Jewel of Persia

by White, Roseanna M.

  “Zech?” Her voice shook, her gaze filled with question more than love. A hopeful question.

  He tossed the barley into his mouth and, after munching it, gave her a grin. “Would you like to take a walk along the river this evening, Esther?”

  Her lips parted. She blinked. “I . . . I would love to. I will ask my cousin’s permission when he gets home.”

  “Good.” He trailed a finger through a lock of hair that escaped from her head covering.

  She swallowed. “Zech . . . why?”

  He chuckled and leaned down to kiss her forehead. How many times had he done that over the years? But never before had he so wanted to hover, to bend a little lower for another, more satisfying kiss.

  Taking his time with her may be the wise choice, but it would not be the easy one.

  He made himself back away, enjoying the flash of mixed longing and disappointment in her eyes. She wanted him to kiss her—perhaps had dreamed of it. And when finally he did, it would be worth the wait for both of them.

  He smiled. “I need to get back to work. Thank you for helping Ima with the barley, Esther.”

  “I do not mind.” She looked bemused, probably at his thanks for what she did all the time.

  Good. That would ensure she thought of him as she went about her tasks, just as he would think of her. With a lifted hand in farewell, Zechariah went back to the wood shop.

  Abba met him at the door. “I need you to handle a customer while I check on a piece of cypress. And tell him if he orders another monstrous bed, we will charge him twice what we did last time.”

  Bed? Zechariah’s throat went dry as he scanned the shop. Ruana’s husband stood in the corner, studying a mosaic. He had not seen the man since he first placed the order for the frame. Certainly not since . . .

  “Do not keep him waiting, Zech.” Abba spun around and headed out the front of the shop.

  Zechariah cleared his throat and prayed he was not about to breathe his last. “Good afternoon, Asho.”

  Asho looked up with a smile. No murderous intent gleamed in his eyes, but that may only mean he was subtle. “Zechariah, it is good to see you again.”

  “Likewise.” He would rather have faced down a den of angry lions. “How can I help you today?”

  Asho moved closer. Perhaps it was only to look at the chest his gaze latched on . . . or perhaps he wanted to be within reach so he could throttle him. “Actually, my wife has a complaint about the last purchase she made.”

  Was that a dagger on the man’s belt? “She has?”

  “Mm.” Asho sounded amused. Which made no sense at all. “That your brother delivered it instead of you.”

  “I . . .” Zechariah frowned and leaned into the work bench at his back. “I was busy.”

  “Zechariah.” Asho dropped his voice low and took another step toward him. Still, his eyes reflected only friendliness, perhaps even teasing. Could he possibly be as unconcerned as Ruana had claimed? “If you avoid her because you think I am upset by your . . . arrangement, let me assure you I have no problem, even though you are a Jew.”

  How was he supposed to greet that pronouncement? “That is not why I avoid her.”

  Asho’s brows drew together. “Why then? Surely she pleased you, as often as you came.”

  Fire settled in his face. He had thought—what? That the husband was oblivious? He ought to have known better. The servants knew he was there, and they would be loyal to Asho before their new mistress. Not that he seemed to care, except to be upset on his wife’s behalf now.

  What was wrong with these people?

  “That is not it either. I . . . it was wrong, Asho. I never should have—the laws of my people strictly forbid—”

  “Nonsense.” Asho brushed that away with a motion of his wrist. “She is very fond of you, and she has been distraught since you stopped coming. Please, will you not reconsider?”

  And now her husband begged him to keep making love to his wife? “It is not nonsense. Besides, I hope to marry soon myself, and I will remain true to my bride.”

  Asho sighed. “She will be distressed at that news.”

  “Then perhaps her husband ought to comfort her.”

  The Persian lifted one superior brow. “I am afraid that is not the direction my tastes lie.” He swept a gaze over Zechariah that made his skin crawl.

