Game of Queens by India Edghill Page B

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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œAnd what is that?” I asked.
    â€œMake 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