Because she knew hers would be.
His arm fell away from her waist. “Of course not. We would only be honoring the fighting men.”
It would be a mistake. She knew it, but his face told her that he would not hear a warning—that he already read it in her eyes and dismissed it.
His mouth had gone tight, his eyes sharp, his message clear. She was to hold her tongue. If she mentioned Jehovah here, in this company, she would be punished.
She swallowed and nodded. “As you will. I need to return to the camp and make myself ready for the meal.” She needed to pray.
He undoubtedly knew her real intent. Otherwise his “Of course” would have sounded more gracious.
Though she turned to leave, her feet would not budge. She drew in a steadying breath and met Xerxes’ hard gaze. “I love you,” she whispered.
His face relaxed, his smile reemerged. He lifted her hand and kissed it. “And I you.”
A few minutes later she was in her tent, on her rug, consumed by what Theron called her prayerful stupor. It was better than the fog. It could beat back the shadows.
When she opened her eyes again, the land was draped in twilight. “Mistress, you must rise. You are nearly late for the feast.”
She pulled herself to a seat as Desma knelt beside her with a hairbrush. “Mistress, please—you must pull yourself out of this. You drift like a cloud from day to day,
place to place. Only in your prayers do you show any intensity. I cannot think Jehovah wills you live like this.”
If not, he would have to show her how to grasp hold of life again, because this was the best she could do. She dug up a smile for her friend. “I am all right.”
“You are not.” Desma blinked back tears that stung Kasia’s conscience as surely as they did her friend’s eyes. “You have lost a babe—you deserve to grieve. But Jehovah
preserved your life for a reason, and it is not so you can give up now.”
“I have not given up. I just . . . I cannot . . .”
Desma sighed and made quick work of the brushing. “I know. Come, Leda has a fresh chiton and your jewelry.”
It took only a moment to slip into the soft, draping fabric, to secure the ropes of gold around her waist and throat. It took only a few minutes more to hurry across the
camp to the tent that housed the feast.
She paused just inside it and looked around. The women usually gathered in a corner, but since arriving in Troy they had interspersed throughout, so that they might hear the
singing of the epic with their husbands. She had enjoyed leaning close to Xerxes, pretending he would not send her away as soon as the minstrel concluded for the night.
She spotted him flanked by Lalasa and Diona—both bejeweled and looking smug. Odd. Lately, if one was satisfied the other was annoyed.
Xerxes did not look at either of them. He was saying something to one of Diona’s maids, something that made the girl simper and laugh. Then he took her hand and pressed a
lingering kiss to her palm.
Her heart gave one thud, then seemed to stop. It should not distress her. She should not care if the king dallied with one of the slaves—it was his right. And obviously had
Diona’s approval.
But the fog came rushing in, forcing her back a step.
He had three concubines with him. Dozens of wives at home. Must he seek entertainment outside the marriage bonds? Did he think this girl could please him when those who knew
him well could not?
Angry tears burned at her eyes, and she spun back to her tent. Perhaps this was how the other wives felt when they saw the new additions to the harem. Perhaps they wondered
why he always needed more women, younger and prettier, when he had them already.
After that first week, she had never minded the other wives. Through her prayers she saw that they went to him in the pursuit of holy union and lawful heirs, not an evening
’s recreation.
No, that was unfair. This was not about the morality—masters had a right to their slaves, even in the Law. She had learned not to be jealous of the other wives because she
had always known he loved her best. She was the one he called most. The one he always wanted. The one that he never tired of.
An assurance she had no longer.
She did not want to be consumed so by jealousy. Madness lay down that road, or bitter hatred. This feeling spiraling through her was the abyss from which intrigue sprang.
Slander, maligning . . . even murder. She would not succumb. She would not.
Back inside the sanctuary of her tent, she tore the necklace from her neck and tossed it into her trunk. She squeezed her eyes shut when the smack of gold on wood reminded
her of Xerxes’ tempers.
He was a man of passions, strong and shifting. She loved him for it, even as she hated this newest manifestation.
Desma positioned the gold more carefully and frowned. “What has upset you, mistress? Shall we tell the king you are unwell?”
“Let him wonder.” As soon as the words escaped, she winced. “I sound like Amestris.”