Mehr began to murmur along with them. Harmonies cut sharply through the air. She clasped her fingers tight enough for her nails to press grooves into her skin. She was heavy, so heavy with hate. The voices rose together in song, higher and higher, echoing off the domed ceiling of the hall. The voices sang of love and beauty and wealth, of a throne wreathed in gold. The mystics prayed for the Empire. They prayed for Hara and Numriha and Irinah and Durevi, for the provinces of the Empire, for the provinces still to come: the unclaimed countries that would one day be subsumed by the Empire’s glory. They prayed for Ambha itself, the jewel of the known world.

They prayed for the Empire to grow, ever larger, ever more wealthy and powerful. They prayed for the immortality of the imperial line, for the Maha to continue strong and everlasting as their leader and their guiding light.

Every single thing they prayed for would come to pass.

Mehr fixed her eyes on the statue upon the altar. The effigy was faceless by necessity: It stood for all Emperors past, present, and future. Son followed father, life followed death, generation after generation sat upon the throne. But there would always be an Emperor. There would always be an Empire. There would always be the Maha, ancient and glorious, the source of all imperial power.

Mehr bowed her head when expected, clasped her hands when the mystics clasped their own, and thought not of the Maha, but of the Emperor.

For all that he was mortal, all her life he had been like a God to her—distant, powerful, untouchable. His displeasure was death; his favor was a promise of a life of contentment and luxury. Her father served him with unflinching loyalty and had been rewarded with Jah Irinah and all its arid, raw beauty.

Mehr had been told the Emperor hated her mother’s people. The Emperor’s hatred of the Amrithi for their old rebellion against the Empire and their heathen ways had been held over Mehr like a knife. She had been told to hide her customs, her beliefs, to forget her mother. To let Arwa forget their mother. Because if she attracted the Emperor’s gaze …

She clenched her hands tighter. Well. Now she knew the consequences.

But she knew something else now too. He had never hated her mother’s people. He had just never considered them people at all. They were the kindling wood that fed the fire of the Empire’s strength.

The Amrithi were the Empire’s tools. They were there to be put into service, to harness the dreams of Gods to shape the Ambhan Empire’s golden immortality. Mehr had always been told that the Gods dreamed sweetly for the Empire. Now Mehr understood why they did so. Their dreams had been compelled. Their dreams had been stolen.

Bitterness welled up in her.