“I am trying, Maha.” This, at least, she could be honest about. She let the compulsion wash over her, forcing the words from her lips. “On my honor, I am trying as hard as I can.”

“You believe you are,” he said gently. “But I believe you could do better—and I am a great deal older and wiser than you are, Mehr.”

She was shivering. She couldn’t control herself. She wished the Maha had ordered her to be silent instead of Amun. It was hard to resist the urge to garble out apologies, to cry and beg for his mercy. He had done nothing to her, but in her bones she knew he would. He wanted her fear. He wanted it more than her gratitude.

The Maha allowed the moment to stretch thin between them. His hand drifted, with deceptive casualness, away from the tea glass and spoon toward a tray of fruit. There was a knife on the tray. It was small, with a firm handle and one sharp edge, useful for cutting fruit down into fine segments. He took hold of it.

“Hold out your left hand, Mehr. Palm up.”

Mehr wanted to refuse. But he had ordered her. She should not have been able to resist an order. Allowing his voice to compel her was almost a relief. She held her arm out across the table, palm upraised. With his order racing through her blood, her arm didn’t even tremble.

He held the knife over the smallest finger. The metal skimmed her skin.

“You don’t need all of your fingers for the rite,” he told her. “I know that.” A pause. “I was once served by an Amrithi male named Gaur. He was strong. Healthy. But the smallest finger of his left hand was lost when my mystics took his blade from him. A shame, but he learned to serve despite his early failures.”

Mehr held her breath. There was a whiteness buzzing behind her eyes.

“Will you do better?” the Maha asked quietly. “Or will you require encouragement?”

He pressed a little harder. A bead of blood welled up on Mehr’s skin.

“I will do better,” Mehr said. Her voice shook like a leaf. “I promise I will.”

Even in the cloud of fear fogging her mind, Mehr knew he was unlikely to risk maiming her permanently so near the storm. She knew. But that made no difference. He could hurt her. He had hurt her today—cut the knowledge of her powerlessness directly into her flesh. Once the storm had passed, he could hurt her even worse. Skin deep, soul deep. However he liked. Her life belonged to him.

This knife would hang over her, always and always, for the rest of her vow-bound life.

He met her eyes. Whatever he saw must have pleased him, because he nodded to himself and placed the hilt of the blade in her open palm.