“No, I am her pride. There is a vast difference.” He shoved to his feet, paced, but Xerxes could see that he had a goal in mind. It just took him a moment to work
his way there, to his wife’s side. The hand he put on her shoulder looked hesitant, as if he feared she may turn and bite him. “My mother killed yours. That, on top of all
that has passed between us, must make you despise me. If you want a divorce, I will grant it, and be generous. I will even arrange a marriage to a better man, one who will
not treat you this way.”
Artaytne lifted her swollen, wet face. “You fool. I never wanted a better man, I wanted you. I thought—I thought if you saw me act as you had, it would make you see how I
felt.”
He sat beside her, pulled her to his chest. “You succeeded in that.”
“At a price beyond reckoning.” Even from where he stood, Xerxes saw her shudder. “It cost my mother her life. It will cost my father his.”
But they held each other, Darius and Artaynte. Their arms came around each other, their tears mixed.
Something. Small, when one considered all the terrors of the evening. But something good.
He sighed. “I will leave you two to sort through this. Please, both of you—know I am sorry. Know that I crave your forgiveness more than anything.”
Artaynte did not look at him, but Darius did. His gaze was absent the rage, absent the fury. The nod he gave was not one of forgiveness itself, Xerxes knew—but it was the
promise to try.
It would be enough for now.
He turned, left. And nearly collided with Zethar, whose face bore the stress of the night. “They caught up with your brother, master.”
Part of him wished Masistes would have made it home to Bactra, would have raised his army so that he might get his justice. The part that was brother rather than king.
“And?’
“He is dead.”
Xerxes nodded, strode outside. He felt half dead himself.
Forty
Esther rose with the dawn after a night filled more with tears and fury than sleep. She washed her face, glanced in the polished brass mirror to see how terrible she looked.
And snorted when she realized her eyes were no longer swollen, not even circled with shadows. She looked as though nothing had happened. As if her world had not fallen
apart.
The frozen rock where her heart used to be said otherwise.
Zechariah would come by at some point today, try to speak to her again. She had no intention of listening, but she dressed in her finest just to spite him. Carefully
arranged her hair, even wore the gold necklace her cousin had given her for her birthday. She did not touch the intricate wooden bracelet Zechariah had made for her. Perhaps
it was childish, but she did not care—she wanted him to see what he had given up.
She stepped out into the living area, and the walls closed in. There was no sanctuary from the truth within her cousin’s home.
“Esther.” Mordecai stepped out of his chamber, his face set. “I spent the night in prayer about you and Zechariah—”
“You need not say it. It no longer matters.” She should have told him last night, should have saved him the hours on the floor. But she had been too upset to face anyone.
“I will not marry him.”
Mordecai’s brows drew together. “What happened?”
“I saw for myself the chains you felt binding him. They took the form of a lovely, married Persian woman carrying his child.”
He drew in a sharp breath and even gripped the doorframe. “I am sorry, my daughter.”
Was he? Sorry Zechariah had acted in such a way, yes. But was he sorry she had discovered it, or grateful she had seen it with her own eyes, so that he would not have to
insist on what she did not understand?
Esther squeezed her eyes shut. She was unfit for company. “I need to get out for a while, cousin. Just to walk, to think.”
Mordecai nodded. “I believe Martha needs some things from the markets, if you wanted to head that way.”
“That is fine. I know what she needs, I will take care of it.” It would give her feet direction, her hands purpose.
Her mind, though. Her mind spun every which direction as she stepped into the cool morning air. With every footfall, it churned over thoughts of Zechariah, of Ruana, of her
own dashed dreams. Of Mordecai, so close to Jehovah that he knew something was wrong. Why, then, had he not found a way to tell her long ago? Why had he let her love so
much, so deeply, when he knew he would have to refuse Zechariah’s request for her hand?
Why could nothing ever go right? Nothing. Ever. Her parents, Kasia, now this. Oh, for a mother’s shoulder to cry on, for Kasia to talk to. She had only Zechariah’s mother,
and she could hardly turn to her in this.
Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she blinked them down. So many years she had geared everything, absolutely everything, to gaining Zechariah’s attention. And for
what? To hope, only to be destroyed?
No. She would not break. Not again.