Perhaps she should not have stopped him from having her killed years ago.
No, that was anger speaking. Anger and horror, and a dash of guilt mixed in. She should have told Xerxes about Darius when he arrived in Sardis. Should have told him exactly
what happened, so that he would have known what did not. Trying to spare his temper had only given it fuel.
The eldest member of the council inclined his white-haired head. “Persia has been too long without a queen, my lord. The women need someone to follow. The harem needs a
leader.”
“Which you expect they shall find in some fresh-faced virgin?” Xerxes shook his head. “Kasia has assumed leadership. That is enough.”
Kasia folded her arms over her chest. “Obviously not.”
When these men had come to her chamber a few years before, they had looked at her with skepticism. Now the speaker inclined his head with respect. “My lady does indeed
command the respect of all the women. And when we bring in virgins for you, my lord, she can take them under her wing and lend them her wisdom. She can show the one you
select how to be a queen worthy of you.”
Xerxes met her gaze, held it.
Kasia clenched her teeth. “Do it. Anyone would be better than Amestris.”
Still he held her gaze. “I do not need more wives.”
She raised her chin. “Your mother told me when I arrived that a king’s wealth is measured not only in gold and lands, but in wives and sons. They will be bringing you new
virgins until the day you die, Xerxes.” Giving him a pointed look, she added, “It is not your wives I mind.”
“Fine.” He sighed, his eyes sliding closed for a moment. “At first light, have the scouts go out into the city.”
“The king has made a wise decision.”
His first in weeks, though Kasia pressed her lips together against the words. The council retreated from her room, and Xerxes stepped closer. She backed up, which earned her
another sigh and a pleading, “Kasia . . .”
She shook her head. “She was the only friend I had not already your wife, the only one I did not have to share you with. You robbed me of that.”
Regret twisted his face—but regret never changed anything. “I was not thinking. When I heard that my son had taken you in his arms, had shown no signs of stopping . . . I
have never felt such rage.”
“Then you know how I feel now.”
He paced to the window, hands on hips. “You are remarkably measured for being enraged.”
True. It was not a flash, it was a throb. More pain than anger. More disappointment than thirst for revenge.
One of Xerxes’ lesser eunuchs stepped inside. “Master. Your brother just returned to his house and found his wife. She died in his arms, and he . . . he took off for the
stable, shouting that he would rally an army against you in Bactra.”
He felt the pain too, she knew. Perhaps saw his empire waver before his eyes. If Masistes succeeded, it would mean civil war. Unrest. Uprisings, assassination plots. The
weight of it aged him a decade before her eyes. “You must stop him . . . whatever it takes.”
They all knew what it would take.
Kasia sank onto her bed, wondering how many more deaths would stain this night. “Go to your son.”
“What?”
“Preserve what family you have left, Xerxes. Go to Darius and Artaynte. Beg their forgiveness, before your kingdom fractures beyond repair.”
He stood there a long moment measuring her. Then he dropped a kiss on Zillah’s head, kissed Kasia once before she could draw away, and sped from the room.
She closed her eyes and wished for the comfort of her mother’s arms. Wished she had fallen in love with someone other than a king who thought he could bend the world to his
will. Wished for a simpler life.
Something she would never know. Too weary to hold the tears at bay another moment, she fell onto her bed and let herself cry. Wrapped her fingers around the torc, tugged it
down to her wrist, pulled it off. She gripped it, unable to cast it aside as she had done once before, unable to put it back on.
She was trapped. Trapped between love and hate, between loyalty and disgust. There was nowhere to go from here.
*
Xerxes followed the sound of sobs through his son’s palace. So many haunting, taunting reminders of their shame. Pulling, tugging until he felt he would shatter.
It was not supposed to be this way. Perhaps he wanted Darius humble and apologetic. Perhaps he wanted to see in his son’s eyes the same pain Xerxes felt.
But not this. He had never wanted Parsisa’s gruesome death. And Masistes . . . his throat burned when he thought of his brother. This never should have involved his
brother. How had the consequences reached so far, touched so many?