Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [187]
"Fadimah," Nazneen said in mourning tones, standing over her couch. The dead woman lay slack-faced and still, the boy's limp form clutched to her breast. "It need not have been so." And she looked at me, eyes moist under long lids. "No more. This is why I help you. You see? No more."
I saw, and nodded. Words were not enough for this death.
Words. I lack them; I do not have words to describe the courage of the women of the zenana in this time. So many details! It was hard, so hard, to put together a plan of this scope, of this magnitude, against odds so staggering it dries my tongue to think of it, even now. For most of what happened, I can take no credit. Once the wheels were set in motion, it was a valiant few who executed so much of it. Kaneka . . . Drucilla . . . Nazneen . . . even Jolanta. And the others, the countless others. There are women who died, others whose names I never knew—although I remember their faces, every one—who played crucial roles, overseeing the serving of the opium-laced pitchers. A small role, yes, but a vital one.
Our plans were laid. We could do no more.
I knew a little of what to expect, for the Mahrkagir told me. "Feasting, îshta, such as you have never seen in Daršanga! And you are to attend it with me. And then the vahmyâcatn, and the apprentices shall be dedicated, and the acolytes . . ." His lips curved tenderly. ". . . and the acolytes will present their offerings to Angra Mainyu, and the Aka-Magi will deem them fit or unfit. I will present you, îshta, I will present you as my bride." There was no irony in it; truly, he saw it thusly. "This is for you," he said, presenting me with a splendid crimson gown, the edges stiff with gold embroidery. "Do you like it?" he asked in an anxious tone. "It belonged to Hoshdar Ahzad's Queen, my father's first wife. Gashtaham said it would be well to make the most of your beauty for the vahmyâcam."
"It is beautiful, my lord," I murmured.
"It is!" He beamed. "It will adorn you, srîra. And this, and these . . . you will wear these as well." With careless hands, he scooped a queen's ransom of jewelry into my lap—ruby ear-drops, a collar of interlacing gold chains, bangles for both arms. "I, too, want you to be your most beautiful," he whispered in my ear.
"I will try, my lord," I promised him.
I could not have done it alone, when the day came, and fear knotted my belly. For all our preparation, I felt unready, uncertain and horribly aware of the danger.
The women of the zenana helped to dress me, combining their skills and means. A Caerdicci seamstress working with a bone needle and unraveled threads from Drucilla's shawl made cunning alterations to the gown so that it might fit me becomingly. A once-vain Menekhetan girl who had made kohl out of lamp-soot painted my eyes, grave as a squire arming a warrior for battle, while an Aragonian dabbed sandalwood oil at my wrists and throat. Two of the Ch'in, with lovely, porcelain faces, worked my hair into an elaborate upswept coif, affixing it in place with a pair of combs and Kaneka's ivory hairpins.
It was done.
Jolanta showed me my reflection in a tiny hand-mirror she had stolen from somewhere. I did not think Daeva Gashtaham and the Mahrkagir would be displeased. In the dim light of the zenana, the crimson gown glowed, shimmering with gold trim. Rubies shone at my ears, and gold gleamed at my throat and wrists. If my face was pale, my eyes were pools of darkness, the scarlet mote echoing the color ofthe gown. The ivory hairpins were unobtrusive in the elegantly coiled locks of my hair, mere delicate accents.
"This one," one of the Ch'in women said in her limited, lilting zenyan, guiding my hand to the rightmost hairpin. "You pull. Hair not fall."
"Thank you." My throat