Free A Wind in Cairo by Judith Tarr Page B

no strength left to scream. And then she died. And they cut her, and something was alive inside her, but it died. And it was all blood. All—all—”
    He seized her. he shook her until her head rattled on her neck. “ Zamaniyah!”
    She stared. He glared back. “Listen to me,” he commanded her, setting in it all the force of his will. “There is something that happens to every woman. It happens with every turning of the moon. It means no more than that she is a woman. That you are a woman, little idiot; but I am a worse idiot by far, for thinking that you knew. Of course you didn’t. Your mother dead before you were eight years old, you raised half-wild with no one to look after you, and then your father’s spate of madness…how could you?”
    He stopped. She was shaking. Laughing, weeping. He set his teeth and let her fight the battle for herself.
    At last she stilled. Her face was streaming; she hiccoughed and nearly went off again. He had to hold her up. She clung and trembled and wept, and said, “But can’t you see? The very day my father unmasks me in front of the whole world—that very night—”
    â€œThe gods speak as they will,” he said.
    He could not have said it so to anyone but her. She accepted it for what it was: truth, and trust. “I knew there was something,” she said. “I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was growing breasts. Or finding hair in odd places, or needing more time in the baths.”
    â€œThat, too,” he said steadily.
    Her eyes narrowed; she paled a little, for all her bravery. “There is more?”
    He shaped a careful smile. “Little more, O my mistress,” he said, “but enough. Your eyes will change. They’ll see differently in some respects. Particularly when they come to rest on a man.”
    Her hand flew to her face, flew away. Her cheeks were scarlet. “Do you mean like a—a mare in heat? I won’t!”
    â€œSo they always say,” he said, “in the beginning.”
    She opened her mouth, closed it with a snap. Her glare was as fierce as a falcon’s.
    He refused to see it, though it comforted him. “You,” he said, “will bathe, and put on a clean gown, and look after yourself as I tell you. Then you will go back to sleep.”
    She was obedient. Suspiciously so. He watched her warily, but she was quiet, bathing, changing her robe, doing as he bade her. When she lay clean and fresh-scented in her clean bed, she looked up into Jaffar’s face. He bent to kiss her as he always did; she caught his cheeks between her palms and held him. “You’re beautiful,” she said.
    He straightened with dignity. “Woman’s sight,” he said, “takes time to grow.”
    Her fingers knotted in the bedclothes, but her face was calm. Her voice was calmer still. “I never asked for it. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.”
    He looked at her who was entirely a woman: he who would never be a man. He considered wisdom and gentleness. He said, “ You have a choice.”
    She gasped. He throttled guilt, the lash of sudden pain. Her eyes were huge, like bruises. The tears that filled them refused stubbornly to fall.
    He wanted to touch her, to comfort her. He clenched his fists at his sides.
    â€œGo away,” she said.
    He did not move.
    Her voice rose. “Go away!” And when he would not: “ Go away!” She flung herself at him. He caught her, let her strike him, reckless, furious, but skilled enough, and strong. He set his teeth and suffered it.
    Her weight, struggling, overbalanced him. He twisted as he fell. The bed caught most of him. His body caught all of her.
    Abruptly she was still. She breathed hard, sobbing. Very gently he began to stroke her hair.
    For a long while she made no move. Then her arms crept about him. She shifted, coiling childlike, burying her face in his torn