  He stepped to the side, well away from Asho and that terrible glint in his eye. “Do you have any business today, or just this ‘complaint’ from your wife?”

  Asho’s eyes shuttered again, back to friendly ease. “A small chest, similar to that one. And deliver it yourself. I would see my wife smile again.”

  Zechariah said nothing as the man strode from the shop.

  ~*~

  Sardis, Lydia

  Darius frowned at the image out the window, where the band of Immortals set up camp for the night. A runner had arrived days ago alerting him to the pending arrival of Kasia and her guard, but it had not told him why his father’s favorite wife had left his side. He had to wonder no longer when he glimpsed her an hour ago.

  It seemed he would have yet another little brother or sister in a few months.

  Obviously his father did not want to risk her health, but why had Xerxes not considered the memories that would hit her here? The moment her feet were on the rocky ground, she had looked toward that small grave, overgrown now with grass and the flowers Artaynte had transferred. Even from up here, Darius had seen Kasia’s shoulders hunch, her head go down.

  Footsteps sounded outside the throne room, and he stepped away from the window. It had taken her nearly an hour, but his newly arrived guest must finally be ready to present herself in greeting. He prepared a smile.

  Kasia did not look up to see it, just stopped a goodly distance in front of him and dipped her knees in respect. “Thank you for receiving me, my prince.”

  “Of course. It is good to see you again. How is my father?”

  Her jaw clenched. Interesting. “As he always is.”

  “Hmm.” He glanced at the servants behind her, the court people milling about. “Are you feeling up to a walk? It will be good to speak with someone so recently with him.”

  She hesitated and flicked her gaze to his face. “As you wish.”

  He led her out to the walls, careful to head in the direction opposite from where she fell. With only their personal servants around them, she would hopefully feel comfortable answering his questions.

  Although she looked far from comfortable. Her jaw was still tight, and she held her spine straight and rigid. He cleared his throat. “You must have left shortly after Thermopylae.”

  “The morning following your father’s victory.”

  Should she not have called it “our” victory? Darius clasped his hands behind his back as they walked. “I suppose the battle convinced him it was not safe for you to remain, given your condition?”

  She looked away, into the courts of the citadel. “I suppose you ought to know that the king has not acknowledged my condition, and everyone else has followed his lead.”

  He came to a halt, brows raised. “Why would he do that? Last time—”

  “He is convinced last time ended as it did because his god despises me.” She stopped a step ahead of him and turned to face him. “He seems to think if he pays it no attention, Ahura Mazda will not take his anger out on me.”

  That made a kind of sense, when one considered the timing of the stillbirth. He supposed. “All right, then. I shall follow his lead as well, before others. Though it is rather obvious.” He paused, considered her. “Did he forbid you to speak of it as well?”

  A tick in her jaw, then she nodded.

  “Is that why you are angry with him?”

  Tears flooded her eyes, but he did not regret the question. She shook her head. “That is not the only thing he forbade me mention. He also commanded me not speak of Jehovah.”

  “And you listened? I find that difficult to believe.” For that matter, he was sur
prised his father had demanded such a thing. Much must have changed in the last six months.

  “I obeyed more than I wanted to. But not enough to satisfy him.” She swallowed and swung her gaze back up to his. “We argued. That is why he sent me back.”

  He could not stop the quirk of his mouth. “You surely realize he would have regretted it the day after you left.”

  “He regretted it before then. That changes nothing.”

  “True.” He drew in a long breath. She looked tired, which could be due solely to travel and her condition, or it could be tied to the anger sparking in her eyes. “One thing I always remember you for is forgiving my mother so quickly after she tried to kill you. Will you not forgive my father for saying things he did not mean?”

  The spark turned to a simmer in the brown of her irises. “It is easy to forgive those who mean nothing to you—there is no real hurt involved. Forgiving him, when he knew well what his words would do, when he knew all I had already given up for love of him . . . that will take energy I do not have right now.”

