“My father doesn’t speak to me about such things,” Mehr said finally.
“I know, dear one,” Lalita said. Her voice was soft. “But ah, enough of serious business. Let me tell you what I learned from a patron last week …”
After one inspiring story about a hapless merchant and two business-minded dancing girls, Mehr was almost relaxed. She was laughing when a guardswoman entered, a grim expression on her face.
“Lady Maryam has asked for you to attend her, my lady,” she said.
That put a complete stop to Mehr’s laughter. She straightened up, offering the guardswoman a cool look that was returned in kind. Her stepmother’s servants had no particular love for Mehr.
“Give me a moment,” Mehr said. Knowing Maryam would have demanded Mehr be brought to her immediately, she added, “I must say good-bye to my guest. I’m sure Mother would agree.”
As Mehr stood, Lalita stood with her.
“Mehr,” Lalita said, a hint of hesitation in her voice. “We will talk more when I return for the storm, but do try to be … careful. Your father will keep you safe, my dear, but these are difficult times.”
Mehr nodded. She was very conscious of the guardswoman waiting for her, listening to Lalita’s every word.
“When you return for the storm we’ll speak properly,” Mehr agreed. “I’ll make sure we’re not disturbed, if I can.”
“Thank you.”
Usha came over and placed Lalita’s hooded robe around her shoulders.
“I’ll see myself out,” Lalita said lightly. She touched her fingers to Mehr’s cheek. “Be brave,” she said. “Nothing harms like family. I know.”
“I’m always brave,” Mehr said.
“So you are,” Lalita said, ever so softly. “My dear, I hope you never change.”
CHAPTER TWO
The guardswoman led Mehr down increasingly elegant marble-floored corridors to the Receiving Hall. Used solely for entertaining the wives of visiting courtiers, the Hall was no place for a private conversation between family members. No doubt Maryam had chosen the Hall for exactly that reason. She wanted to remind Mehr of her place. This was Maryam’s household. Mehr was just an unwanted interloper: an illegitimate child, a heathen, a visitor.
Mehr hardly needed the reminder. She knew what she was.
The guardswoman crossed the threshold of the Hall and bowed low as she announced Mehr’s arrival. After a short pause, the guard gestured at her to enter. Mehr steeled herself and stepped into the room with her head held high.
The room was sumptuously decorated with silk tapestries unfurled on the walls and rubies inlaid into the domed ceiling. Mehr swept across the Hall, ignoring the watchful, judgmental eyes of her stepmother’s many attendants. She kept her own gaze fixed on the raised dais in front of her where Maryam waited.
Lady Maryam, wife of the Governor of Irinah and scion of one of the great Ambhan families, looked down at her stepdaughter from her raised seat and offered her a cool smile. Mehr gave her a small bow in return.
“Mother,” she said. “How may I serve?”
“Sit down, Mehr,” said Maryam. “We need to talk.”
Maryam was a true bloom of Ambhan womanhood. Her hair was sleek and dark, wound into a gold-laced braid that fell to the small of her back. Her skin was light brown, her eyes hazel, her face fine-boned and delicate. She looked exactly as fresh and maidenly as she had on the day Mehr’s father had brought her to their home, dressed in wedding silks with his seal hung around her neck. Even the hate in her eyes when she looked at Mehr, kneeling on the cushions before her, hadn’t altered one jot in the last eight years.
There was a tray of pastries and a jug of spiced wine in the arms of a servant at Maryam’s side. Maryam allowed the servant to pour her a drink and set some of the pastries in front of her as she continued to stare down at Mehr with a look that could have curdled milk.
Maryam sampled the wine. Everything else she left untouched. Mehr and the servants waited in complete silence.
“I thought we had an understanding, Mehr,” Maryam said finally. “Arwa’s upbringing is my responsibility.”
“I know that, Mother.”
“Not yours. Mine.”
“I understand perfectly,” Mehr said.
“Then why,” Maryam said, eyes narrowed, “did you go to the nursery last night?”
“Because Arwa needed me,” Mehr replied calmly. “It was a small thing, Mother. Nothing of consequence.”
“How easily you tell lies,” said Maryam. A look of absolute bitterness flitted across her features. “I know what you did. Filling her head with heathen madness is not a small thing, Mehr, and I won’t stand for it. I have worked so very hard to ensure that Arwa is better than her mother’s low blood. I have raised her with all the care I would have shown a child of my own flesh, if I had been so blessed. And I have done well, Mehr. She is good.”
“She is,” Mehr said softly. This, at least, they could agree upon.
“Because I have made her good,” Maryam said sharply. “Because I have raised her and molded her, and taught her to be grateful that she is a noblewoman of the Ambhan Empire.” Unlike you, Maryam did not say. She had no need to. “Did you know, Mehr, that every night before she sleeps, she kneels by me at my altar to worship the Emperor and Maha and give thanks to the mystics for their prayers? No? Of course not.” Her voice was a blade. “You know nothing about her, because she does not belong to you. She is mine.”
Maryam paused, then, to make a faint gesture at one of her servants. The servant filled her glass to the brim with a murmured apology. Maryam waved her away, her gaze still fixed on Mehr.
“Tonight, no doubt, Arwa will ask me about your blood and your knife and your shadow monsters, and I will have to shame her for believing your heathen lies. She will be grieved, and that will be your doing.”
Mehr bowed her head. She was not ashamed, not of what she had done, but the thought of Arwa suffering because of Mehr’s foolishness … Oh, it pained her.
Silence fell, and as the quiet deepened around them, Mehr realized that Maryam was waiting for her to apologize. An apology would not be the end of it, of course. No matter what Mehr said, Maryam would continue to vent her fury. Mehr had faced Maryam’s anger often enough before to know that.
If she apologized now, if she groveled and pleaded, Maryam’s fury would settle—eventually. The punishment she would inflict on Mehr would be lighter. Mehr had played the part of the remorseful child often enough in the past to know that.
But the memory of the daiva’s prayer-bright eyes—and Arwa’s tears—wouldn’t leave her be. She couldn’t do it. Today, with dreamfire rising and a storm hovering on the horizon, she couldn’t allow Maryam to belittle everything she held holy.
“They aren’t monsters,” Mehr said quietly. So quietly. In the silence of the Hall, her voice carried far enough.
The air grew tense. Along the walls, Maryam’s attendants went very, very still.
“Is that all you can say?” Maryam asked. “I give you the chance to apologize, and all you see fit to do is offer me more nonsense?”
“Not nonsense. Just the truth, Mother.” And because it wasn’t all she could say, because she had already fanned Maryam’s fury into a wildfire and groveling was no longer an option, she went doggedly on. “They are the Gods’ first children. They’re ancient, elemental, sacred—”