Mehr thought, for one brief moment, of seeking out Hema and showing her exactly what the Maha was capable of. She thought of showing Hema her swollen lip, her bruised cheek, the nail grooves cut into her scalp. Then she discarded the idea. As tempting as it was, she knew she wouldn’t be able to shatter Hema’s belief in the Maha. Mehr had seen the strength of that faith shining in Hema’s eyes. Not even Mehr’s blood would have the strength to tarnish it. No doubt Hema would simply look at her bruises and ask Mehr what she had done to deserve them.

So she didn’t approach Hema. She avoided all the mystics entirely, unable to stand the thought of having their eyes on her. She missed the comfort of her old chambers. She missed Arwa and Lalita and Nahira, her veils and her walls, the certainty she’d once had in her own worth. But she didn’t try to seek out pity. Like an animal looking for somewhere quiet to lick its wounds clean, she drifted along shadowed corridors until she found an exit that led to the inner courtyard of the temple. There was a guard, but he did nothing to stop her. She felt his eyes follow her as she made her way across the sand to the edge of the oasis.

The sky was clear, unmarked by the storm. The air smelled sweet. There were crops growing. Precious little, but there was something about the fresh, tentative life that gave Mehr comfort.

She kneeled down by the oasis and breathed in and out. In and out. She could dance the Rite of Fruitful Earth and make those precious few crops grow lushly, if only for a fleeting moment. She was a descendant of the daiva, and through them, a descendant of the Gods who slept beneath the sand, whose fire had lit the skies and burned inside her. But the power she possessed was useless. It couldn’t set her free. It didn’t give her the strength to stop the Maha from hurting her. It was no good at all.

She looked down at her own face in the water. The oasis was perfectly still, reflective as glass. The face staring back at her was nothing like the one she’d seen through Amun’s eyes. She wasn’t fierce or beautiful. She was only bruised, and gaunt, and solemn. A shadow of a woman.

She dipped her hands into the oasis and splashed water over her face. The cold was shocking. She blinked water away and dabbed the blood from her lip, her cheek. Her skin was hot and swollen, but her bones weren’t broken. She marveled at that—the strength of her bones.

The Maha hadn’t broken her yet. Not yet.