“Do you want me to believe your bloodletting is sacred too?” demanded Maryam.
“It is,” Mehr said, and watched Maryam’s beautiful face twist in revulsion.
Maryam visibly restrained herself, drawing in a deep breath, straightening in her seat. When she spoke, her voice was tight and controlled.
“Your father may allow you to indulge in your mother’s heathen customs, but you will not inflict them on Arwa.” Maryam touched the seal hung around her throat. Inscribed with the Governor’s genealogy in ancient Ambhan script, it marked Maryam as his other half, his partner in all of life’s duties, his bride and his property. It was a reminder of the power Maryam had that Mehr did not. “When I married Suren I vowed to raise you both as proper Ambhan women. I wanted to help you rise above your roots—both of you. But I knew from that moment I first set eyes on you that your mother had already rotted you with her barbarian ways.” Maryam leaned forward, intent. “I have failed to save you, Mehr, but I won’t fail Arwa. I won’t allow you to drag her down with you. Is that clear?”
“Very,” Mehr said. “I won’t disobey you, Mother.”
“If only I could believe you,” said Maryam.
Maryam took another sip of her drink. She watched Mehr over the rim of the glass, her eyes sharp. She was ready to pass judgment.
“No more contact, I think,” she announced. “When you’ve shown me you understand how to obey your parents, Mehr—as a true Ambhan daughter should—you’ll be allowed to visit Arwa again.”
Mehr felt her own rage rising. This was why she should have groveled. This was why she should have held her pride in check. Wielding truth had unpleasant and unavoidable consequences.
“I have the utmost respect for you, Mother,” Mehr said. Lie. “But if Arwa needs me, I won’t turn away from her.” A beat. “She’s my blood, after all.”
Maryam flinched as if she’d been struck. Mehr felt an ugly rush of satisfaction tangled with shame. Maryam could claim Arwa as her own as often as she liked. It would not change the truth. Maryam had never borne the child she’d so longed for. As the years had passed, it had become clear there would be no little Ambhan daughters carved in Maryam’s image, and no sons to carry on the family name. There would only ever be another woman’s child to raise and mold into her own as best as she could. For all Maryam’s efforts, Arwa would never be the child she truly craved.
“You value blood ties far more than you should,” Maryam said. “Blood wasn’t enough to make your birth mother stay, after all, was it? No.” Her voice trembled. She swallowed and held her head high. “Like it or not, we are family. And you will obey me, as is your duty.”
A wound for a wound. Mehr supposed there was some fairness in that. She sucked in a breath and held on to the iron in her spine, refusing to relent or apologize.
Maryam’s mouth thinned.
“Leave us,” she said to her attendants.
The servants filed out obediently. At the wave of Maryam’s hand, the guards closed the doors.
“Stand up,” Maryam said. She stood herself, smoothly adjusting the heavy weight of the silk shawl draped over her shoulders. She stepped down from the dais.
Mehr stood as Maryam walked over to her. “Why did you send the servants away?” she asked.
“Because some things aren’t for their ears,” Maryam said. Her skirts, diaphanous layers of netting and embroidered cloth, whispered against the floor. Closer now, Mehr could see the tension lining her face, the way her hands bit into the slippery weight of her shawl.
“You didn’t bring me here for privacy,” Mehr pointed out. “You brought me here to humiliate me.”
“How bold you are,” said Maryam, venom in her voice. “Things change, Mehr.”
Crossing the last bit of distance between them, Maryam roughly took hold of Mehr’s chin. She stared up into Mehr’s eyes without blinking.
“Look at you,” Maryam said softly. “Every year you grow more rebellious. You think I don’t see the look in your eyes? I know what you are, Mehr. I’ve accepted that trying to improve you is a pointless task, but perhaps you’ll pay me some heed when I tell you this: Your stubbornness is putting us all at risk, especially Arwa.”
Mehr could feel the sharp bite of her stepmother’s nails. She didn’t try to pull away. She told herself the pain was nothing.
“You don’t understand politics,” Maryam went on. “And why should you? Your father has kept you sheltered, as is right and proper. But I am your father’s other half. I share his burdens, and I know too much. I cannot allow you to continue blundering about in ignorance, harming us all.” She lowered her voice. “The Emperor, praise his name, has sent messages to his nobles across the Empire. He believes their efforts to drive heathens out of the Empire have been … lacking. He has asked them to search out your mother’s people in earnest and force them to the edges of society, where they rightly belong.” Maryam was still holding Mehr in her grip, nail to flesh, keeping her pinned fast. “Mehr, by the Emperor’s grace, you were born an Ambhan woman, and the walls of your father’s household shelter you from their sight and from harm. But even you are not so well hidden that your heathen rituals may not draw … attention.”
Mehr’s mind was full of noise. Her jaw ached.
“Why has the Emperor’s hatred grown so suddenly?” she whispered, forcing the words out through the grip of Maryam’s hand.
“It isn’t for us to question the Emperor,” Maryam said sharply.
Mehr bit down on her tongue to hold back an audible wince of pain as Maryam’s nails dug in deeper.
“No one has to know about the taint in your sister’s lineage,” Maryam said. “She is already my child in all the ways that matter. If you stop reminding the world of your heathen background, your father and I may be able to arrange good marriage prospects for her. Arwa could have the life she deserves. Or not. It’s up to you, Mehr.”
Finally Maryam released her. Mehr resisted the urge to touch her face.
“May I go?” she asked.
“You may go and think on what I’ve told you,” Maryam said. “But be warned. If you don’t make the right decision, I will have to convince your father to stop indulging you.” Her eyes were flinty. “No more dancing. No more heathen rites. His guilt won’t control him forever, Mehr.”
You can try, thought Mehr. This time she chose to be wiser, and held her tongue even as her heart hurt in her chest. Maryam made a dismissive gesture with one hand, and Mehr turned without offering her even the semblance of a respectful farewell. She swept through the doors, not bothering to hide the red marks on her face. Let the servants say what they liked. She’d had enough of her stepmother and her games to last a lifetime. Now all she wanted was to be alone.
Over the next few days Mehr got exactly what she’d wished for. The servants gave her a wide berth, mindful of the fact that Mehr was at odds with her stepmother. No one wanted to face Maryam’s displeasure by showing Mehr any favor. Arwa was kept away from her just like Maryam had promised. Mehr spent most of her time in her own chambers, waiting for the bruises on her face to fade and watching the horizon.