Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [131]
The Mahrkagir had such toys in Daršanga, rusted and dark with old blood.
I stared at them, my shivering intensifying. I could smell the fetid water of the zenana's stagnant pool and there was a foul taste in my mouth.
"Mavros." I clutched the front of his doublet. "I can't do this."
"Here." He steered me to a couch near the fire. "Sit." Glancing around, he snapped his fingers. An adept appeared almost instantly, a shy lad as graceful as a fawn, proferring cordial on a tray. "Drink this," Mavros ordered.
I obeyed, downing the glass. It was perry brandy, sweet and spicy. I wondered if it had been distilled at Lombelon. I could hear my cousins laughing and chatting pleasantly among themselves. A tightness in my chest loosened and the memories of Daršanga receded. This was Terre d'Ange, and there was no Three-Fold Path here.
"Better?" Mavros asked, crouching before me.
I nodded.
"Good." He frowned. "Imriel, listen to me. These are Naamah's Servants, bound to her worship in their own way. And yes, they serve Kushiel, too, and find pleasure in it. No one is here against their will. All here have chosen this. You need not take part in it. But it is time you understood your heritage. Are you willing?"
I drew a breath, feeling better. "I'm willing, Mavros. It's just…"
"I know," he said softly. "A little of it, anyway. But I swear to you, we honor Blessed Elua's precept here. Any one of us would sooner die than dishonor it."
"I understand," I said faintly. "Believe me, I do."
Mavros nodded. "We have a standing agreement with Valerian House. By coming here with us, you agree to abide by it." Rising to his feet, he ticked off the points on his fingers. "No maiming, ever. No branding and no flechettes; no wounds that will scar unless it has been agreed upon in separate contract beforehand. You will ascertain the signale of any adept with whom you engage, and honor it on pain of death. Is that clear?"
I looked away. Valerian adepts moved gracefully throughout the dungeon; lighting sconces, stoking the fire, proffering wine and cordial. Others lit lumps of opium, letting them smolder in fretted incensors. Thin threads of blue smoke rose, rendering the air heady.
That, too, reminded me of Daršanga. I pushed the thought away.
"Yes, I understand," I said to Mavros. "It won't be necessary."
"As you say." His twilight gaze rested on me. "I only ask that you abide."
"I will," I said stubbornly.
Mavros bowed to me. "So be it."
What ensued was an orgy. If there be any other name to give it, I do not know it. I sat there, glued to my couch, and watched all manner of love given license. And ah, Elua! I yearned at what I saw; yearned until it hurt.
This is what I saw.
Valerian's adepts, filing into the Shahrizai dungeon and presenting themselves to the Shahrizai, their eyes downcast. And yet, oh Blessed Elua! There was pride there in a manner I failed to expect. I saw it in the set of their shoulders, in their covert sidelong glances. They wanted to be chosen.
They wanted to be challenged.
And they were. Oh, gods above and beyond, they were! I watched my Shahrizai kin smile, their fingers beckoning. They played dangerous games, shameless before one another. Chains jangled and leather snapped, the wooden wheel spun. Flesh, nubile flesh, was laid bare. I groaned at the sight of emerging weals. Ah, Elua! There was a terrible beauty in it. For the first time, I saw it. A part of me yearned to claim it for myself; another part yearned to reject it. Torn by my own conflicting desires, I watched in helpless fascination.
"My lord!" A naked adept knelt on the floor alongside me, her golden hair spilling over her bare shoulders. She gazed up at me in entreaty. "Why do you hold yourself apart? Is there nothing here that pleases you? No one?"
I stared past her, gritting my teeth. Aprilios Shahrizai had another adept on the wooden wheel, laughing