The man nodded. “She expected as much and proposes a meeting. Wherever you would like, at whatever time.”
A headache pounded to life, and Zechariah pinched at the sudden pressure in his nose. Why was it that wherever Ruana was concerned, he felt as though his hands were bound?
He had no choice. But he could at least make sure there would be no temptation, no opportunity—and yet remain unseen. “Beside the bend in the river, at moon rise.”
Perhaps if he were in the place he associated with weapons training, he would be quicker to see and avoid any traps.
*
Amestris straightened her robes, her jewelry, and smiled at her eldest son. “You are certain I will not be breaking any laws?”
Darius chuckled, but his gaze admonished her for the sardonic tone. “Father will not be there until evening.”
“Good. I tire of solitude. I can hardly venture from my rooms without some servant barring my way and forbidding me go this direction or that because your father is there.
” She scowled and corrected the position of one of the roundels on Darius’ garment. “Perhaps if he did not spend all his time in my palace with that Jewess. . .”
“Let us not speak of her.” Darius turned away and started for the exit.
Amestris hurried to catch up. She only had a few hours to present herself, to show the world she was still the queen they had known before. A few hours to dazzle them,
strike fear into their hearts. She would not waste a moment.
“It is good to have you back, though I did not expect to see you so much. You have been neglecting your bride.” She could not stop the smirk. “Do you not like life with
Parsisa’s mouthpiece?”
“Mother—”
“I warned you years ago to stay away from her. I told you when you arrived to break off the betrothal. When will you learn to listen to me?”
“Perhaps when you offer something other than negatives. Can we not speak of Artaynte? I would like to enjoy the feast.”
Amestris huffed and lifted her chin. “Of what shall we speak then?” They mounted the stairs into the spacious garden where the feast had been set up.
“I am sure you will think of something. You never . . .”
When he let his sentence hang, Amestris glanced at his face. It had washed pale, and his gaze was caught on something across the garden. She scanned the crowd for what might
have struck him dumb.
She saw the colors first. Those bright, distinctive colors she had chosen with such care, had dyed over and again until the hues saturated each fiber. They swirled and
danced in the pattern she had sweated and cried over, the one so detailed that at times she feared she would go blind trying to focus on it.
Her shawl. The one whose weaving had cramped her hands for months, the one she had presented to her husband with such pride when he became king.
Her shawl—on that empty-headed harlot her son had married. She hissed where she wanted to scream, clenched her hands where she wanted to rip the cloth from the whore’s
shoulders. “What is she doing with that?”
Darius’s nostrils flared. “I think it fairly obvious. He must have given it to her. And there is only one reason he would do that.”
A million vile names vied for a place on her tongue. How could he? Was it not enough he had given the Jewish wench the torc she had commissioned for him? Was it not enough
he depose her? Did he now dare to toss her most acclaimed creation—the one thing he still wore that she had given him—so carelessly onto the shoulders of that—that—
Darius’s arm shot out like a bolt of lightning and hurled a pedestal and its bowl of fruit into the crowds. After a few shocked screams, silence pounded through the
gathering.
Amestris held her rage close while her son’s pulsed from him in waves. She watched the wordless accusation fly from his eyes, saw when it pierced his wife. Could hardly
believe that the girl dared to raise her chin and meet his burning gaze, even pull the shawl a little closer.
Unbearable. Unacceptable. She had not worked so hard to have her son destroyed by a careless father unable to contain his lust and an insipid wench that never should have
been promised his crown.
Darius spun and thundered back the way they had come. The twit had the audacity to smirk when he left.
Amestris turned to her servants. “I want you to go to the king during his feast. Wait until he is merry with wine, and then ask him to grant me a request. Remind him, if
you must, that I have obeyed his edicts entirely and do not wish to go against them now. Promise anything, but get him to agree.”
Her maid bowed. “As you wish, mistress.”
She headed back to her quarters, one thought crystalline in her mind—Artaynte never did anything without her mother first telling her to.
*
Xerxes set his rhyton of wine upon the table and laughed. “Artabanas, I have missed you.”