Game of Queens

by India Edghill

  … a girl too young to realize that her new husband was also young. Too young to understand her husband was ambitious—and he had a cruel heart. Then the only things he had wed her for melted away like snow in summer. Her father died before he could gain a royal appointment for his son-by-marriage, and her mother returned to her own people, who refused to acknowledge her husband. For their blood could be traced back into the mists of time, while his—

  “Was good enough to mingle with yours when your lying father needed money.”

  My mother ignored him, and spoke on, as softly as if telling me a bedtime tale. She told of her loneliness and sadness, and how she did not even have a child to console her, and so her husband accused her of being barren as well as useless.

  Then came the day her husband purchased a new slave, a young man from far-off Abyssinia. Tall and dark and handsome—

  “And I? Do you dare say I am ugly?” He looked ugly, as I stared at him, and I had always before this thought him as fine-looking as a king.

  —but it would not have mattered had the Abyssinian been short and ugly. For he was kind. And the girl and the slave took comfort from each other, and the fruit of their love was a beautiful boy. But one day her husband learned of her betrayal. And he killed the slave …

  “—and sentenced his unfaithful wife to death.” My mother bent and kissed my forehead as I stared, barely comprehending her words. And then she said, “Remember that I am guilty. My husband could have slain me the moment he found me with your father. But he let me live to bear you, and to nurse you, and to see you grow. Seven years. He gave me seven years with you, my son. He let you live. He promised he would not kill you. For that, I will bless his name in—”

  “In Hell,” my father said. “Now set the boy aside and come to me.”

  My mother bent to kiss me once more, then gently pried my hands from her skirts. “Good-bye, my son. Live well. Be happy.” Then, to my horror, she walked over to him, her head high and her steps steady.

  He grasped her arm and made her turn so that she faced me, pulled her close so that her back pressed against him. She stood there quietly, made no move to escape, or to resist. He pulled his knife from the sash around his waist and lifted it slowly to her throat. He laid the long blade against her slender neck, the keen edge just touching her smooth skin.

  And just before he slit her throat, the man I had called my father displayed the cruel heart my mother had spoken of. “Yes, he will live, and he may even be happy as a eunuch.” He pressed the knife’s blade harder against her skin. “Your son will be a eunuch and a slave. Think of that, as you beg Daena the Lady Guardian for mercy in the afterlife.”

  My mother did not answer him, either to beg mercy or to curse him. She looked straight at me. “Close your eyes,” she said.

  Those were the last words she spoke to me. I did not even have time to obey her command before the man I had always called “father” yanked the blade across her throat. He let her body fall into the blood pooling scarlet at their feet and dropped the knife upon her body. Then he looked at me and I no longer saw my father. I saw a man who hated, who hated so greatly that even slaying his unfaithful wife did not ease that hatred. Now he would try to slake his anger by tormenting me.

  And there was no one and nothing to stand between me and Lord Haman’s thirst for vengeance.

  * * *

  But Haman did not make a eunuch of me then. No, with true cruelty, he waited another seven years to fulfill his last vow to my mother. Seven years during which I was treated in all ways as if I were Haman’s true son.

  Seven years in which I was in fact a prisoner in the most opulent and gilded of cages.

  I thought of nothing but escape. I tried, and I failed, and with each failure Haman’s grasp upon me tightened. By the time I turned fourteen, I had been confined to my rooms—rooms with barred windows and barred doors—for two years. Even the gardens had been forbidden to me.

  The day I turned fourteen, Haman hired the most expensive, most sought-after prostitute in the city. “She will be yours—for one night. One night, so that you will know what you have lost,” my father said. Mad hatred glittered in his eyes. “Your life will be my revenge on that whore, your mother.”

  He took me to the room he had prepared for this occasion. A feast had been spread over a low mirrored table, and the smell of honeyed wine lay heavy upon the air. Beyond the table I saw a bed covered in extravagantly embroidered coverings. A woman sat upon the bed. She smiled when she saw me and rose to her feet, graceful as a willow in the wind. Slowly, she walked across the room until she stood before me. Her skin gleamed like old ivory and a perfume of cinnamon and roses hung upon the air around her.

