“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—”

“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.