The darkness slid oily and suffocating over him. He turned back to Theron and Kasia. “Do you know what this is?”
Perhaps he was a fool to ask a slave for truth. But the eunuch offered a tight smile. “Ahura Mazda, I think. Each time we have felt this, our mistress bids us pray to Jehovah.”
“And it works?”
Theron nodded. “It is the only reason she has survived this long in the palace.”
“Then I will call upon him. Perhaps he will hear the supplication of a desperate Lydian, if the prayers are on behalf of his daughter.”
“He will.” The eunuch grimaced when Kasia tensed in his arms. “Another contraction. I must get her to her bed.”
“Of course, go.” Pythius drew in a resolute breath and turned to face down the darkness. He knew little of Jehovah, but one thing he was sure of—if this blackness came from the god of his king, he wanted no part of Mazdayasna.
He tried to call to mind his own gods, but their images looked like ash. He needed no more smoke and vapors, no more stone and marble. He needed light. And so far as he had seen today, only the God of Kasia offered it. His soul calling out for Jehovah, he went in search of the king.
~*~
Xerxes sprinted down the hall, not slowing until the doors to Kasia’s chamber opened before him. He had been two miles away by the time Pythius found him, and the horse he had grabbed went lame halfway back—he ran the rest of the way.
The sconces and lamps did little to penetrate the darkness. It was no wonder the commoners were upset—they did not fully understand the omen, nor the workings of the god. He was not so sure he did, either, but every step he took through the day-turned-night reminded him that fear of the god was where wisdom lay.
Once he stepped into Kasia’s room, he halted and sucked in a much-needed breath. His frown did not ease. Something was different in here. The flames burned brighter, the air was not so thick.
The god was not here.
His gaze went to the bed, where Kasia lay unmoving under a sheet, then to the corner of the room, where Desma swiped at her cheeks and fussed with a mound of rags. “What is going on?” he demanded. “Pythius said she fell from the wall, that she was badly hurt. Tell me she lives.”
“She lives.” The maid sniffed and rested a hand on the rags. “The babe was stillborn. A son, master.”
“No.” The word ripped its way out of his chest, rending it in two, yet made no more than a whisper into the room. He stumbled over to Kasia and knelt beside her. Strips of white cloth bound her head, trapped her hair. Her skin looked a deathly, pale olive against it, marked with angry red slashes and mottled bruises. Pressure burned behind his eyes and nose. “Does she know? Has she been awake?”
Her other maid, Leda, blotted at a wound on Kasia’s arm with a damp cloth. “No, master. She was semi-coherent while the pains were on her, enough to respond to them and push. She has not stirred since.”
“Lovely Kasia.” He wove his fingers through hers and reached with his other hand to caress an unblemished portion of her cheek. “Do not leave me, sweet one. I shall never forgive you if you do.”
Her head shifted into his touch, and her lashes fluttered open. Though her lips formed his name, no sound came out.
Xerxes reached for a chalice nearby and urged some liquid into her mouth. “There you are, my love.”
She looked at him out of haunted eyes. “Something is wrong,” she murmured.
“Yes.” He lifted her hand, kissed it. “But you are alive.”
“The babe.” He would have expected panic, not that bone-weary resignation. She drew in a long breath, wincing. “Was it a son or daughter?”
His voice would not work until he forced a swallow. “A son.”
Her fingers tightened around his. She drew in a shaky breath. “Why am I alive?”
Surely that sound was his heart, shattering into a million pieces. “Oh, my love, please. I know it pains you, but do not give up on life.”
Her free hand landed on his head and stroked through his hair. “That is not what I . . . I felt the afterlife opening before me, I saw a terrible darkness . . .”
“That was not death—it was the promise of victory.” He nodded to the open window that somehow held back the god. “It is only noon even now.”
“There is no victory without Jehovah.”
“Hmm?” He frowned down at her. “This has nothing to do with Jehovah, my love.”
“That is my fear.” Her eyes slid shut. “I want to hold him.”
It took him a moment to realize she meant the babe—when he did, he shook his head. “No, Kasia, it will only hurt you more.”
“Please, Xerxes.”
“Madness.” He touched his forehead to their joined hands, then stood and nodded to Desma. Denying her was impossible, but he could have no part in it. He wandered to the window and motioned Theron over.
“Master?”
Xerxes folded his arms over his chest. “I did not give Pythius time to explain—what happened?”
The eunuch blanched. “She was saying farewell to Artaynte, and the dog ran off. She asked me to fetch him and sent Desma to the wagon with her things—we protested, master, but she insisted she would be safe with Artaynte’s servants. I went after Zad, but I had not found him before the darkness came upon us. I heard her scream, and Desma and I hurried back to where she had been but found no one on the wall. We heard Zad again, below us, so followed the sound. He led us to her.”
Xerxes’ jaw clenched. “She must have stumbled in the darkness and fallen over the wall.”
“Presumably—but that does not explain everything. Why did no one shout when she fell? Was she alone?” Theron shook his head. “Something foul is at work here, master.”
“It was an accident.” Was it not?
He looked out the window again. How many times had he gazed out at the mountain from this very spot while Kasia puttered around her room? He knew the landscape—knew how sharp a fall it was from the wall. How unforgiving the steep, rocky ground would be.
It should have killed her, as surely as it killed their child.
From the bed came a choking sob that made his throat close in response. He nearly went to her but held himself in place. When the babe had been taken away, he would hold her close and soothe her tears. But he could not look at the child. Better to pretend it was like their others, faceless and unformed.
She should have done the same. It sounded as though her soul were being rent from her body with each cry. He spun around and motioned to Desma. “Take it away. Now.”
