“My treasury is, as you say, depleted. The Mandaryn convinced me that this exploit would succeed, that our coffers would once again be overflowing.” He shook his head slightly, then gazed up at her. “I assume Sunilik is the one who told you. He saw through the illusion. He has warned me repeatedly. I’ve relied on his counsel.” He stared into her eyes. “Just as I would like to rely on yours. Is there anything else you learned about Chandigarl? Any other truths about my empire that I do not recognize?”

Trynne sat down beside him and smoothed some of her hair back from her face. “There is something about the zenana,” she said. “When I visited it, I sensed . . . I’m not sure what it was.”

Gahalatine sat up as well, crossing his legs and nodding encouragingly. “Go on. I have felt it as well.”

“I don’t know what it is. But I fear it comes from these Mandaryn. The men who wear the silver masks to hide themselves. Some of them have been sighted in our kingdom. Always secretly. They come and go in stealth.”

He looked startled. “I’ve authorized no such incursions. Rucrius would have much to answer if the dead could speak. He was the ruler of the Mandaryn.” He paused, then added, “They do not wear the silver masks as a disguise, but to hide the marks on their faces.”

Trynne furrowed her brow. “What marks?” she asked, but even as she said it, she remembered the dark lines she’d noticed on the face of the man who’d confronted her and Sunilik.

“The Mandaryn use an ancient magic that causes sigils to creep from their chests up their necks and to their faces. Such markings frightened the women of the zenana, so the men were kept masked. Rucrius gave a special name to the Mandaryn assigned to the zenana. He called them the Dokht Mandar—or the daughters of the Mandaryn—for their duty was to treat the women as their daughters. They were in charge of finding a suitable wife for me.” He pursed his lips and gave her a knowing look. “I was never comfortable with any of their selections. The women were all beautiful, skilled at conversation, music, and poetry. But they all felt . . . wrong.”

Trynne felt something tugging inside her mind. “Something is not right about that place,” she said again.

“Is that all?” he asked her gently.

She thought once more about her dream, the ache she’d felt as she watched Fallon walk away. Then she shook her head no. She was not ready to confide that part of herself yet.