Joscelin stirred, at that. The Chief Magus never moved. "It may be, Elua's child," he said unflinching, his words an eerie echo of the ka-Magus Gashtaham's. "It may be. But it is the will of your gods that has freed the Lord of Light, and you are a long way from Terre d'Ange. Heed my counsel, take my offer, and go."
It was too great a matter to decide on my own. Though I was grateful to be alive, I was weary to the bone, exhausted in body and spirit. I did not know, until then, it was possible to know such utter weariness and live. The gods of Terre d'Ange may be merciful, but they use their chosen hard. My head ached from tears wept for the dead, and I had yet to reckon the cost to the living. Ah, Elua! To myself, and to Joscelin most of all. Still, my task was far from done. I owed a debt to the zenana—and there was my promise. There was Imriel. He trusted me. Whatever it took to see him safe, it must be done. Beyond that, I could not think. Turning away from the old man, I leant my brow upon the window-sash, gazing across the dark plain, scattered with fires like distant stars. "Joscelin," I murmured. "What do we do?"
He came to stand behind me, his bound arm clumsy between us. "Love." The broken caress in his voice brought tears to my eyes. "I don't think we have a choice. The priest speaks the truth. Will you order the captives slain, if they chafe at our hold? The servants?" In the darkness, he shook his head. "I couldn't. Neither could you. And the others, were they to do it ... from what have we freed them, if they become like that which they despised? For good or for ill, Blessed Elua has set free Ahura Mazda. It is his will that led us here. I think we can but trust in it, and pray it leads us out."
I tried to think of another way.
I couldn't.
"I want aid," I said, rounding on the Magus Arshaka. "As much as you can give, whatever you can give. I want horses, mounts for whom ever can sit one, and wagons for those who can't. I want armor and arms for whomever will bear them, and supplies, bandages and medic aments, tents and blankets, and provision enough to get us to the border and beyond. I want a mule-train to carry them, and hostlers and bearers. I want four Magi to accompany us, whomever you deem hale enough for the journey. If you have talismans or tokens that will signify the protection of Ahura Mazda, I want those, too."
With every sentence, he nodded, and when I finished, said, "It will be done. All of it."
"It had better." I stepped close to the ancient priest, close enough that he drew back lest my nearness taint him, and I knew that in his eyes, I was still Death's Whore, the Mahrkagir's favorite. "My lord Magus, I swear to you, if you play us false, may Elua have mercy upon your soul."
"I do not lie," Arshaka said stiffly. "Ever."
Thus our fate was decided.
FIFTY-EIGHT
WE DEPARTED before sundown.It was not enough time to make ready for a journey of such diffi culty, not nearly enough, but our skins itched with the presence of danger, and all of us yearned to be free of the shadow of Daršanga.
The Chief Magus Arshaka kept his word. Stores were plundered, stables looted to provide all that I had requested. When the doors of the palace were opened, we braced ourselves to fight or die, but the inrushing guards of the outer garrison hailed the Magi as heroes.
It would have been a bitter irony, had I cared. I didn't. All I wanted was to see us out of Drujan, and safe.
Most of the zenana was going; only the Tatar women took their leave, rejoining such tribesmen as had survived, already preparing a hasty retreat of their own, no longer in favor. It surprised me, a little, that the women were willing to return to the very men who had given them to the Mahrkagir. Not much. The will that had united us had already begun to falter, and the call of blood—and home—is strong.
The others would ride with us to Khebbel-im-Akkad, where I fully intended to prevail upon the ties of House L'Envers and the D'Angeline throne to abjure Valère L'Envers and her husband to see each and every one restored to her homeland.
If we made it.
The dead who remained would be laid to rest in Drujan—with honor. The Chief Magus Arshaka had promised it. I could only accept his word. He had sworn to uphold the truth above all else and revile the dark lie. I suppose that he did, and I am wrong to resent him and his kind after their long suffering. But I am only mortal, and I could not forget the disgust in his face when I drew near to him.
Never, I daresay, has an undertaking been fraught with such chaos. Merely explaining it took the better part of the morning, accomplished in a babble of tongues, with the zenyan argot pervading. Outfitting the carts for the wounded took the rest, and transporting them the afternoon. That part, I supervised, attempting all the while to keep my eye on Imriel. Three times, he went to see the dead to confirm that the Kereyit Tatar Jagun was well and truly slain, which he assuredly was, and once he vanished in search of one of Joscelin's Cassiline daggers, the one that had killed the Skotophagotis. One of the women had snatched it up in passing in the wild rush for the festal hall. He found it, too, the hilt jutting from a Drujani soldier's ribs.
