CHAPTER FIVE

In her eighth year, on the Emperor’s birthday, Mehr had—for reasons she could no longer remember—decided she did not wish to pray. Nahira had scolded her. Her mother had made a lackluster effort to change Mehr’s mind, then thrown up her hands and sent Mehr to her father for punishment instead.

Mehr had kneeled on the floor of the Governor’s Study, hands clasped tight in front of her so that she wouldn’t be tempted to fidget with the hem of her skirt and give away how nervous she was. Her father had watched her silently for a long moment. Then he’d said, “Why won’t you pray?”

Mehr had looked down.

“Mehr,” he’d said. Just once.

“Mother doesn’t pray,” she’d whispered.

At that, her father had sighed.

“I see,” he said. “I should have known. Well, you are not your mother, and there are some things she cannot teach you, Emperor’s grace upon her.”

He’d kneeled down in front of her then, and taken her hands in his own. His hands had been so much bigger than hers. They’d swallowed hers whole. But they had been warm, and gentle, and Mehr had suddenly been less afraid of her father’s anger.

“Who rules Irinah?” he’d asked. “You must answer, Mehr.”

Mehr had relaxed a little. That one was easy. “You do, Father,” she’d said.

“No, Mehr,” he’d replied. “I govern Irinah. I act on the Emperor’s behalf. I have a great deal of power, but in the end, like all people, I am his servant.” He spoke gently, deliberately. His gaze on her, the cadence of his words, had made her feel shamed and small. “Who rules the Empire’s soul?”

“The Emperor,” she’d whispered.

“No. Try again.”

“The mystics?”

Her father had shuddered. He shook his head. “Not quite, daughter. The mystics, like me, are a tool. They serve the Empire through prayer, but they do so on behalf of their master. Whom do the mystics serve, Mehr? Has your mother told you?”

“I don’t know,” Mehr admitted softly.