“No!” Kasia strained up when the maid lifted the bundle from her arms, reaching, grasping.
Xerxes rushed to intercept her arms and force her back down. “I know you want him, my love, but you must let him go.”
Her face twisted in agony, her body twisted away from his hold. He held tight anyway. “Stop.” It was more plea than command. “Please, Kasia, I cannot lose you too.”
Though her struggling ceased, she pushed herself up and into his arms rather than lying down as he had hoped she would. “I am well.”
“Do not be absurd. I have rarely seen men survive such injuries.”
“But . . .” Confusion flitted through her eyes. “I feel no pain. Only in here.” She splayed a hand over her heart.
Xerxes shook his head. “Perhaps that is eclipsing the physical, but your looks tell the true tale. You are badly hurt—and I know not what lies under this bandage.”
Theron stepped up behind Kasia. His face also told the tale. “It is bad, master.”
Kasia went lax against his chest. Terror snapped its jaws around him, especially when he looked down and saw perfect peace on her face. She could not die now—lack of pain did not indicate the end, did it?
She smiled. “My wounds will heal. I need only to rest in him.” Her eyes eased shut.
He gripped her shoulder and barely kept himself from shaking her. “Kasia!”
She hummed and turned her face into him again. Her breathing came deep and even. He relaxed. She slept, that was all.
A knock sounded as Xerxes eased her onto her bed. Leda scurried over to open the door.
“My king.” Masistes stood in the opening, all the high command behind him. “Pythius told us what happened. Does she live?”
“She does.” He leaned down to kiss her softly, then stood and moved out into the hall. The expressions on the men’s faces varied from concerned to incredulous. No doubt they had assumed the worst. He swallowed. “She delivered a stillborn son.”
Masistes winced. “I am sorry, brother. I know how you hoped.”
Xerxes cleared his throat and straightened his spine. “At least she has been spared.”
Pythius shook his head. His eyes were bloodshot and his face haggard, his shoulders bent in defeat. “I hoped the labor would stop and they would both live. And knew not how either could survive such a fall.”
“Do we know what caused it?” Haman shifted a bit from where he stood behind Masistes and Mardonius.
Xerxes shrugged. “We assume when the darkness descended, she tripped.”
Haman frowned. “There have been no other reports of injuries, for all the confusion. Do you not find it odd that she is the one person out of millions to suffer from the darkness?”
“I . . .” He had not. But Haman was right. Why would the god insulate the rest of the army but not her? “It makes no sense.”
Haman gazed into the room. “It is not so dark there as everywhere else.”
His blood seemed to chill, slow. “No. The god is not in there.”
“Perhaps that is the explanation then.” Haman said no more—just bowed and walked away.
Xerxes stared at the place he had been and tried to block out the thoughts clamoring to the forefront of his mind. Tried to cling to the promise Ahura Mazda had given him, to the sign they had received today.
But then, the god had said victory and greatness lay before him. He had never said at what price it would come. What if victory was not given, but must be bought? Perhaps . . . perhaps his son was the sacrifice required of him.
Pythius stepped close to his side. “Will she make it, do you think?”
He glanced at the friend that had so quickly come to cherish her as a daughter. “I think so.” If not, why would she have survived this long? Surely if the god required her, too, he would have taken her along with the babe.
And yet . . . she alone stolidly refused to give Ahura Mazda his dues. She alone lay in a circle of dawn’s light when the night of the god covered the rest of them.
How long before the deity lost patience with her and swept her away from him too?
Twenty
Susa, Persia
Esther dropped her basket, left the door swinging open behind her. There was no time to waste on such trivialities, not if Mordecai was as ill as Martha had said.
“Cousin? Cousin!”
She followed the low, excruciating cry to Mordecai’s chamber and pushed the door open with a creak. A gasp caught in her throat when she saw him writhing on the floor. “Mordecai!”
He clutched at his head, muttered something unintelligible, and curled into a ball. Esther dropped down beside him. “You must tell me what hurts you, my father.”
“Everything. Head.”
He had never been prone to headaches, and the way he clutched at it . . . “Let me see. Did you strike it?”
“Rock.”
“Oh, dear Lord, let him be all right.” She peeled his fingers away and probed gently at the back of his head. And frowned. There was no blood, no knot. Nothing to explain the level of pain he seemed to be in. “I cannot find an injury, Mordecai. Are you sure you struck it? Did you fall?”
“Cliff . . .”
She rocked back on her heels. “Susa has no cliffs.”
He groaned and rolled onto his side. Perhaps pain clouded his memory? Or he could be delirious. She touched her hand to his forehead. It was cool. “My father . . .”
When she rested her fingers on his arm, he jerked it away with a whimper. She let her hand fall against her leg to keep it from shaking. “Does your arm hurt too?”
“Cut.”
“It is not cut.” Why did she even bother with the tight whisper? Her words obviously meant nothing to him. He felt
something
. She loosened her shoulders. “I will call a physician.”
“No.” He grabbed her wrist and finally opened his eyes. The irises, usually a hazel as clear as the most precious of gems, were murky and dark. “No. Not . . . my pain.”
“Cousin, that makes no sense.” She lifted his hand off her wrist and held it. “Tell me what to do.”
He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes again. “Pray.”
His answer to everything. Esther shook her head and squeezed his fingers. “How? For what?”
“That this is sufficient.” He winced, writhed. “To save her.”
She bit her lip to keep from asking what “her” she was supposed to pray salvation for—and why she ought to be concerned with whoever it was when her cousin lay writhing on the floor.