return to Ahura Mazda—which left only one option.

Jehovah, God of the Jews. Kasia would say you know me. She would say you concern yourself with me because I am the ruler over your chosen ones. I do not know if you care about the man as well as the king. But if you do, if you would lend me your wisdom, I need it. I want to preserve my empire, preserve the lives within it. More, I want to preserve my family. How do I do that?

He paused, waited. Would he recognize the voice of his wife’s God? He did not know.

But he could hear hers. She had said something at Thermopylae, when they argued. Something about humility granting her peace.

Humility and a crown did not go hand in hand. A humble king could not command the respect of nations.

Darius jerked his head around, finally spotting him. Banked fury smoldered in his gaze.

He was not here as a king, he was here as a father. A father who had deliberately hurt the son of his flesh. Perhaps a father could be humble without being weak. Perhaps a father could find strength in granting his son healing.

Darius lifted his chin. “What do you want? To take my wife again? Perhaps parade her around the court so all can see you have made a whore of her?”

Xerxes sucked in a long breath. “I deserve your wrath. And I am sorry.”

“Sorry?” Darius sent a flickering lamp to the floor, where its own weight snuffed it out. “Being sorry does not restore my pride, or my wife’s honor.”

“No. Nor does it return Parsisa her life.”

From the chaise, Artaynte groaned. “It is over then? She is dead?”

“She is dead.” His voice sounded old and ill-used. “In your father’s arms. He sped off to Bactra, claiming he would raise an army.”

She groaned again—she would know what that meant.

Xerxes took another step into the room, faced his son. “I cannot undo what happened—would that I could. Haman told me that he saw you embrace Kasia, and he had assumed it went further than it did. I did not stop to ask questions. I judged, I sentenced. I wanted you to hurt as I did.” His eyes squeezed shut, and he shook his head. “I am a miserable father and a fool of a man. I could see nothing but my own rage, my own pain. I am sorry, Darius. You are my son, and I treated you like an enemy.”

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Darius sink into a chair. “You never take blame, you . . . I wanted to fight you. Now you force me to admit I am as miserable a son as you are a father. I knew you loved her above any other, knew you would not forgive it, and I pursued her anyway.”

“I forgive it.” The words tumbled out before he knew they had formed, shocking him as much as the two whose gazes flew to his face. “I did not before, but at this moment . . . our blood, our relationship is too important to sever.”

Darius plunged a hand into his hair. “Because I am your heir.”

“Because you are my son. Because I love you. And yes, because I want to pass to you a united kingdom, not one torn by civil war. I want to give it to you freely, after working to make it strong for you, as my father did. I do not want to help rip it to shreds before you or my brother force it from me, and me from life.”

Darius rubbed his eyes. “I wanted to hate you. I was doing an excellent job, but you are making it difficult.”

Somehow, a small laugh tickled his throat. “That was my goal. I do not want you to hate me—I saw the price of hatred today, and it is too bitter. If you learn anything from your mother, I hope it is that.”

“Mother did this.” The words rang with an incredulous resignation. “Had Parsisa killed.”

“She would have been angry over the shawl.” The next words got stuck, but Xerxes swallowed so he could force them out. “And I imagine she was furious on your behalf. You are her joy.”

“No, I am her pride. There is a vast difference.” He shoved to his feet, paced, but Xerxes could see that he had a goal in mind. It just took him a moment to work his way there, to his wife’s side. The hand he put on her shoulder looked hesitant, as if he feared she may turn and bite him. “My mother killed yours. That, on top of all that has passed between us, must make you despise me. If you want a divorce, I will grant it, and be generous. I will even arrange a marriage to a better man, one who will not treat you this way.”

Artaytne lifted her swollen, wet face. “You fool. I never wanted a better man, I wanted you. I thought—I thought if you saw me act as you had, it would make you see how I felt.”

He sat beside her, pulled her to his chest. “You succeeded in that.”

