Xerxes sprinted down the hall, not slowing until the doors to Kasia’s chamber opened before him. He had been two miles away by the time Pythius found him, and the
horse he had grabbed went lame halfway back—he ran the rest of the way.
The sconces and lamps did little to penetrate the darkness. It was no wonder the commoners were upset—they did not fully understand the omen, nor the workings of the god.
He was not so sure he did, either, but every step he took through the day-turned-night reminded him that fear of the god was where wisdom lay.
Once he stepped into Kasia’s room, he halted and sucked in a much-needed breath. His frown did not ease. Something was different in here. The flames burned brighter, the
air was not so thick.
The god was not here.
His gaze went to the bed, where Kasia lay unmoving under a sheet, then to the corner of the room, where Desma swiped at her cheeks and fussed with a mound of rags. “What is
going on?” he demanded. “Pythius said she fell from the wall, that she was badly hurt. Tell me she lives.”
“She lives.” The maid sniffed and rested a hand on the rags. “The babe was stillborn. A son, master.”
“No.” The word ripped its way out of his chest, rending it in two, yet made no more than a whisper into the room. He stumbled over to Kasia and knelt beside her. Strips of
white cloth bound her head, trapped her hair. Her skin looked a deathly, pale olive against it, marked with angry red slashes and mottled bruises. Pressure burned behind his
eyes and nose. “Does she know? Has she been awake?”
Her other maid, Leda, blotted at a wound on Kasia’s arm with a damp cloth. “No, master. She was semi-coherent while the pains were on her, enough to respond to them and
push. She has not stirred since.”
“Lovely Kasia.” He wove his fingers through hers and reached with his other hand to caress an unblemished portion of her cheek. “Do not leave me, sweet one. I shall never
forgive you if you do.”
Her head shifted into his touch, and her lashes fluttered open. Though her lips formed his name, no sound came out.
Xerxes reached for a chalice nearby and urged some liquid into her mouth. “There you are, my love.”
She looked at him out of haunted eyes. “Something is wrong,” she murmured.
“Yes.” He lifted her hand, kissed it. “But you are alive.”
“The babe.” He would have expected panic, not that bone-weary resignation. She drew in a long breath, wincing. “Was it a son or daughter?”
His voice would not work until he forced a swallow. “A son.”
Her fingers tightened around his. She drew in a shaky breath. “Why am I alive?”
Surely that sound was his heart, shattering into a million pieces. “Oh, my love, please. I know it pains you, but do not give up on life.”
Her free hand landed on his head and stroked through his hair. “That is not what I . . . I felt the afterlife opening before me, I saw a terrible darkness . . .”
“That was not death—it was the promise of victory.” He nodded to the open window that somehow held back the god. “It is only noon even now.”
“There is no victory without Jehovah.”
“Hmm?” He frowned down at her. “This has nothing to do with Jehovah, my love.”
“That is my fear.” Her eyes slid shut. “I want to hold him.”
It took him a moment to realize she meant the babe—when he did, he shook his head. “No, Kasia, it will only hurt you more.”
“Please, Xerxes.”
“Madness.” He touched his forehead to their joined hands, then stood and nodded to Desma. Denying her was impossible, but he could have no part in it. He wandered to the
window and motioned Theron over.
“Master?”
Xerxes folded his arms over his chest. “I did not give Pythius time to explain—what happened?”
The eunuch blanched. “She was saying farewell to Artaynte, and the dog ran off. She asked me to fetch him and sent Desma to the wagon with her things—we protested, master,
but she insisted she would be safe with Artaynte’s servants. I went after Zad, but I had not found him before the darkness came upon us. I heard her scream, and Desma and I
hurried back to where she had been but found no one on the wall. We heard Zad again, below us, so followed the sound. He led us to her.”
Xerxes’ jaw clenched. “She must have stumbled in the darkness and fallen over the wall.”
“Presumably—but that does not explain everything. Why did no one shout when she fell? Was she alone?” Theron shook his head. “Something foul is at work here, master.”
“It was an accident.” Was it not?
He looked out the window again. How many times had he gazed out at the mountain from this very spot while Kasia puttered around her room? He knew the landscape—knew how
sharp a fall it was from the wall. How unforgiving the steep, rocky ground would be.
It should have killed her, as surely as it killed their child.