Jewel of Persia (21 page)

As any young woman should be doing . . . yet most young women had friends beyond the four girls that lived three doors down and emerged from their houses other than to fetch water for their servants.“Have you gone to the markets lately? Or across the city with my sisters and mother when they visit our cousins? Have you perhaps taken Mordecai his meals while he hears complaints at the palace gates?”

Enlightenment made her eyes dim. She turned back to her jug and dipped it in the river. “I am not overfond of crowds, you know that.”

He took the heavy vessel from her while she stood. “You used to run off to the river at all hours. You went with Martha into the markets every chance you got.”

Esther pushed to her feet and grabbed at the jug. “That was not me.”

He held tight to the pottery. “If you insist upon reverting to this reclusiveness every time I get involved in a large project, I shall be forced to tell the king to find another to do his woodworking.”

Disbelief sparkled in her eyes and emerged as a hint of a smile on her lips. “I think not.”

“Esther.” He released the vessel to her. If he tried to carry it, he would probably slosh out half its contents during the trip. She could balance it perfectly on her head without losing a single precious drop. “You worry me.”

“Why? Because I prefer the quiet of my cousin’s house to the bustle of the streets? Because I am content with the friends I have among your family?” She shook her head and set her water down. “That is ridiculous.”

“Is it? My friend who just left had no idea who you were, though he lives on our street.”

“And should I know all the unmarried young men in our neighborhood?”

He threw his hands into the air and faced away from the river. “Fine. But do not whine to me when your cousin eventually betroths you to a complete stranger. He will have no choice.”

“He will not betroth me to a stranger.” She lifted the jug to her head and started on the path toward home.

Zechariah sighed and fell in beside her. “I want the best for you, Esther. You are a sister to me.”

“I am not your sister.”

The quiet confidence in her tone made his jaw clench. They did not speak of her feelings for him. Never had they, and never did he wish to. Best to stick to the subject at hand. “Do you remember when you first came to Mordecai’s house?”

When she drew in a breath, it sounded resigned. “Of course I do.”

“You were such a sorrowful little thing. Any mention of your parents sent you into silence and solitude, even years later. Kasia once told me she lured you into adventure so you would not think of sad things so much. And it worked. Before she left us, you had become bright and vibrant, just like her. Do you remember that? The way you would laugh together, finish each other’s sentences?”

“She understood me.” She halted and looked up at him. Her eyes had always struck him as old beyond her years. Lately they had become ageless. Why had Jehovah forced her through so much? “But that was
her
vibrancy you saw, Zechariah, not mine. Kasia was the flame—I was but a mirror that reflected it.”

“You are wrong.” Had she truly been his sister, he would have pulled her close and squeezed the grief out of her. But she was right—she was not his sister. If he did that, she would take from it something he did not intend. “When you came to Mordecai, he changed your name to Esther because you brought the light back into his life.”

Again her lips curled into that perfect, reserved smile. “A star, yes. One point of light, so dim in the heavens. What is a star next to the silver light of the moon?”

“A perfect complement. And when the moon hides her face, the star shines all the brighter.”

Her eyes shimmered with tears. “You are a poet as well as an artist, Zechariah. Yet you would rather paint a battlefield with the blood of your enemies. Surely you can understand how I struggle with what is expected of me as well.”

His heart beat a sympathetic cadence against his ribs. “All that is expected is that you be who we know you are inside.”

“No. You expect me to be Kasia. But I cannot, much as I wish it otherwise. I cannot be that bright. I cannot be your sister.”

How had he ended up in this quagmire? No matter what he argued, she would either feel the burden of unreasonable expectations or take from it a hopeless hope. He sighed. “No one thinks you must be Kasia—we only want you to be the Esther you were with her.”

She looked at him for a long moment and then turned and walked away. Even then, he swore he felt the penetration of her gaze. Those eyes of hers said much. She might as well have demanded, “If you want me to be a mirror again, why do you refuse to provide the flame?”

He could not. So he turned back to the river and thrust his head under. The water gushed cool over him, providing a welcome crush of meaningless noise. When he emerged and slicked his hair away from his face, he could almost pretend the conversation with Esther had never happened.

His parents had long ago discovered his morning sport but had agreed to let him continue, so long as he was home in time to start the day. He entered the house to the smells of newly baked bread. Abba already sat with a wooden bowl of food before him, and he looked up with a smile. “There you are. Did you want to make the deliveries today, or should I send Joshua? We must clear some of the finished pieces out so we have room to begin that bed your friend’s sister commissioned. Though why she insists it be fashioned from a single piece of wood . . .”

“Apparently she is a fan of Homer’s
Odyssey
and always wanted a bed like Penelope and Odysseus had.” Zechariah grabbed a hunk of bread. “I will do the deliveries. Joshua is still working on that set of griffins, and you know how he gets if we distract him.”

Abba chuckled. “True. I shall help you load everything up as soon as you eat.”

The promise of a trip through Susa was enough to make him hurry through his meal. Zechariah and Abba filled their cart with finished pieces and hitched it to the donkey.

He smiled as he headed for the home of the absent Bijan. The reason came to the door with her usual coy grin. “Good morning, Zechariah. Have you heard about my betrothal?”

Zechariah jumped from the cart with a snort of a laugh. “Certainly—when your bridegroom came to our shop with your order for a monstrosity of a bed. What are you trying to do, Ruana, kill me?”

Mischief carved dimples into her cheeks as she stepped into the street. “Only with jealousy.”

He chuckled. “I cannot believe you found a man willing to indulge your spending habit. Does he realize you will empty his treasury within the year?”