  Darius nodded and smiled. “Well, you may rest easy in Sardis and may speak of your Jehovah all you please.”

  She snorted and folded her arms over the bulge of her stomach. “May I?”

  He lifted a brow.

  She sighed. “I sought out Artaynte as soon as I arrived, but I was denied access to her. It seems her mother does not want her associating with an enemy of Ahura Mazda.”

  His spine snapped into alignment. “What? You were such good friends.”

  “Hence why I thought it odd when she did not visit after my fall. Apparently her mother forbade it then, too.”

  He frowned at the mountainside. “I am certain she will find you in some moment when her mother is absent.” That was met with nothing but silence, which drew his attention back to her incredulous face. “What?”

  She shook her head. “Do you know her so little? She never crosses her mother, even when Parsisa is not there to guarantee obedience.”

  Something knocked around inside, like a marble off stone. “I have barely spoken to her since we left Susa, so I suppose I know her little indeed. Is that, too, because of my aunt? Does she not approve of me?”

  Kasia sighed and looked to the side, as if for an escape from the conversation. “Of course she approves of you.”

  The marble rolled to a rest in his throat. “Then Artaynte simply dislikes me.”

  “No.” Her eyes slid closed. A breath huffed out as she opened them again. “Did you know that Parsisa kept your uncle guessing as to her true feelings for nearly five years before finally agreeing to marry him?”

  “No, and I do not see what . . .” He cut himself off with a curse and spun away, only to spin back again. “She toys with me? This is all a game to her?”

  Kasia shook her head. “Far from it. It is of the utmost importance, hence why she is so careful to follow her mother’s advice down to the last jot and tittle.”

  Was that hope fluttering from his stomach to his throat? It had been so long since he had felt any where Artaynte was concerned, he was not sure. “Then she cares for me?”

  “I should not have gotten involved in this.” She took a step back, hands up. “This is between you and Artaynte.”

  “Apparently it is between us and Parsisa.”

  A corner of her mouth tilted up. “Granted. And while I never much liked the advice Parsisa gives, it would seem I am not such an expert on things of love either, so I ought to keep myself out of it.”

  Darius chuckled. “Your current disagreement with my father has little to do with your approach to love—your feelings for one another have always been clear, which I greatly admire. I imagine when he returns and apologizes for his rash words, you will rush back into his arms.”

  Her lips smiled. Her eyes remained unconvinced.

  He sighed. Nothing, it seemed, guaranteed a firm foundation for a marriage. Political arrangements held little affection and too much intrigue. Matches made for love disintegrated under the scorch of time and politics. How, then, could he ever hope to forge a lasting relationship with Artaynte?

  Kasia stepped closer again, her expression soft. “I think the two of you will find your way. You care for one another, and there is no better match imaginable.”

  No, that was not hope fluttering. It was dread. “And if we married, she would sever her bonds of obedience to her mother and dedicate herself to me instead?” He shook his head and drew in a ragged breath. “I thought if I won her heart, it would be truly mine, and we would have what no one else in Persia seems to. But if she has cared for me all this time and denied it so completely because of her mother, how am I ever to trust her?”

  Kasia speared him with a sharp gaze. “And how is she to trust your affection, when you spend each spare moment seducing every young maiden you can find? You have no call to be angry over games, my prince, when you play them yourself.”

  Why could Artaynte not speak her mind like this? At least then he would know where he stood with her. He grinned and held out his arm to guide Kasia back the way they had come. “I am duly chastised. And if I give up the maidens, do you think Artaynte will give up the disdain?”

  She sighed and fell in beside him. “I cannot say. I hope so.”

  “Perhaps I will try it and see.” And perhaps he would speak with Parsisa about her ridiculous decision to separate Artaynte and Kasia. How could his aunt think this lovely creature anything but a good influence on her daughter?

