“I know.” She clung to him, buried her face in his chest. “It is just—I never thought to see you with him.”
“I never thought to see him. So many times I wanted to, but I could not disturb the life you had set up for him. Tell me Asho was a good father to him. Please.”
“Most of the time.” Her eyes closed with a sigh. “Unless he would say something about Jehovah, or the Law. He did not like
me
learning it, much less Navid. But I wanted him to know where he came from.”
No words existed to thank her for that, so he just buried a hand in her hair. “And you? Bijan told me Asho’s affection for you had faded, but . . .”
“Suffice it to say I will not mourn him.” A shiver ran through her.
He pulled back just enough to look into her face. He could not love her before, not with the guilt, then not given Esther. But now . . . he could, so easily. The mother of his son, who had risked her life to teach the boy the ways of his people. “I want to be a father to him, Ruana. I want to be a husband to you.”
She rested a hand against his cheek. “I have always loved you, Zech. Even when I jested it away, I loved you.”
His lips found hers, familiar yet long-forgotten. Old flames fanned to life, but it was different now. Tempered by time and growth, heated by promise instead of the forbidden. They could build a life together, a family. One worth fighting for.
“I would ask if I have to kill you too, Zech, were I not so confused. You two have not even spoken since I returned from Europe.”
Zechariah broke the kiss but did not release her as he looked to where Bijan and Eglah stood in the doorway. He smiled. “There was good reason for that.”
Still frowning, Bijan studied them. “Apparently, as that did not look like your first kiss. Do I need to thrash you after my side heals?”
“You would have reason, but I would prefer you give me your blessing to marry her.”
Bijan looked long at his sister, then sighed. “I expect someone to tell me what I missed while at war. But yes. Of course you have my blessing.” He glanced past them, to the pallet. “You do not mind raising another man’s son?”
Ruana’s eyes verified his thoughts—the truth would not stay hidden once they saw Navid beside Zechariah’s family. He cleared his throat. “He is my son, Bijan, not Asho’s.”
“
What
?”
“It was my doing, do not get angry with Zech.” Ruana’s spine went rigid under his hands. “And was Asho’s idea, actually.”
Her brother scowled. “That makes no sense.”
Her eyes slid shut. “He touched me only on our wedding night, to consummate the marriage. But he did not . . . like women. He preferred men. And—well, boys.”
Bijan cursed. “You will waste no time mourning him. Marry Zech as soon as his rabbi agrees, and let us all forget such a man ever ruled you.”
Ruana snuggled in and loosed a long breath. “Gladly.”
Forty-Eight
“Mistress?”
Esther turned from Kasia’s bed to where her maid stood in the doorway, face perplexed. “What is it, Calisto?”
The girl’s frown deepened as she stepped inside. “It is Mordecai the Jew, mistress. When I went out to the markets for you, I saw him before the gate, in sackcloth and ashes.”
Esther stood. “Surely not over Kasia—he would not mourn while she yet lives, would he?” Unless he knew something the rest of them did not. Had Jehovah told him . . . ?
“No, I cannot think so. The square was filled with Jews, all weeping and wailing.”
Not Kasia then—their whole people would not know to mourn for her. So what in the world . . . ? “Ask him to come and tell me what is happening.”
“He cannot enter the gates dressed like that, mistress.”
“Then take fresh garments to him first.”
Calisto bent her knee then dashed off.
Esther rested a hand on her forehead and turned back to Kasia. Dread curled in her stomach.
Something was wrong. She had felt the scratch of its claws when she stepped from her room this morning but assumed it the same worry that had dogged her for days.
Her knees ached to join Kasia’s servants in their supplication to Jehovah. She prayed silently as she sat beside her friend, but it did not feel enough. The weight of need pushed down on her shoulders, doubling as her mind turned over possible explanations for Mordecai’s lamenting.
Something was very, very wrong.
Calisto returned a few minutes later. “He refused the garments, mistress.”
The dread cinched tight. “Hathach!”
Her head eunuch stepped in from his post in the hall. “Mistress?”
Fear mounted upon dread and shook her from the inside out. “Hathach, go find Mordecai. Ask him why he mourns.”
Though she tried to sit patiently beside Kasia while he was gone, she ended up pacing the chamber, her soul crying silently to Jehovah. Yearning forward, upward, anywhere answers may lie. Answers for her friend, for her cousin. Answers, any answers to be had.
She jumped when the door opened and Hathach stepped in again.
His face was grim. “Your husband gave his signet to Haman, mistress, who immediately made it law that the Jews are to be destroyed, and their murderers rewarded for it. It is set for the last month of the year—the proclamation is being read in every town, every province. Here. A copy of it.”
Esther reached with trembling hand for the tablet, the news not even allowing relief that Mordecai’s mourning was not over Kasia. Her eyes blurred too much for her to read it. “I cannot believe it.”
“Mordecai asks . . .” He paused, swallowed, and gave her a strange look. “He commands you go before the king in supplication and plead for your people.”
Esther sank onto the chaise behind her. So, then. Her cousin thought this her purpose.
Hathach knelt before her, dipping his head so he could look her in the face. “Mistress, why did you never tell me? You know how we love you, you know you could trust us. Why did you not tell us he is your cousin?”
“I have no answer for that, Hathach. I could trust no one in the beginning, and then . . .” She shook her head and placed the tablet beside her. “I cannot go before him without being called—it would mean death.”
“Unless he holds out the scepter. Which he will surely do for you, mistress.”
“Will he?” Tears scalded her eyes, burned behind her nose. “I am not so sure. He has not called me for a month—”
“But you are his queen, Kasia’s dearest friend. You have gone to him before without being called.”
