Kushiel's Avatar (45 page)

Someone shoved me hard, from behind; I stumbled forward, tripping on my gown and falling heavily to my knees. The men shouted and beat their cups on the tables, the sound dinning against my ears like the beating of distant wings; no dove’s, these, but Kushiel’s.

At the end of the aisle, in the darkness, a figure stepped forward.

I lifted up my head and met his eyes.

Fine pinpricks of light illuminated the silver embroidery that chased his black surcoat, and he was smiling, smiling as he extended his hand. His eyes, fixed on mine, were lustrous and black, utterly black, utterly mad. My blood ran ice-cold in my veins, heat blazing between my thighs. I pressed my brow to the cold stones, then rose. His smile beckoned me homeward. I took one step, then another, my legs belonging to someone else. Home. I put my hand in his; his fingers closed over it, cold and dry. A strange rill of energy surged between us. I tasted fear and desire, his mad smile, and lost myself in his dilated eyes.

Home.

In a dreadful parody of courtesy, the Mahrkagir escorted me to his table, seating me beside him. I sat facing the dim-lit hall, the savage, cheering men. Already the women who had accompanied me were circulating among them-ostensibly, to refill their cups with beer or wine or rankly pungent kumis, the fermented mare’s milk favored by the Tatars. In truth, they were entertainment, there to be groped and fondled by any man bold enough to dare. One unruly group had the little Menekhetan boy atop their table, performing agonized back-bends and somersaults amid a gauntlet of naked blades; he had trained as an acrobat, once.

I sat and watched it in a state of shock, unmoving. The Mahrkagir smiled, one hand at the nape of my neck, and the icy touch of his fingers against my flesh held me riveted. I could feel my heart beating like a drum within my breast, my pulse beating between my thighs.
Blessed Elua, what have you done to me
? The Menekhetan boy whimpered, his limbs trembling as he sought to hold his pose. The Drujani laughed, two of them tossing daggers back and forth under his arched back. Elsewhere, one of the men moved his cup teasingly as an Ephesian woman sought to pour, forcing her to lean further and further over him; he bit her, then, on the upper curve of her breast, hard enough to leave the impress of his teeth. She cried out and dropped the pitcher. When it shattered, the Drujani laughed uproariously and pushed her to her knees, forcing her to lap the spilled beer with her tongue.

My gorge rose until I thought I might vomit, but the awful pulse of desire did not abate.

And there, a mere table away, sat Joscelin, surrounded by companionable Drujani. I do not know how he endured it. Even when he looked me full in the eyes, his face was absolutely expressionless. I have seen dead men who showed more emotion.

And I, who sat throbbing under the Mahrkagir’s touch, did not blame him for it.

An unearthly howl split the air, and a blazing trail of sparks; someone had tied a firebrand to a dog’s tail. I raised one hand to my mouth, smothering an outcry as the poor beast raced around the hall, sparks igniting its fur.

“Dogs,” a smooth voice said at my shoulder, “are sacred to the followers of Ahura Mazda, because they are loyal and do not lie.”

I looked up to see the
Skotophagotis
, repressing a shudder as I realized his torch-cast shadow fell over me. “Daeva Gashtaham,” I said, remembering what the Mahrkagir had called him.

The priest inclined his head, light gleaming redly from the polished boar’s-skull helm. “You have a keen memory.” He watched as the burning cur went into throes of agony. The noise was horrible. “Duzhmata,” he said in an idle tone, “duzhûshta, duzhvarshta. Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds; the three-fold path of Angra Mainyu.”

“Go away, Gashtaham.” The Mahrkagir spoke for the first time; his fingers caressed my neck. He smiled at his priest. “You brought her to me, now she is mine, and she does not need your counsel.” He turned his smile on me and I stared at him, helpless. “She has ill thoughts already. I hear them, licking at mine, begging. Is it not so?” he added, asking me.

Hypnotized by my twin reflections in the black moons of his eyes, I whispered, “Yes.”

“You are the first.” He watched the priest take his leave with a displeased bow. “I have sent my priests, the Âka-Magi of Angra Mainyu, abroad, far abroad, to see if any god dare stand against them. In mighty Khebbel-im-Akkad, in Menekhet, in Ephesus, even in Hellas, their servants quail with fear, and my
zenana
grows. The lords of Ch’in and Bodhistan send careless gifts, thinking I may one day prove an ally. They do not understand I am planting the seeds of death in my
zenana
. But you, ah!” The Mahrkagir took my chin in one hand, studying my face, his dilated gaze lingering on my moted left eye. “You,” he said, caressing my cheek, “are different. I feel it, I feel how the blood leaps in your veins to follow my touch.” His hand trailed down my throat, cupping one breast. “Duzhvarshta,” he murmured, pinching my erect nipple as hard as he could, fingers cold even through my gown. “Ill deeds.”

