“Your mother was faithless in the way of her people,” Kalini agreed. “You must be thankful, Lady Mehr, that your father chose to protect his children, despite their ill blood.”
Mehr inclined her head. Whatever her father had done—whatever bitterness she felt toward him, for his part in the loss of her mother—he had protected Mehr and Arwa as best he could. For nine years, he had even given Mehr the freedom to be her mother’s daughter. She was grateful for that.
Speaking about her mother’s departure and exile dredged up memories Mehr would rather have left undisturbed. She remembered so much, too much. She remembered how her mother had faded after Arwa’s birth. She remembered how her mother had stared out at the desert all those long months the way a maimed bird stares at the sky. When her mother had been exiled, Mehr had cried and begged her father to let her go too:Please, Father, let me go.
But her father hadn’t let her go, and Mehr had watched the desert day after day, waiting against all reason for her mother to come home. Only Lalita’s patient coaxing had—slowly, eventually—pulled her out of her stupor.
Mehr did not often dwell on the details of her mother’s departure. It pained her to do so now for an audience. Her dredged history sickened her like poison. And there was no kindness in Kalini’s eyes.
“I have one last question for you, Lady Mehr. Would you make a vow to the Empire, to our Emperor and the Maha to prove your loyalty? Would you vow to serve them with your body, your heart, your soul?” Kalini’s gaze was intent. “It would put my fears quite to rest.”
She spoke politely enough, but there was an avid hunger in her eyes that made Mehr’s stomach churn. She looked again at Amun, who was still as a statue carved in jet. He did not look at her, but she felt the weight of his regard. He was listening. He was waiting, so tense that he barely even seemed to breathe.
“How dare you,” Suren growled. His hands were in fists. He looked ready to rise to his feet. “Such an impertinent question is not to be borne!”
“It’s a simple question,” Kalini said mildly. “It was not intended to cause offense.”
“My daughter is an Ambhan noblewoman,” her father said, in a voice filled with barely leashed fury. “Noblewomen are a treasure of the Empire; their souls are in our keeping. They do not makecontracts.” He nearly spat the word. “To ask her to make a vow beyond marriage is a barefaced insult.” His voice grew darker. “If the nobility learn your master seeks to pervert the honor of their women, there will be a revolt. I can assure you of that.”
“I apologize,” Kalini said, touching a hand to her chest. “You named your daughter tainted, Governor. I did not know you extended such an honor to her. That was my error, and I apologize.”
Before her father could explode, Mehr hurriedly cut in.
“It is I who must apologize, Mystic,” she said. “I would vow if I could. But my father has spoken. I am an Ambhan noblewoman and the vow is not mine to give.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Kalini. “I appreciate your honesty. My most vital task is to protect the interests of the Empire. You must understand why I am compelled to treat you impertinently.”
“I understand perfectly,” Mehr replied.
“Well then,” Kalini said softly. She gave Amun a look under her lashes. “We’re done,” she announced.
Mehr blinked. “What?”
“Lady Mehr, do you choose this match?” asked Kalini.
“I would like to speak to Amun a little longer before making my decision,” Mehr said, in the most respectful voice she could manage.
“One meeting is not enough,” Suren said. “Courtship is a lengthy process, Mystic. One meeting—”
“Is all that we have time for,” Kalini cut in. “We need the lady’s decision today, Governor. Needs must. The Maha requires our swift return.”
Mehr wasn’t ready yet. No time had passed at all. She had barely spoken to Amun, and he had barely looked at her, never mind spoken in return.
But this meeting had never been about introducing Mehr and Amun to one another. It was a formality, allowing the mystics to avoid transgressing sacred rights without allowing Mehr out of their grasp.
It was Kalini she’d spoken to. Kalini who had interrogated her, and smiled, and decided Mehr’s fate. Amun had decided nothing. Perhaps she hadn’t been able to read his face, his voice, because he felt nothing at all.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Mehr asked him. “Anything at all?”
Amun gave her the briefest glance, his dark eyes hooded.
“Lady Mehr,” said Amun. “In the name of the Maha, I ask you: Do you consent to marry me?”
“Is that the only question you have?” she asked quietly.
“It is,” he replied.
He was an absolute stranger to her. But that didn’t matter. Long before Mehr had walked into this room, she’d made her choice.