“I have little fear of that. He has been well compensated for his service in Egypt.” She peered over the side of the cart, one hand twirling a lock of hair. “Lovely, Zech. Shall I show you where I want them?”

“Mmm.” He hefted the first of the decorative screens and followed her inside. As usual, her mother was nowhere in sight.

She led him inside their massive house and toward the back, where her personal chamber took up the corner. As she walked, her hips swayed—exaggerated, he suspected, for his benefit. “We have heard from Bijan,” she said over her shoulder. “They have reached Celaenae and will soon be heading to Sardis to await spring and the completion of the bridge and canal. He is anxious for action.”

“I imagine so. All this time in preparation, and the war itself will probably last only a year. Greece cannot put up much of a fight.” He entered her room, where his craftsmanship showed in nearly all her furniture. When her brother and father left, she had taken it upon herself to keep up the constant stream of new pieces. “The corner?”

“Yes.” She made a humming sound when he set it down. “You are a handsome one, Zechariah. If you were not a Jew, perhaps I would be betrothed to
you
.”

Zechariah laughed and turned to face her. Her beauty lay in generous curves, a well-proportioned face, and lustrous hair. Her allure lay in the easy flirtation without expectation. “Jehovah’s wisdom prevails then, for my purse could never support you.”

“You do have a point.” Her perfect teeth gleamed as she grinned. “Just the one other piece, right?”

He nodded, and they headed back out together. “When is the wedding?”

“As soon as you get that bed finished.” She wiggled her brows. “Will you procrastinate to spare yourself the thought of me in it with another man?”

“More like rush to finish so that I can resign myself the faster to the inevitable.” He slapped a hand to his chest. “Though surely my heart shall break in two.”

Her laugh rang out. “Get the other screen, you cruel man. I can at least enjoy the flex of your arms, even if your sarcasm crushes me.”

He pulled it out of the cart and strode inside again. She followed, silent as he entered her chamber and positioned the screen beside its match. He turned back around. “Do you need anything else before I leave?”

“Just one thing.” Her arms fell to her sides as she walked toward him, then lifted and settled on his chest.

His breath hitched. What if she felt the quickened beat of his heart under her hands?

Her eyes were dark with intensity. “I may not see you again before my wedding. So this is my last chance.”

Her intent was clear, even before she lifted her mouth and shuttered her eyes. Zechariah closed his arms around her waist. The linen of her chiton was fine and soft, but it was the curve of her back that sent messages of awareness from hand to mind. He touched his lips to hers.

The kiss deepened, though he could not have said who shifted, who invited. When he pulled away, it was with a sigh. “You are a dangerous woman, Ruana.”

“And here I thought you above flattery.” After running her hands over his chest, she stepped away. “I imagine you need to get back. You have a bed to carve.”

“That I do.” He left. And knew that now he would indeed be tormented every time he set to work.

Sixteen

Celaenae, Phrygia

“I swear he is trying to torture me.”

Kasia pressed her lips together against a smile. Not that Artaynte would have noticed it—the girl’s gaze was locked on the other side of the garden, where Darius stood in the shadows with a local wench. Kasia looped her arm through her friend’s. “I have no doubt of it. He always checks to make sure you are watching before going off with one of his . . . women.”

A woebegone sigh eased from Artaynte’s full lips. “Mother maintains he is trying to win my love. But the longer this goes on, the more I wonder if he is repaying me for all the harsh words I give him.”

“I cannot say. I know him very little.” All she knew was that the prince frequently studied his cousin when he thought no one noticed, and that Artaynte was miserable in her obedience to Parsisa. “I realize you must honor your mother, but why not talk to him of your feelings? It is silly to toy with each other like this.”

Artyante sighed again and brushed her heavy, dark locks away from her shoulders. “She maintains that if one wants to hold the interest of a prince, one must make him think that interest hard-won.”

Kasia looked again at the corner where Darius stood, nipping at the neck of the giggling girl. “When I met you, Artaynte, I thought you despised him. Begin to soften, otherwise he may grow so disheartened he will never speak for you.”

“You may be right.” A frown puckered Artaynte’s forehead. She was a sweet girl, always eager to please. Too much so. “I will speak to Mother. Surely it is time to offer him some encouragement. I realize her wisdom in making certain he knew I did not seek an alliance based only on his heirdom, but he will never know I love him if I keep showing him such disdain.”

Tempted to toss her hands to the heavens and shout “Thank you!” for that much of a breakthrough, Kasia contented herself with a smile. “I am sure your mother will agree.”

Yet Artaynte’s forehead did not smooth out. “What if she is right, though, and
his
interest is not deeply rooted enough to last? I do not want to be queen at the price of my heart. Look how that turned out for his mother. Better to trust the advice of mine—Father still loves her, so she must have done things right. She knows how to handle a prince.”

Kasia pressed her lips together to keep from arguing the point of Masistes and Parsisa. Perhaps they
did
love one another. “Certainly she does. But Darius is not your father, nor are you your mother. Your love cannot be exactly like theirs.”

“Why must matters of the heart be so complicated?” Artaynte pulled her gaze from Darius and turned to Kasia. “How do you keep the king’s love, Kasia?”

She chuckled and scanned the garden in the hopes that he would be out. Her heart raced at the mere thought of catching sight of him, then slowed to normal when she did not. “I have no secret to share—I simply love him, and base all else on that. The opposite of your mother’s advice.”

“Hmm. It certainly works with your husband. How am I to know what would work best with his son?”

She could only shrug. “Shall I ask the king’s opinion? He knows his son better than I do.”