“At a price beyond reckoning.” Even from where he stood, Xerxes saw her shudder. “It cost my mother her life. It will cost my father his.”

But they held each other, Darius and Artaynte. Their arms came around each other, their tears mixed.

Something. Small, when one considered all the terrors of the evening. But something good.

He sighed. “I will leave you two to sort through this. Please, both of you—know I am sorry. Know that I crave your forgiveness more than anything.”

Artaynte did not look at him, but Darius did. His gaze was absent the rage, absent the fury. The nod he gave was not one of forgiveness itself, Xerxes knew—but it was the promise to try.

It would be enough for now.

He turned, left. And nearly collided with Zethar, whose face bore the stress of the night. “They caught up with your brother, master.”

Part of him wished Masistes would have made it home to Bactra, would have raised his army so that he might get his justice. The part that was brother rather than king. “And?’

“He is dead.”

Xerxes nodded, strode outside. He felt half dead himself.

Forty

Esther rose with the dawn after a night filled more with tears and fury than sleep. She washed her face, glanced in the polished brass mirror to see how terrible she looked. And snorted when she realized her eyes were no longer swollen, not even circled with shadows. She looked as though nothing had happened. As if her world had not fallen apart.

The frozen rock where her heart used to be said otherwise.

Zechariah would come by at some point today, try to speak to her again. She had no intention of listening, but she dressed in her finest just to spite him. Carefully arranged her hair, even wore the gold necklace her cousin had given her for her birthday. She did
not
touch the intricate wooden bracelet Zechariah had made for her. Perhaps it was childish, but she did not care—she wanted him to see what he had given up.

She stepped out into the living area, and the walls closed in. There was no sanctuary from the truth within her cousin’s home.

“Esther.” Mordecai stepped out of his chamber, his face set. “I spent the night in prayer about you and Zechariah—”

“You need not say it. It no longer matters.” She should have told him last night, should have saved him the hours on the floor. But she had been too upset to face anyone. “I will not marry him.”

Mordecai’s brows drew together. “What happened?”

“I saw for myself the chains you felt binding him. They took the form of a lovely, married Persian woman carrying his child.”

He drew in a sharp breath and even gripped the doorframe. “I am sorry, my daughter.”

Was he? Sorry Zechariah had acted in such a way, yes. But was he sorry she had discovered it, or grateful she had seen it with her own eyes, so that he would not have to insist on what she did not understand?

Esther squeezed her eyes shut. She was unfit for company. “I need to get out for a while, cousin. Just to walk, to think.”

Mordecai nodded. “I believe Martha needs some things from the markets, if you wanted to head that way.”

“That is fine. I know what she needs, I will take care of it.” It would give her feet direction, her hands purpose.

Her mind, though. Her mind spun every which direction as she stepped into the cool morning air. With every footfall, it churned over thoughts of Zechariah, of Ruana, of her own dashed dreams. Of Mordecai, so close to Jehovah that he knew something was wrong. Why, then, had he not found a way to tell her long ago? Why had he let her love so much, so deeply, when he knew he would have to refuse Zechariah’s request for her hand?

Why could nothing ever go right? Nothing. Ever. Her parents, Kasia, now this. Oh, for a mother’s shoulder to cry on, for Kasia to talk to. She had only Zechariah’s mother, and she could hardly turn to her in this.

Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she blinked them down. So many years she had geared everything, absolutely everything, to gaining Zechariah’s attention. And for what? To hope, only to be destroyed?

No. She would not break. Not again.

The market stretched out before her, a cacophony of sounds and scents and sights even at this early hour. She breathed in the smell of spices and fruit ripening in the sun and let herself forget the rest for a moment. She headed for the grain-seller, and a minute later had a bag of it to be milled. Her next stop would be the Egyptian, for some chamomile.

When she turned, she smacked into the steady gaze of a stranger. It felt solid, somehow, as corporeal as if he had tossed a rope around her. For a second it held her immobile. Then she focused her eyes on the ground and hurried across the market to the Egyptian’s stall.