Jewel of Persia

“Then I would wait to marry.” She strode to the table and poured herself a gulp of sweet watered wine to soothe her throat.

Mordecai’s gaze did not relent. “Do you still favor Zechariah?”

Her fingers tightened around the cup. She nodded.

His lips curved up. “Perhaps that is why he was on my mind. If he is the husband you desire, I can speak with him and Kish to arrange it.”

Her eyes slid shut. Would Zechariah refuse if their fathers both agreed to it? Probably not. He would not shame her like that. Would he? But even if he accepted, it would be

only out of duty. “I would first have him realize I am not a child.”

“I see.” His voice came from a step away now, and his finger touched her chin. She opened her eyes to gaze into his—precious and familiar and confident. “He will realize

soon, Esther. No man could remain blind to the amazing woman you have become.”

“Thank you, my father.” She gave him a swift hug and a fleeting smile. “I hope you are right. And perhaps I shall go pray for him now as well.”

“I will call you when the meal is ready.”

She headed to the sanctuary of her chamber and settled with a long exhalation onto her bed. Her prayers were probably a far cry from Mordecai’s, but it helped to empty her

heart and mind before her creator.

Eyes closed, she called Zechariah’s face to mind. “Jehovah . . .” What to pray? She could thank the Lord for crafting him so well. Those beautiful features, strong and

confident. The form that had become so muscled over the last few years.

Her blood thrummed each time she spotted him. Yet he continued to look at her as though she were yet another sister. And why? Did he not have enough of those?

She squeezed her eyes tight against the sudden tears. No, he did not have enough sisters. He lacked one—and perhaps it made sense that he would expect her to replace Kasia.

But oh, how she had longed to dash her jar of water to the ground last week and demand he accept her as she was, that he love her as she was. What would he have done if she

had thrown herself into his arms and kissed him?

Her cheeks burned at the thought, and she cleared her throat. This terrible attempt at a prayer might earn her a divine thunderbolt. “I am sorry, Jehovah. You know my

thoughts are not usually so scattered . . .”

She sighed and buried her face in her pillow.

Why could Mordecai not have asked her to pray for the army again? They never caused her nearly so much trouble as that one would-be soldier three doors down.

*

Sardis, Lydia



“I cannot believe you have your own Spartan.”

Xerxes chuckled and clapped a hand to Pythius’s shoulder as they strolled along the outer wall of the palace. “I can introduce you to him, if you like. His name is

Demaratus.”

Pythius’s brows hiked up his forehead. “The former king? I had heard he was exiled, of course, after advising his people to align themselves with your father. I did not

realize he had found a home in your court.”

Xerxes rested his gaze on where the once-ruler exercised outside the palace walls. Even now, years after Demaratus had left home and family, the man insisted on keeping

himself in the physical condition required of all Spartan men. He still wore his hair long, he refused any adornments. Every morning he found a patch of solitude and put

himself through paces to keep muscles firm and reflexes ready. He provided an example Xerxes intended to follow—sitting on a throne most of one’s day was no excuse to

succumb to sloth.

“I owe him much,” Xerxes murmured. “It was his argument that convinced my father to appoint me his successor instead of my older brother. There are those who question his

trustworthiness, but I have spoken to him at length. He still loves his nation as an ideal—but not its current people.”

Pythius nodded, then frowned at something behind Xerxes. “Runners, my lord.”

Xerxes spun around, and his breath caught. The runners’ faces were etched with dread, and they had collected his brothers and cousins, Amestris’s father and brother. They

might as well have come screaming, “We have bad news!”

He was in no mood for bad news. Not now, when all they had to do was wait for spring and march to victory. He felt his face turn to stone, muscle by muscle, and strode

toward them. “What is it?”

The two runners dropped to their knees and bowed until foreheads touched marble. Though they then rose together, only one opened his mouth. “Forgive us, our king, for being

the bearers of evil tidings.”

His hand fisted. “You will not suffer for whatever news you bring. Tell me.”

The messenger ducked his head. “It is the bridge over the Hellespont, my lord. It has collapsed.”

“Collapsed?” His vision narrowed, all the ambient noises faded to nothingness. “Collapsed how?”

The runner clasped his hands together but still shook visibly. “The straits had just been bridged, all was in place when . . . when a violent storm—”