  “This is the boy? But he is lovely, my lord Haman. You led me to expect a monster.” She put her fingertips under my chin, turned my head from side to side as if judging my value.

  Haman ignored her jest. “You have one last night as a man,” he told me. “What you do with this night is up to you. But one last bit of fatherly advice, Jasper—if I were you, I would not waste these hours. Remember, dawn follows night.”

  And you have another room prepared, one in which a man and a knife wait for me … Strangely cold, I did not move as Haman laughed and strode out. I heard the bar drop into place, imprisoning me in this lush chamber.

  —and then the gleaming, perfumed woman set her hand upon my arm. Her skin burned against mine; suddenly my whole body trembled. Then she gently made me turn until I faced her. After one swift glance, I stared at the floor as my face burned with shame and my stomach seemed to rise into my throat. I thought I would vomit.

  “I—I am sorry,” I managed to say.

  “Look at me.” Her voice was soft; I found myself obeying her command. When I did, she touched her fingers to my lips.

  “Hush. There is nothing to fear, and I tell you now that you are not acting foolishly, my young lord.” She stroked my hair; my body trembled at her touch. “My name is Zebbani.”

  I managed to say, “Yes, I know.” For Zebbani was the most famed, most desired, most expensive courtesan in all Shushan. I had seen her once, as her palanquin was being carried past the courtyard gate of Haman’s house.

  She smiled, and somehow gave me the impression that it pleased her that I knew of her—when I considered that night later, I realized how fine an actress a courtesan must be. “Now, tell me your name.”

  “Jasper,” I said. “My name is Jasper.”

  “Jasper.” She made my name into a caress. “You are well-named, a treasure indeed.” She slid her hands down my arms, entwined her fingers with mine. She pretended not to notice how my hands trembled. “Now come, for the night is long, but not endless.”

  She drew me over to the waiting bed, made it easy for me to follow her down onto the silks and furs. By the time she had me half-undressed, I was more than half in love with her. My first woman.

  My only woman. Ever.

  Or so I thought on that one precious night. Now, and never again.

  But as in so many other things, I was wrong, although I did not learn that for many years, in yet another life.

  I lay there beside her and wondered if she could see how hard my heart beat. To me, each throb seemed to shake my whole body. This one night will be all I will ever have. This is the only woman I shall ever touch …

  Then, as despair lay heavy in my bones, something spoke to me. Do not abandon hope. A task awaits you. Will you let evil thrive?

  I do not know which god or goddess chose to speak to me that night. If I did, I would build a temple of gold in that deity’s honor. Those few words strengthened me, gave me purpose.

  I will survive. I will live, and I will pay back to Haman every pain he has ever caused. I looked at Zebbani, who possessed everything that makes a woman desirable to men. My life, if I survived the knife, would be spent as less than a man—I would be seen as a safe servant and guardian of women. If I were strong and clever, I could rise high in such service.…<
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  “Teach me what pleases a woman,” I said to the finest courtesan in all Shushan. “Teach me how to make a woman happy.”

  * * *

  She did—and more, Zebbani taught me what I had not even thought to ask: how to please a man. I barely listened to what she said, but my body remembered, later. Sometimes I wondered just how much Zebbani knew of Haman’s plans for me, for that knowledge proved very, very useful. Men have more interest in young pretty eunuchs than women do.

  And the last words she spoke to me as the lamps guttered out at dawn remained, echoing through the long years until I gained happiness. On very dark nights, when I counted hours and could not sleep, I would hear that faint echo, and wonder if Zebbani had been a woman at all. Surely only a peri or a fravashi could have repeated my own thoughts back to me; only a goddess could have given me such a blessing. Perhaps she had been Daena Herself, Judge of the Dead.

  “You think to escape Fate, but you cannot. If I could procure escape, do you think I would be here?” She laid her hand upon my cheek; her palm smelled of musk. “My chains are very pretty, O Master of Treasures, but gold imprisons as surely as iron. All I can do for you is tell you what I tell myself, when I cannot sleep.”

