From the bed came a choking sob that made his throat close in response. He nearly went to her but held himself in place. When the babe had been taken away, he would
hold her close and soothe her tears. But he could not look at the child. Better to pretend it was like their others, faceless and unformed.
She should have done the same. It sounded as though her soul were being rent from her body with each cry. He spun around and motioned to Desma. “Take it away. Now.”
“No!” Kasia strained up when the maid lifted the bundle from her arms, reaching, grasping.
Xerxes rushed to intercept her arms and force her back down. “I know you want him, my love, but you must let him go.”
Her face twisted in agony, her body twisted away from his hold. He held tight anyway. “Stop.” It was more plea than command. “Please, Kasia, I cannot lose you too.”
Though her struggling ceased, she pushed herself up and into his arms rather than lying down as he had hoped she would. “I am well.”
“Do not be absurd. I have rarely seen men survive such injuries.”
“But . . .” Confusion flitted through her eyes. “I feel no pain. Only in here.” She splayed a hand over her heart.
Xerxes shook his head. “Perhaps that is eclipsing the physical, but your looks tell the true tale. You are badly hurt—and I know not what lies under this bandage.”
Theron stepped up behind Kasia. His face also told the tale. “It is bad, master.”
Kasia went lax against his chest. Terror snapped its jaws around him, especially when he looked down and saw perfect peace on her face. She could not die now—lack of pain
did not indicate the end, did it?
She smiled. “My wounds will heal. I need only to rest in him.” Her eyes eased shut.
He gripped her shoulder and barely kept himself from shaking her. “Kasia!”
She hummed and turned her face into him again. Her breathing came deep and even. He relaxed. She slept, that was all.
A knock sounded as Xerxes eased her onto her bed. Leda scurried over to open the door.
“My king.” Masistes stood in the opening, all the high command behind him. “Pythius told us what happened. Does she live?”
“She does.” He leaned down to kiss her softly, then stood and moved out into the hall. The expressions on the men’s faces varied from concerned to incredulous. No doubt
they had assumed the worst. He swallowed. “She delivered a stillborn son.”
Masistes winced. “I am sorry, brother. I know how you hoped.”
Xerxes cleared his throat and straightened his spine. “At least she has been spared.”
Pythius shook his head. His eyes were bloodshot and his face haggard, his shoulders bent in defeat. “I hoped the labor would stop and they would both live. And knew not how
either could survive such a fall.”
“Do we know what caused it?” Haman shifted a bit from where he stood behind Masistes and Mardonius.
Xerxes shrugged. “We assume when the darkness descended, she tripped.”
Haman frowned. “There have been no other reports of injuries, for all the confusion. Do you not find it odd that she is the one person out of millions to suffer from the
darkness?”
“I . . .” He had not. But Haman was right. Why would the god insulate the rest of the army but not her? “It makes no sense.”
Haman gazed into the room. “It is not so dark there as everywhere else.”
His blood seemed to chill, slow. “No. The god is not in there.”
“Perhaps that is the explanation then.” Haman said no more—just bowed and walked away.
Xerxes stared at the place he had been and tried to block out the thoughts clamoring to the forefront of his mind. Tried to cling to the promise Ahura Mazda had given him,
to the sign they had received today.
But then, the god had said victory and greatness lay before him. He had never said at what price it would come. What if victory was not given, but must be bought? Perhaps .
. . perhaps his son was the sacrifice required of him.
Pythius stepped close to his side. “Will she make it, do you think?”
He glanced at the friend that had so quickly come to cherish her as a daughter. “I think so.” If not, why would she have survived this long? Surely if the god required
her, too, he would have taken her along with the babe.
And yet . . . she alone stolidly refused to give Ahura Mazda his dues. She alone lay in a circle of dawn’s light when the night of the god covered the rest of them.
How long before the deity lost patience with her and swept her away from him too?
Twenty
Susa, Persia
Esther dropped her basket, left the door swinging open behind her. There was no time to waste on such trivialities, not if Mordecai was as ill as Martha had said.
“Cousin? Cousin!”
She followed the low, excruciating cry to Mordecai’s chamber and pushed the door open with a creak. A gasp caught in her throat when she saw him writhing on the floor.
“Mordecai!”
He clutched at his head, muttered something unintelligible, and curled into a ball. Esther dropped down beside him. “You must tell me what hurts you, my father.”
“Everything. Head.”
He had never been prone to headaches, and the way he clutched at it . . . “Let me see. Did you strike it?”