“Thank you, Maha,” Anni whispered. She bowed again—deep and low, pressing her forehead to the floor—then turned and left as fast as her legs could carry her.

The sound of her footsteps died away. The Maha let out a long, drawn-out sigh. His hands flexed.

Without a word, he hit Mehr. One blow, then another, hard enough to send her skidding across the stone. She curled up, covering her face with her arms. She thought he would keep going, would beat her bloody in front of Amun and Hema and Bahren and Kalini and Abhiman, debase her with an audience. But after the second blow, as she cowered and bit her tongue and waited—he stopped, and stepped away from her.

“I will deal with you further in a moment,” he promised. Mehr lowered her arm from her face and watched him turn to face Hema.

Hema was crying.

She hadn’t betrayed Mehr. But Mehr wished now that she had. Instead Anni had heard more than either Mehr or Hema had suspected, that night by the oasis. She must have understood enough of their hushed conversation to know that Mehr had disobeyed the Maha, and that Hema had chosen to keep her confidence—enough to condemn them both. Now Anni had told Mehr’s secret, and left Hema to face the consequences.

Oh, Hema. Now you know what the Maha is. I’m sorry for it.

“Aren’t you going to tell me you serve with all your heart and soul?” His voice rang out. “Aren’t you going to beg forgiveness, child? You have deceived me. Betrayed your Maha and your Emperor.”

Hema shook her head wordlessly. She looked too terrified to speak. The confident, sly woman Mehr had grown to know had been reduced to this—to silence and fear, to the wait for the inevitable punishment to rain down upon her.

“If Anni had not come to me, your betrayal would have continued. I know it. I know your heart, child. And it is rotten.” A sigh. “I am so disappointed in you.” He paused to let his words sink in: the consummate orator. “You understand, I’m sure, that your actions have consequences. You were told when you first came here that traitors must be punished.”

Someone in the room sucked in a sharp breath. Hema raised her face, her teary eyes fixed somewhere around the Maha’s chin. Even now, she was loath to give offense by doing something as heinous as meeting his eyes.

“I have always tried to serve truly, Maha,” she whispered. Mehr had never heard Hema’s voice sound so small. She sounded like a small creature left out in the cold. “I am faithful. I only hoped …” She stopped, swallowing. “I only hoped to help Mehr be faithful too.”

The Maha stared down at her, his fractured eyes glacial. He held out his hand. “My blade, Kalini,” he said.

Hema let out a sob.