A bolt of pain shot through me and I stifled a moan.

“Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.” He smiled tenderly at me, maintaining a pincer-like grip. The pain was like a red-hot wire; my hips moved, thrusting involuntarily. “You crave these things. I know. I knew it when you knelt before me. Phè-dre.” My name was drawn out on his lips, and I whimpered in reply, my breathing shallow. “Your gods have chosen you for defilement. Is it not so?”

I closed my eyes. “Yes.”

The Mahrkagir released me, and the sudden absence of pain was a loss. “For a long time, I sought one of your kind. Now, the gods of Terre d’Ange tremble with fear and send tribute to the altar of Angra Mainyu!” he breathed. I opened my eyes to see his face flushed and exalted. “Soft and weak, they may be, but gods nonetheless!” He laughed, then, free and boyish. “You are the first to be summoned,” he said, caressing me lovingly. “The first.”

Unruly as the hall may have been, it heeded its master. At some point, they had fallen silent and begun to watch what transpired between us. They could not hear what was said, but they had seen-seen what he did to me, seen my response. The men looked vaguely awed; the women had expressions of scarce-veiled contempt.

And Joscelin …

Joscelin.

In all the years we had been together, as consort and mistress, as lovers, as courtesan and Cassiline, he had never seen me with a patron-not truly, not as the
anguissette
I am.

He had now.

We stared at each other unblinking. It was Joscelin who looked away.

“Enjoy, my lords.” The Mahrkagir rose to his feet, tugging me after him. With his free hand, he made a sweeping gesture, his black eyes wide and wild. “Tonight, what is mine is yours! Angra Mainyu has given me a sign. Let your deeds gladden his heart!”

And with that, he led me away.

Forty-Six

I DO not like to speak of this night, nor of the many that followed.

I had thought, before Drujan, that I knew somewhat of the darkness of the mortal heart, mine own included. I was wrong. I knew nothing.

The Mahrkagir’s quarters were cold and barren, like the rest of Daršanga, the walls stripped of adornment, booty piled in careless piles on the floor. His faithful guard Tahmuras escorted us there, taking up a post in the hallway when the doors were barred. I shivered in my gown-the saffron riding-attire that Favrielle nó Eglantine had made for me, in light wool for the Jebean heat-and looked about me.

Dirt and debris were mounded in the corners, and there were stains on the uncarpeted stone floor of the bedchamber. There was a flagellary … I suppose one would call it a flagellary. In Terre d’Ange, the implements of pleasure, violent or otherwise, are lovingly tended. Whips are cleaned and oiled, shackles polished, the mechanisms of stocks and barrels and wheels exquisitely maintained. Aides d’amour are kept in velvet-lined cases. Even Melisande … I remembered her flechettes, immaculate and gleaming, honed to a razor-blue edge.

Not here.

I gazed at the Mahrkagir’s cupboard, a jumbled array of devices tossed here and there, leather dry and cracked, rusty iron, caked with black blood. And I bit my tongue to keep from weeping.

“Duzhvarshta,” he said gently, freeing my hair from behind and running both hands through it. “Ill deeds. You understand?” He turned me around to face him, laying one hand over my groin. “Nothing that begets life.”

I nodded, tears in my eyes. And to show I understood, I went to my knees before him, undoing the drawstring of his trousers and performing the
languisement
.

Whatever else he might have experienced in the worship of Angra Mainyu, I do not think it prepared the Mahrkagir of Drujan for the attentions of a D’Angeline courtesan trained by one of the greatest adepts of the Night Court. I felt his entire body shudder as I took him into my mouth. Unlike his hands, his phallus was warm; rigid with blood, erect and straining. A strange feeling of relief enveloped me as his hands clamped hard on my head, fingers tangling in my hair, forcing me. I plied my art with consummate skill, working with lips and tongue, the small muscles deep in my throat, grateful for his groan of pleasure.

Until he pushed me away, and I fell sprawling on the cold flagstones.