  “I pray the two of you work things out.” She paused just outside the door. “I nearly forgot—I promised to mention that Bijan was in the company that brought me here, and he would enjoy visiting with you if you have the time before he leaves.”

  “I shall seek him out, thank you.” But he frowned. “You got to know him well enough on the journey to carry messages for him?”

  “He and my brother were friends in Susa.” She offered a small smile. “If you will excuse me, prince, I am rather tired.”

  “Of course.” He did not follow her in, but turned back to the wall. How to digest what she had revealed about Artaynte? He could not pin down his feelings on the matter. He wanted to hope, wanted to think his dreams within reach . . . but they felt so ephemeral at this point.

  He wanted her still. Of course he did. She was so beautiful, had such strong blood. She would make the perfect wife, the perfect queen. But did he love her still? Could he, given how little he apparently knew her? They had not spent much of their childhoods together, given that her father had his own province, not until the war-planning brought Masistes to Susa. He had never realized how completely under Parsisa’s thumb she was.

  It seemed, then, that he must decide if he wanted his aunt as his queen. Thinking Artaynte would stop listening to her once she was married was stupid and naive. There was the chance she would welcome the freedom from her mother, but he would not assume so. More likely was that Parsisa would always whisper in her ear, and then she would whisper in his.

  One mother thinking she ruled the world from behind him was quite enough, thank you.

  “Prince Darius.”

  He spun around and frowned. “Haman. What are you doing back in Sardis?”

  Haman bowed. “Your father sent me, my prince, to keep an eye on the Jewess.”

  That explanation only deepened his frown. “Why would he do that?”

  Though the man shrugged, his expression held no confusion. “He said that he did not trust her interactions with other men, and he knows I am above her charms.”

  By the god, that made no sense. He stepped to Haman’s side and pitched his voice to a bare murmur. “Are you saying that my father doubts her fidelity?”

  Haman’s wide eyes carried no shock at the suggestion. “He did not say so. Of course, there is much he is not speaking of these days, when it comes to the Jewess.”

  “You refer to her condition?”

  “It is curious.” Haman sighed and shook his head. “Everyone knew t
he king had kept himself from her after her fall—his temper made it obvious. Then her figure began to change . . . of course, she was seen coming from the king’s tent again, but one has to wonder which came first. Given that his temper never exactly improved, and he refuses still to acknowledge the child.”

  Ridiculous. She had offered an explanation for that . . . one that made a kind of sense. Perhaps not as much as this, but . . . she would not betray his father with another man.

  Would she?

  “It is a sad thing,” Haman said, casting his gaze toward the mountain’s spur. “To be expected, though, when a creature who won the king’s attention by throwing herself at him is then denied his love. It is probably a flaw in her soul, this need to be in a man’s bed.”

  No. Certainly she was passionate, but . . . “That is nothing but conjecture, Haman. If the king thought such a thing had happened, he would have had her killed.”

  “Possibly. But he is still in love with her. It is not beyond reckoning that he would forgive her in part, but send her away from him to have the bastard child. Is it?”

  He would not condemn her, even if it were true. Who had not had a dalliance at some point or another? True, it was unwise to engage in an affair when one’s husband was jealous—and the king—but plenty had done it. It would make her only typical.

  Which grated more than it should have. He did not want her to be typical. She had always seemed so much more, and he wanted one thing—just one—to be what it seemed.

  He glanced toward the citadel as she passed before one of the windows. The child she carried was only obvious from the side. Otherwise one noticed only the rich cascade of her hair, the gleaming eyes, the mouth so quick to smile. The passion that imbued everything she did.

  The passion that now radiated off her as anger. Would she be angry if she were guilty? He wanted to say no, but only because that, too, would make her typical. Just like his mother, furious because she was punished when she thought herself invincible.

  Innumerable men would be willing to risk the king’s wrath for her. Had one had success when she was lonely and cut off from her husband? If Xerxes thought so, then no wonder he sent Haman. Here she would be lonely and cut off once again.