We both watched Hema die, she thought suddenly. We both saw her die, and it’s as if nothing happened at all.

“The Maha will want to see me, won’t he?” she asked.

“He’s asked for you,” Bahren said.

He’d asked for Mehr, and Mehr alone. She was grateful Amun was gone and wouldn’t know she was facing their master alone. She nodded and tried, desperately, to muster all the tatters of her courage around her like a screen, a veil, a wall. But it was hard to be brave. She had seen blood and betrayal and felt love even in the dark despair. She could feel Amun still, the echo of him in her sore flesh. She could feel the Maha too in the mark on her chest that burned and burned. She was a raw nerve with nothing to protect her from what she had chosen, and what had been done to her.

“I will see him whenever he wills it, of course,” she said. As if she had a choice.

Bahren led her down the corridors toward the Maha’s private chambers. Mehr had no fond memories of those rooms, but she followed obediently regardless. Bahren slowed until they were walking side by side. Although Mehr did not raise her head, she knew that other mystics, making their way to prayer, watched from the edges of the corridor. She wondered how many of them knew what happened. How Hema had died.

Bahren spoke.

“I don’t know how you tricked him,” Bahren said, his voice so low even she strained to hear it, walking close by his side. She doubted the other mystics could hear a word. “You and the boy did a foolish thing, a horribly foolish thing. I blame you less than him, because you are young and sheltered. He was wrong to lead you astray. Perhaps the Maha will show you a higher level of mercy accordingly.”

“I think,” Mehr said tightly, “that my husband has paid a high enough price for our foolishness.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. She was reminded of his age. Once, he must have been a lost child, like all the other mystics had been: orphaned or abandoned, or disgraced for illegitimacy, trapped in poverty by circumstances beyond his control, until the day the Maha had taken him into service and raised him up. How long had he served the Maha? How much had he seen? How much did he know?

Enough that he was trusted. Enough that his word was enough to convince the Maha that Mehr’s loyalty was finally, truly, embedded in her skin.

“He is always looking for more Amrithi with the gift,” he said abruptly. “Your people’s blood may be spread thin, but he will find more. You understand?”

Mehr said nothing, because she knew what it sounded like when a question didn’t actually require an answer.