She turned her face away, which put Kasia in her line of sight again. Motionless, like nothing more than a doll. “But the last time was to tell him that his greatest love was struck down. When I tried to speak to him days ago, he lashed out. I have never been able to predict him like she can, Hathach. Perhaps he hates me for bearing the news. Perhaps he hates Jehovah for not sparing her this. And if I admit I lied about my heritage . . .”
He reached out and gripped her hand. “Mordecai said you ought not think in your heart you will escape any more than the rest of the Jews. If you do not stand for the Lord’s people, then another will be raised up and you and your father’s house shall perish.”
Her shoulders slumped. Mordecai had always understood her, had always encouraged her—yet now, when she most needed his support, he sent her a message of doom and refused to speak with her himself?
It felt as though the summer sun beat upon her, drying her up and scorching her flesh. She had never been the brave one, the risk-taker. She had never been the one to charge in and fight off the enemy. That was Kasia’s part, Zechariah’s. Never had she been suited for anything more than dwelling behind them. “If Kasia were awake—”
“She is not,” Hathach snapped, more angrily than he had ever dared speak to her. “But if she does not die now, she will by year’s end—as will your cousin, your neighbors. As will
you
, if you do not take a chance. Mistress.” He squeezed her hand, lowered his voice again. “Who is to say you did not come here for such a time as this? If Haman succeeds in his plans, your people will be wiped out in all of Persia, even those who have returned to Israel.”
A cool breeze blew across her soul, soothed the fire. It moved through her veins, along each nerve, until even her roiling mind felt the breath of peace.
All her life she had feared losing those she loved. Feared violence, disease, disaster. Afraid, always afraid someone else would be snatched from her—and now that possibility taunted her. They could all be taken, all of them in one fell swoop.
She was no longer a child, to cower in the shadows of her father’s house until a stranger came to rescue her. No longer a girl, to beg someone stronger to take care of her.
If she must die, better to do it fighting for others than while running like a coward in eleven months. Better to draw the king’s anger onto her for her deception than let it destroy her entire people.
She stood up, rolled her shoulders back. “Give this message to Mordecai: Go, gather all the Jews in Susa and have them fast for me for three days. They should neither drink nor eat, only pray. My servants and I will do the same here, and on the third day, I will break the law and go to the king. If I perish . . . well then, I perish.”
Hathach stood too, and nodded. Pride gleamed in his eyes.
~*~
Mordecai surveyed the empty streets, listened to the pulse of countless voices murmuring to Jehovah in the sanctuary of their homes. Below it, an undertone that set his pulse to dancing. It was not mankind alone that gathered tonight. He sensed the hedge around them, wings stretched wide until tip touched tip. Outside it, the shadows dipped and dove.
But his people would not be bothered these next three days, while they prayed for deliverance—first for their queen, and so for themselves.
Sending Esther such a harsh message had not been easy, but he had known it would make her stand tall, take her rightful place as leader of their people. His lips tugged up as he recalled all the surprise from neighbors who never realized his reclusive cousin had left his house and gone to the king’s. But then hope had lit every single set of despairing eyes.
He strode past his empty home and to Kish’s. His friends had been praying for Kasia before he brought them Esther’s request, but they had redoubled their efforts. Even the Persians now among them—an irony he hoped was not lost on Kish—joined in the prayers to the one God.
He let himself in, found his place on the floor beside Zechariah. On the young man’s other side lay his betrothed, prostrate before the Almighty. Only the youngest of the children were absent, out in Zechariah’s house with Sarai. He could hear her voice from here, lifted up in a psalm.
Jehovah would prevail. Their weeping had already turned to prayer—soon enough it would turn to singing.
~*~
Xerxes sat on his throne and wished he were in Kasia’s room, her hand in his and their children fighting for a place in his lap. Wished she would open her eyes and look at him with more than that leashed emotion. Wished she would sit up, admonish him for his worry with one of her witty rebukes, and demand he hand her the babe.
A week. A week she had lain there without moving, her body shrinking before his eyes. His lovely Kasia. His heart and soul.
He tried to pray. He did. But Jehovah never spoke to him but through her, and now that her lips were silenced . . .
A headache pounded. He lifted a hand, rubbed at his neck. One more meeting today, then he could leave. At least the court was quiet. All but empty.
Except for that movement at the perimeter of his inner court. He frowned and waited to see who dared disturb him.
Sunlight angled off the polished columns and glimmered against gold at head, neck, wrists, waist. Shimmered in the fabric as she moved.
He sighed and even managed a smile. Esther. Had he really yelled at her the other day? Kasia would have chided him endlessly for his behavior.
Esther’s company would do him good. He should have seen that a week ago. She would share his concerns, share his grief. He lowered the scepter in his hands and let his smile grow as she walked forward, all the way to the throne.
Grinning, she reached out and touched the top of the scepter. “I have a petition, my husband.”
Peace filled her eyes. He knew not how it was possible, but it was a balm on his soul. For the first time in a week, hope surged. “What do you wish, my queen? A city? Ten? I will give you up to half the kingdom.”
She laughed at the joke she had long shared with him and Kasia. “I have prepared a banquet. Will you and Haman join me?”
That was obviously not her petition, but a thoughtful gesture. Haman had been working nonstop for him this past week, always so busy that Xerxes had scarcely seen him. He deserved a break—and Xerxes needed one too. An hour or two in her calming company, yet still near Kasia.
“Zethar, fetch Haman and let the general know I will talk to him tomorrow instead of this afternoon.”