canon excerpt 3
"Daeva Gashtaham," [the Mahrkagir] said with interest. "What have you brought me?"
And this time, it was the priest who bowed, lowing his skull-helmed head, finger-bones rattling at his waist. "Mahrkagir," he said smoothly. "This lord of Terre d'Ange seeks an audience."
The Mahrkagir of Drujan wore no crown, no diadem, no badge of office; only black, unalleviated save for the worn silver brocade on his coat. Of average stature, he was unimposing in build, and he was young; younger than I had expected, scarce older than I. "Speak."
Joscelin released my wrist and bowed, crossing his vambraces. "Lord Mahrkagir." His voice was harsh, his words practiced. "I, Joscelin Verreuil, seek asylum in Drujan. In exchange, I offer my sword, sworn unto your service, and--" he said it without faltering, "--this woman for your seraglio."
The fur-clad lord laughed deep in his chest, and one of the others made a jest. Two of the guards laughed; the giant crossed his massive arms over his leather clad-chest. The Mahrkagir gazed unblinking at Joscelin. "Why?"
Joscelin conferred with Tizrav, who offered him words to say. "Mahrkagir," said the Skotophagotis priest Gashtaham. "This lordling has committed rape against this woman." He touched his ear beneath the boar's skull. "The night wind has spoken; her kinsmen gather at the border, with a company of Sinaddan's men from Nineveh, who rattle their spears and shout vain challenges."
"So." The Mahrkagir cocked his head. "One sword, and one woman. I have swords, and mean to bear them; I have women, and boys, too. Already I have paid dear for D'Angeline flesh, pure and inviolate. Why should I accept a lordling's cast-off? Perhaps this offer is not so sweet as the price on your head, Jossalin Veruy. After all, I have a debt to reclaim." His tone was mild. "Either way, Angra Mainyu feasts, and your futile hope will make the banquet sweeter."
Tizrav whispered urgently to Joscelin, who pushed him away. Tizrav stumbled and fell on the flagstones, and Joscelin laughed, a terrible laugh, filled with despair, high and wild.
I knew, then, that I had driven him into the deepest depths of his own personal hell.
"You have no sword like mine, my lord, and no woman like this one." He yanked back the veil and twined his hand in my hair, jerking hard and forcing me to my knees. I went, the breath gasping in my throat, desire hitting me like a fist to the gut, awful and unexpected. "You see her," Joscelin said through gritted teeth. "This is no one's cast-off, but Phedre no Delaunay; Naamah's Servant, Kushiel's Chosen and the veritable Queen of Whores, my greatest passion, my sole downfall. I offer unto your keeping, Lord Mahrkagir, that which Terra d'Ange holds most precious. Do you say anyone will match her price?"
It was all there in darkling, twilight air of the hall, truth and lie woven together as seamlessly as a Mendacant's cloak, a polyglot mix of Habiru, Akkadian and Old Persian. The flagstones bruised my knees and my neck ached, wrenched back at an unnatural angle. I heard the scrabbling sound of Tizrav adjusting his eyepatch. I knelt at Joscelin's feet, the hem of his sheepskin coat brushing my cheek, his hand fisted in my hair.
And I felt the presence, not of Elua, Blessed Elua, but cruel Kushiel, beating in my blood.
From Kushiel's Avatar, by Jacqueline Carey. Chapter 42.