  “And what is that?” I asked.

  “Make your enemies pay.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to my forehead, softly, as if she were my mother. “And make yourself prosper.”

  * * *

  I remember horror and I remember pain—but I survived the knife, and my body healed. And I was fortunate, for already I had become enough of a man that no one would ever think me a woman. But neither would I ever be mistaken for a whole man. My beauty fell into the realm between the two … and I knew that beauty, too, was as much a weapon as knowledge and courage. I would need all the weapons I could attain to achieve my goal:

  Haman’s downfall.

  I wanted him to suffer as my mother had suffered. I wanted him to know the Three Pains: of body, of mind, of heart. All I did would aim, like a poisoned arrow, at that target. Not an easy task, nor a swiftly achieved one. Even at the age of fourteen, I knew my vengeance lay long years away. But I was young.

  I could wait.

  * * *

  Zebbani had advised me to weigh my own worth, to gauge my appearance as if it were a weapon. “Which it is. Never forget that.” Zebbani had smiled. “Always make sure you own a very, very good mirror. Silver, if you can get it. Bronze, if you cannot. Failing either, find an honest critic.” I had asked her for her judgment, and she told me coolly, “You are very beautiful, Jasper. But never think that beauty alone is enough.”

  By the time I healed, I had studied myself carefully, trying to prepare for whatever would come next. In my room was a silver mirror only as large as my hand—but it was highly polished, and I had ample time to stare into it. Small as it was, I tilted and angled the shining disk, gazing upon myself intently. Zebbani had told me I was beautiful—but my true father’s dark Abyssinian blood had mingled with the pure Persian of my mother’s to create a strange, exotic creature.

  I was tall, far taller than most boys of fourteen, supple and slender as the hunting cheetahs kept in the royal stables. My skin was far darker than amber; my eyes slanted long over high cheekbones. My hair curled without aid from me, and it had not been cut since the day Haman killed my mother. Flowing night I could gather into my hands. Long enough to braid into a rope to wrap around Haman’s neck. Long enough to choke out Haman’s life.

  If I had possessed anything at all with which to cut that braided hair from my head, I would have killed Haman even if I died myself for it. But I did not. Haman had ensured there was no blade of any kind for me to take up in my hand.

  I wasted many hours wishing for that blade—of course, with a blade, I would not need to cut my hair, for instead I could have cut Haman’s throat, as he had my mother’s. I always ended by chanting silently, Wait. Not now. But someday. Wait.

  Words I used as a shield every time Haman came to threaten and bully, for he could not resist gloating over his next scheme for my life. He had not yet divulged this, but clearly he expected me to await it with terror. Having survived gelding, I found it hard to worry over his brutal mocking hints. But I feigned fear, and refused to meet Haman’s eyes. I convinced him I was terrified. Helpless. Why should he not believe that? As I learned much later, Haman fed on fear.

  * * *

  Haman had gloated for so many months over how he would sell me that I had almost given up hoping for it—you may think it odd that I longed to be sold, but I knew only that would free me from Haman. So the day Haman had me brought into his courtyard to be inspected by the dealer’s keen eyes, I was anxious to make a good impression on the man. I did not want him shaking his head and walking away without me.

  Summoned, I followed my guard down to the shadowed archway. In the courtyard beyond, I saw Haman talking with a bored-looking man with the sleek, well-fed look of a successful merchant. Clearly Haman extolled my virtues; equally clearly, the man discounted at least half of what Haman said. But then Haman came over to where I stood and grabbed my arm.

  “See for yourself—here is the boy.” Haman yanked me into the full light, and I saw the man’s eyes widen.

  But the slave dealer was canny; did not admire me too openly. “Yes, he is pretty enough—but what is wrong with him?” the trader asked. “I have no time to waste haggling over a boy suffering from the falling sickness or so bad-tempered even beating will not cure the fault.”

  Haman smiled and shook his head. “His fault is that I cannot endure the sight of him since his mother died.”

