She had told herself she would seek out new knowledge. Well, here it was. Mehr already knew that not all was well in Irinah, and not all was well for the Amrithi. Lalita had always done her best to make sure that Mehr was aware of the dangers the Amrithi faced. But it was different, hearing what had become of the Amrithi from Sara’s lips. Lalita’s knowledge came from the highest echelons of society: from pillow talk, from salons, from the constant threads of rumors and gossip that wound their way through the city. Sara—raised near the Northern Oasis, far beyond the city’s borders—had gleaned her knowledge of the fate of the Amrithi not from gossip and connections, but from the bare reality of life on Irinah’s sand that Lalita had worked so hard to escape from. Sara knew what Lalita—always so careful to avoid crossing paths with the people or haunts of her past Amrithi life—couldn’t have known:

There were no Amrithi clans visiting the city in Irinah. No clans visiting the towns. No clans visiting the villages. No clans.

They were vanishing.

The Emperor’s hatred had not grown suddenly, as Mehr had so foolishly believed when Maryam had warned her of his messages to his nobles. His hatred was a storm that had grown ever larger by feeding on itself, and Mehr had been protected from the full weight of it by the shelter of her privilege and of the very Ambhan walls that so stifled her. Now the storm was too great for even Mehr to ignore. Her status as the Governor’s daughter couldn’t protect her forever. She had Amrithi blood, and the Amrithi were being erased.

“You can have my blood,” Mehr said finally. “But in return you’ll owe me a debt.”

“Anything,” Sara said. “Oh, anything, my lady.”

Mehr watched the shadows of the daiva shifting in the dreamfire’s light.

“A favor,” Mehr said. “You’ll owe me a favor. That’s all.”

LALITA

Lalita

Lalita stood in the dark of a hallway in her home. She could smell the incense of the approaching storm, mingled with the jasmine scent of her own hair, recently washed and oiled, now bound at the nape of her neck in a hasty knot. Her neck was damp with sweat. She breathed in and out in a steady, slow rhythm even as her hands trembled at her sides.

Below her, echoing up from the central courtyard of her home, came the sound of a woman weeping.

“Tell us where your mistress is.” The man’s voice echoed up from below, mingling with the sound of tears. “Or I swear, I will make sure your whole family is hounded out of the city for protecting Amrithi scum. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” howled a voice. “I don’t know where she is!”