“Before I came here I was nothing,” Hema said. Her voice was even, but its evenness was like a bandage on a bleeding wound. Her trembling fingers had tightened on the edge of the window and gone still. “All of us were nothing. Just fatherless children, hungry and alone. But here we have the power to change the world. Here we can ensure that the Empire remains ever glorious, spreading its prosperity and its goodness, preserving the immortality of our Emperors. Here, we are the heart of the Empire.”

Mehr listened without speaking.

“You’re not happy,” said Hema. “But there is glory in this life.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Mehr asked.

Hema did smile then, a wry, secret smile.

“When I was a little girl, my sister brought me here too and showed me just this sight,” she said. “She showed me and told me that I mattered. That I was the heart of the Empire. My prayers. My service.” Hema touched a fist to her chest. “The Empire is the glory we have created.” She looked at Mehr. “This is your glory too now, Mehr. All that power you see out there? You can make it do something good.”

Mehr squeezed her own hands into fists. She thought of Amun’s vow-marked skin. The scar on her chest. The weight of the Maha’s eyes. The chafe of the marriage seal at her throat.

“You believe I can make a difference?” she said, glad the shake in her voice could be ascribed to so many, many things other than anger.

“Of course I do,” Hema said simply.

Hema truly believed in the Maha. They all did.

If the Maha had been kind to Mehr, had raised her up from nothing and dazzled her with his power and benevolence, perhaps she would have grown to believe in him too. Perhaps she would have wanted to don his chains, hand him her beating, bloody heart on a platter. But he hadn’t raised her up. He had struck her down.

The love he wanted from her was different than the love he demanded from his mystics. His mystics were his followers and his chosen, and from them he demanded a love that was as simple as a child’s, adoring and fervent.

But his Amrithi were his tools. From them he wanted a love that sprouted from the dark blood of fear, and Mehr refused to give that to him.

Mehr uncurled one hand. Placed it on Hema’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Mehr whispered. “Thank you for being kind.”

Perhaps the Maha had asked Hema to win Mehr’s loyalty. Perhaps Hema had some other ulterior motive, some unfathomable reason for trying so stubbornly to win Mehr’s trust. Mehr didn’t know. But she did know that any kindness in this place was to be treasured.

Hema returned the gesture, the clasp of her hand firm against Mehr’s shoulder.