"Did you put him up to that?" I asked Joscelin, weary and dis traught.
He shook his head. "I mentioned it, that's all. My mistake. Phèdre, are you sure you're fit to ride? You're white as a sheet. We can make room in the third wagon."
"I'll be fine."
Joscelin raised his eyebrows. "Phèdre," he said gently. "I've heard . . . stories."
I looked away. "Yes, well. It doesn't matter. Let me . . . just let me leave as I came. Not ..." I watched a pair of Drujani servants bring out a young Hellene woman on a litter, careful not to jostle her. "Not like that. A victim."
"All right, then." He gave a wry smile when I glanced at him, shifting his arm in its sling. "Remember, if you faint and fall off your horse, I'm not going to be able to catch you."
"I won't." The words caught in my throat; I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him smile, except in battle. "I promise. Josce lin ..." I pressed my fingers to my aching temples, willing the too-ready tears to subside. "We'll put Imri in the wagon."
"He won't like it," he warned.
"Probably not," I said. "But it's the best place for him. You must have seen what Jagun did to him in the hall. The welts are still healing."
It was Joscelin's turn to look away. "I hate this," he said quietly. "I cannot tell you how much I hate this."
"I know." Even if there had been time, it was too enormous to discuss, too immediate. It lay between us, incomprehensible. I touched his uninjured hand. "Joscelin. Let's just. . . let's just get out of this alive, first. The rest can wait. If we can do that, the rest can wait.”
After a moment, he nodded. "It will have to."
With a couple of hours of light left to us, we took our leave of Daršanga.
It was an unwieldy, polyglot caravan of riders and wagons and mules, inching and groaning along, flying the pure-white standard of Ahura Mazda and flanked by four unhappy Magi. Still, we were moving, and the grey walls and pitch-blackened roofs of Daršanga palace fell behind us. In the city, people stared open-mouthed, unsure what to make of our company, but leaving us unmolested. No one cringed or fled. In the open temple, the Sacred Fire burned, and a party of workers cleared rubble, cleaning the square, righting the marble benches. The forges had gone cold. We passed through the city and onto the open road.
Joscelin was right; it hurt to ride. If I had willed myself past the endless nights of torment, my body had not forgotten the abuse it had undergone, the ravages of the Mahrkagir's iron rod. I was sore and raw, and the pressure of the saddle made me bite my lip in an effort not to scream.
I rode anyway.
Mayhap it was a punishment, a means of castigating myself for the pain I had inflicted in this god-cursed quest; I cannot say. It was foolish, I know that much, but it was somewhat I needed to do. I had ridden into Daršanga of my own will. I would leave the same way.
And behind me, straddling the saddle with his knees and clinging to my waist with determination, rising with a wince at every bump, rode Imriel. He'd refused the wagon—Joscelin had been right about that, too. I understood it, understood his folly better than my own.
He had his mother's pride, and I could not help but love it in him.
How not, when I had loved it in her?
Thus began our long, absurd trek across Drujan, which does not bear telling. Enough to say that we made it, most of us. Betimes we saw soldiers, the wolves of Angra Mainyu, bereft and leaderless. Some of them came to seek the Magi's blessing, penitent. Some saw the white flags and fled. I do not know who ruled in Daršanga, unless it be the Magus Arshaka.
Some of the injured died, despite our best efforts. Wounds took septic, or bled internally; one, with a blow to the head, fell asleep and never awakened. We lost seven in all, leaving scarcely fifty survivors from the zenana.
One was the Hellene girl I'd watched carried out, an islander sold at auction, traded to a Skotophagotis for a handful of coin. Ismene, her name was; I knew them all, by then. A sword-stroke had caught her beneath the armpit, and the gash had festered. I stayed with her the night she died, fever raging. Just before dawn, it broke and she grew lucid.
"Lypiphera" she said, seeing me and smiling. "I thought it was you."
"Shh, lie still." I removed the damp cloth, feeling her brow as she sought to rise, finding it cool. "Ismene, why do you call me that? I've heard it before."
"It is a story," she whispered, watching me wring out the cloth. "A story that slaves tell in Hellas. Sometimes the gods themselves find the pain of existence too much to bear. Because they are gods, they pick a mortal to bear it for them; a lypiphera, a pain-bearer." Catching my hand, she pressed it to her cheek and closed her eyes, still smiling. "Sometimes they take on mortal pain, too. It is a lucky thing, for slaves."
"Ismene." I swallowed my tears for the untold countless time, laying my palm against her soft skin. "Try to sleep."
