“My daughter’s consent would be required,” Suren said finally.
“We would never violate an Ambhan woman’s right to choose the path of her soul,” the mystic said. “A chaperoned meeting will be arranged.” The woman bowed again. The other mystics followed suit. “We pray, most sincerely, Governor, that your daughter will find the Emperor’s choice suitable.”
In the furor that followed, a guardswoman quickly ushered Mehr and Maryam from the Lotus Hall and guided them to the Governor’s Study. No doubt she acted on Suren’s orders.
Two guards stood on watch at the doors. As Maryam paced the room in silent, seething fury, Mehr lifted her veil away from her face. Her clothes were too heavy. The walls of the study were closing in on her. She wanted to go outdoors and let the night air cool her blood. She wanted Lalita, and her rites, and the rosewater smell of Arwa’s hair. She wanted comfort. She didn’t want tothink. Not yet.
“I told you to be careful,” said Maryam. Her voice sounded like it was echoing across a long distance. Mehr’s ears were still too full of the crowd to hear her. “You brought this upon us. You drew attention to yourself, threw yourself headlong into disgrace and now you’ve brought those monsters to our doorstep—did you even consider what the Emperor’s displeasure could do to us?—listen to me, Mehr!”
She grabbed Mehr’s hand. Mehr resisted the sudden, bubbling urge for violence. She wanted to rake her nails over Maryam’s skin like claws. She wanted a daiva’s ferocity and a daiva’s taste for blood. The hunger was painful; the rage made her mouth water. But Mehr did nothing. She simply let her stepmother hold on to her.
After all, Maryam was right.
“If you refuse this match you’ll murder us all,” Maryam hissed. The hate and fear blazed on her face like dreamfire in flesh. “Do you understand? Your father, your sister, all the servants—they will all die because of you. So for once in your life, Mehr, make the right decision. For once,do as you’re told.”
The door opened. Maryam released Mehr hastily and retreated to the corner of the room, her back turned. Her shoulders were shaking.
“Maryam,” Suren said gently. “My love. My apologies. I need to speak to Mehr alone.”
Maryam swept out of the room wordlessly. The door slammed behind her.
CHAPTER FIVE
In her eighth year, on the Emperor’s birthday, Mehr had—for reasons she could no longer remember—decided she did not wish to pray. Nahira had scolded her. Her mother had made a lackluster effort to change Mehr’s mind, then thrown up her hands and sent Mehr to her father for punishment instead.
Mehr had kneeled on the floor of the Governor’s Study, hands clasped tight in front of her so that she wouldn’t be tempted to fidget with the hem of her skirt and give away how nervous she was. Her father had watched her silently for a long moment. Then he’d said, “Why won’t you pray?”
Mehr had looked down.
“Mehr,” he’d said. Just once.
“Mother doesn’t pray,” she’d whispered.
At that, her father had sighed.
“I see,” he said. “I should have known. Well, you are not your mother, and there are some things she cannot teach you, Emperor’s grace upon her.”
He’d kneeled down in front of her then, and taken her hands in his own. His hands had been so much bigger than hers. They’d swallowed hers whole. But they had been warm, and gentle, and Mehr had suddenly been less afraid of her father’s anger.
“Who rules Irinah?” he’d asked. “You must answer, Mehr.”
Mehr had relaxed a little. That one was easy. “You do, Father,” she’d said.
“No, Mehr,” he’d replied. “IgovernIrinah. I act on the Emperor’s behalf. I have a great deal of power, but in the end, like all people, I am his servant.” He spoke gently, deliberately. His gaze on her, the cadence of his words, had made her feel shamed and small. “Who rules the Empire’s soul?”
“The Emperor,” she’d whispered.
“No. Try again.”
“The mystics?”
Her father had shuddered. He shook his head. “Not quite, daughter. The mystics, like me, are a tool. They serve the Empire through prayer, but they do so on behalf of their master. Whom do the mystics serve, Mehr? Has your mother told you?”
“I don’t know,” Mehr admitted softly.
“When I was your age, my own mother taught me an old adage.Give your sword to the Emperor and your soul to the Maha, she told me,and you shall walk in the reflected light of their glory. The Maha founded the Empire, Mehr, and therefore, all Emperors since have walked in his footsteps. One cannot exist without the other. The rule of law and rule of faith are tied together. We nobles serve the law and administer the state. The mystics serve the faith and ensure that our Empire remains blessed.” His grip had tightened, just a little, just enough to make Mehr meet his eyes. “Everything we have,” he’d said, “my governorship, this palace, your clothes and your toys, the food we eat—all of it relies upon the benevolence of our Emperor and our Maha, because we are Ambhan, and that is the way of our Empire. When you refuse to pray, you reject the reflection of their glory that blesses us. Do you reject who we are, daughter, and all we’ve been blessed with? Do you want to live in disgrace and darkness?”
No one would care, she had thought then, if one little girl did not pray. But her father clearly cared, so she had said nothing, and only sniffled a little, as frightened children are prone to, and shaken her head.
