Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [200]
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 difficulty, 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 distraught.
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. Joscelin ..." 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