“
I
decide,” the Mahrkagir said, and struck me across the face with the back of his hand, so hard that my ears rang and I tasted blood. He smiled calmly, ignoring his erect phallus, so hard that the head of it brushed his belly, and struck me again, splitting my lower lip. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” I mumbled thickly, blood trickling down my chin.

“Good.” He crouched over me and took my face in both hands, licking the blood from my chin and lip with one long swipe of his tongue. “Mm.”

It shocked and appalled me more than anything I have known; and still, even now, aroused me. There are a thousand reasons I do not care to remember these nights, but that is chiefest among them, always. Not what he did, but how I responded.

“Ill thoughts,” he whispered, and I could see my own blood spreading scarlet on his tongue as he said it, his left hand sliding beneath my gown, my undergarments. Cold, so cold! His fingers parted the folds of my nether lips, finding me moist and eager. “Ill words, whore of the gods.” With a sudden thrust, he slid two ice-cold fingers inside me. I made a helpless noise and surged forward, meeting his hand. “Ill deeds.” Deftly, his thumb penetrated me to the rear, and now with one hand, he held my entire nether region in a viselike grip. It hurt, and the force of my climax shook me. The Mahrkagir smiled tenderly at me, watching with his mad, mad eyes. “Now you understand.”

I nodded dumbly, licking my split lip.

“Ishtâ.” Murmuring a Persian endearment, he withdrew his hand from me. “I think you will become very, very special to me. Now take off your clothes.”

That was the beginning.

There was more, a good deal more. Much of it hurt. It was not that he was particularly skilled in the arts of pain. He wasn’t. I have known better-or worse, as it may be. I am not even sure myself which is true.
Your gods have chosen you for defilement
, he had said, and that was his gift. In time, he made me beg for what he did to me. Ill words. I did. I said all that he wished to hear. It was cold and dark and filthy, and I meant every word of it.

And then it got worse.

I did not see, at first, what he took from the cupboard, only that he handled it reverently. It had been some hours, I think, and my vision was blurred with exhaustion and tears, my body aching in every part from the violent commingling of abuse and pleasure. “You see?” he asked, stroking the leather straps, the thick buckles, showing me how the inside was hollow, lined with a cushion of oiled kidskin. Alone among the rest, this device had been tended with love. “A blacksmith made it for me. You see?”

I nodded dully, a knot of terror in my belly. I saw.

The Mahrkagir smiled, easing himself inside it, fastening the sturdy buckles. Man-shaped, the cold iron glinted, nubbed with hundreds of blunt spikes. It jutted from his loins like some terrible implement of war. “It is for you, ishtâ,” he said fondly, stroking my hair. “All for you.”

My lips shaped the sound of my
signale
, no; enough, no more.

Hyacinthe
.

He took me with it from behind, one hand shoving my face into the stained bedclothes. I do not have words to describe the pain of it.
How eager is he to plant his iron rod inside you
? More fool I, I had thought it a figure of speech. It wasn’t. At the first thrust, I thought I would die, split asunder. My breath caught in my throat; I heard a mewling sound, unaware it was me. It was the sound of a dumb animal in pain. Surely now, here, there could be only agony …

Would that it were so.

Even this … even this. My body betrayed me, accommodating the agony, inner flesh torn, slick with desire and blood, accommodating… him, the dreadful iron reaving me in twain, all of it. I laid my cheek on the bedclothes, scratching roughly with the rhythm of his thrusting, staring onto darkness. Let him kill me with it, I thought. Let him. Pleasure mounted, inexorable, unspeakable. My fingers clenched on the bedclothes, clenched and released. A crimson veil fell over my vision. I could hear his breath, coming harshly now; he had released my nape, both hands clutching my hips, loins thrusting. The iron nubs … Elua! What damage was it doing? I hoped he would never stop. I hoped I would die.

In the scarlet haze, Kushiel’s face swam before me, loving and remorseless, bronze eyes heavy-lidded and downcast. In one hand … in one hand he held forth a diamond, hanging from a velvet cord. I stared at it, blinking, while the Mahrkagir labored behind me. Darkness surged in waves as Kushiel bent low over me, murmuring a tender benediction over my averted face, offering. The diamond dangled from his hand, refracting light from myriad facets, filling my gaze as the awful pleasure rose and rose… .

… until I breathed in, sharply, uttering a broken cry, and the diamond fractured; light, Blessed Elua, the
light
, dazzling, a thousand stars, drawn in through my gasping mouth, spangling the very blood in my veins, bursting inside of me, opening a window onto a universe more vast, more unfathomable …