  I saw understanding in the trader’s face, and a certain sympathy. I almost admired Haman’s cunning; he told truth—in part. I listened as they haggled over my future, and I wondered if my calm obedience surprised Haman. If it did, he made a virtue of my tameness.

  “You’ll have no trouble with him,” Haman said, as he and the slave dealer agreed upon my price. “The boy is a coward, like all eunuchs.”

  “Truly, they are all so, and sly as cats.” There was no real interest in the dealer’s voice as he agreed with Haman.

  Even as hate burned through my veins, I listened, and learned what I was expected to be now. A cunning coward. I can play that part. And I can wait. And someday, Haman, I will avenge my mother, and my own life.

  The trader touched my arm. “Come along, boy.” Haman smiled like a wolf, expecting me to protest, to struggle, to watch me dragged away. Oh, no, ‘Father.’ I will never give you what you crave.

  At that moment, I desired only one thing: to destroy Haman’s fierce triumph. I reached out and took the trader’s hand and let him lead me away. I looked back only once, when we paused for the gatekeeper to open the heavy door to the street beyond.

  And when I looked back, I smiled. For long years afterward, I cherished the swift baffled anger on Haman’s face.

  I had won that small prize, at least.

  * * *

  Because I let tears fill my eyes and let timid-seeming smiles tremble on my lips, and because I was beautiful and slender and only a boy still, the trader thought me cowed and biddable. I did not disillusion him; I hoped even now to escape the fate Haman had condemned me to. I would always be a eunuch—but I vowed on my mother’s blood that I would not remain a slave.

  * * *

  To my surprise and relief, I was not forced to endure the humiliation of the public auction block. The trader to whom Haman had sold me regarded me as a valuable asset. As such, my sale would be as carefully calculated as that of a rare gemstone. Nor was the man unkind to me—why should he be? I gave him no trouble, and he wished to get as large a price for me as possible. I, too, wished that. The more I cost, the more I would be valued and the better I would be treated.

  Or so I thought then. I was too inexperienced to know that while it was true for most owners, for some a high price served as goad.

  Just before the sale, the slave trader presented me with a g
ift to ease my path through this new life. “Here, boy—” He handed me a small ivory box. “This is for you. Open it.” I did and found myself looking at a dozen gilded pills. Puzzled, I tilted the box and let one of the gold spheres slide into my hand.

  “Go on,” he urged. “Take it.”

  I hesitated, then did as he had ordered. I was, after all, known to be both meek and obedient.

  The poppy’s gift eased tension I had not realized I suffered, and let me enjoy being readied for display to potential bidders. By the time I had been bathed and massaged with sweet oil so that my skin gleamed, and my hair combed so that it waved down my back like a dark cloud, I found myself smiling at everything and nothing.

  The slave merchant inspected me carefully and nodded his approval to the servants who had tended me. I smiled again; he said, “Good boy,” and patted my shoulder as if I were a pet dog. He led me into a large room lit by dozens of lamps. The little flames sent light dancing over my oiled skin, and that, too, seemed worthy of amusement. But I did not laugh, for the lamplight glinted on watching eyes.

  Men stared, studying me, assessing my face and body. The opium seemed to withdraw, abandoning me to the gaze of avid eyes.

  In later years, I would have known how to react in such circumstances. I would have made it my business to discover who might attend the sale merely to watch, and who to buy, if he could. And I would have known how to convey my interest to the buyer I wished to win the bidding. A glance at the proper moment could persuade another hundred darics from the right man.

  But I was only fourteen, and required all my strength of mind merely to stand calm. I refused to offer up even one tear for the amusement of these men. I kept my eyes downcast as the slave merchant extolled my virtues; I must have seemed modest, or shy. Better they think that of me than see the anger burning in my eyes.

  I heard voices calmly offering coin upon coin. Sometimes there would be a pause—I slanted a glance up through my lashes to see why, and discovered that some men merely lifted a finger to indicate a bid. More and still more was offered as I stood there. Words flowed into a babble of noise. Time slowed, became meaningless.