He stepped into the room and saw Artaynte curled into a ball on a chaise, Darius staring blankly out a window. And in the distance between them, in the stony look on
his son’s face, he saw a million fractures that could splinter, break away, fester. A million ways this could go worse still.
Masistes had promised war. Darius could stage a coup. His empire, his father’s empire, could crumble and burn, Xerxes could end up dead at an assassin’s hand. Those loyal
to him could be killed along with him, or forced into exile.
What a bloody, ugly world hid under the polish and shine. And all for a miscalculated revenge.
Somewhere in the tangle of thorns and fangs, there must be a path to safety. There must be a way that would strengthen rather than break.
For the first time in months, his soul yearned for the guidance of someone larger than himself. He could not return to Ahura Mazda—which left only one option.
Jehovah, God of the Jews. Kasia would say you know me. She would say you concern yourself with me because I am the ruler over your chosen ones. I do not know if you care
about the man as well as the king. But if you do, if you would lend me your wisdom, I need it. I want to preserve my empire, preserve the lives within it. More, I want to
preserve my family. How do I do that?
He paused, waited. Would he recognize the voice of his wife’s God? He did not know.
But he could hear hers. She had said something at Thermopylae, when they argued. Something about humility granting her peace.
Humility and a crown did not go hand in hand. A humble king could not command the respect of nations.
Darius jerked his head around, finally spotting him. Banked fury smoldered in his gaze.
He was not here as a king, he was here as a father. A father who had deliberately hurt the son of his flesh. Perhaps a father could be humble without being weak. Perhaps a
father could find strength in granting his son healing.
Darius lifted his chin. “What do you want? To take my wife again? Perhaps parade her around the court so all can see you have made a whore of her?”
Xerxes sucked in a long breath. “I deserve your wrath. And I am sorry.”
“Sorry?” Darius sent a flickering lamp to the floor, where its own weight snuffed it out. “Being sorry does not restore my pride, or my wife’s honor.”
“No. Nor does it return Parsisa her life.”
From the chaise, Artaynte groaned. “It is over then? She is dead?”
“She is dead.” His voice sounded old and ill-used. “In your father’s arms. He sped off to Bactra, claiming he would raise an army.”
She groaned again—she would know what that meant.
Xerxes took another step into the room, faced his son. “I cannot undo what happened—would that I could. Haman told me that he saw you embrace Kasia, and he had assumed it
went further than it did. I did not stop to ask questions. I judged, I sentenced. I wanted you to hurt as I did.” His eyes squeezed shut, and he shook his head. “I am a
miserable father and a fool of a man. I could see nothing but my own rage, my own pain. I am sorry, Darius. You are my son, and I treated you like an enemy.”
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Darius sink into a chair. “You never take blame, you . . . I wanted to fight you. Now you force me to admit I am as miserable a son as
you are a father. I knew you loved her above any other, knew you would not forgive it, and I pursued her anyway.”
“I forgive it.” The words tumbled out before he knew they had formed, shocking him as much as the two whose gazes flew to his face. “I did not before, but at this moment
. . . our blood, our relationship is too important to sever.”
Darius plunged a hand into his hair. “Because I am your heir.”
“Because you are my son. Because I love you. And yes, because I want to pass to you a united kingdom, not one torn by civil war. I want to give it to you freely, after
working to make it strong for you, as my father did. I do not want to help rip it to shreds before you or my brother force it from me, and me from life.”
Darius rubbed his eyes. “I wanted to hate you. I was doing an excellent job, but you are making it difficult.”
Somehow, a small laugh tickled his throat. “That was my goal. I do not want you to hate me—I saw the price of hatred today, and it is too bitter. If you learn anything
from your mother, I hope it is that.”
“Mother did this.” The words rang with an incredulous resignation. “Had Parsisa killed.”
“She would have been angry over the shawl.” The next words got stuck, but Xerxes swallowed so he could force them out. “And I imagine she was furious on your behalf. You
are her joy.”