It was difficult for her to see him as more than an indentured servant, still working to pay off the fee for which his parents traded their strong, healthy son to the Empire. And even though he’d always been kind and considerate to her, Mikah was Kraeshian. In Kraeshia, all boys—and girls, too—were brought up believing that only men were worthy of respect and honor, while women existed as mere ornaments and playthings, with no influence on others or the world at large.
She refused to let herself fall for a Kraeshian man, only to be deceived by him.
“I need to rest after my long journey,” she said. “But first, send for my grandmother. I wish to speak with her.”
He bowed. “As you wish, princess.”
Amara went inside, closed the door, and leaned against it. All of the roiling emotions that Amara had pushed so deep down inside herself during the journey home now came rushing to the surface. She ran to the mirror and clutched the sides.
“I’m alive,” she reminded her wild-eyed reflection. “Nineteen years later and I’m still here. I can do anything I want. I can have anything I want.”
“Yes, my sweet. You certainly can.”
She spun around to see her grandmother Neela sitting by the window that overlooked the sea.
“Grandmother!” The joy of seeing her chased all of her doubts and sadness away. She loved this wrinkled, gray-haired woman, her only confidante, who still took the time to dress impeccably in her finest silks and jewels. “You were waiting for me?”
Neela nodded and rose to her feet, extending her arms. Amara rushed into a tight embrace, knowing that, despite her seemingly frail appearance, her grandmother was the strongest woman she knew.
“Is it done?” Neela whispered, patting Amara’s shining hair.
“Yes.”
There was a moment of silence. “Did he suffer?”
Amara swallowed the lump in her throat and stepped back from the old woman. “It was quick. Just as you suspected, he betrayed me at the first opportunity, choosing to give his trust and loyalty to a boy he barely knew rather than to his own sister. Grandmother, I know it had to be done, but I have so many doubts.”
Neela nodded, her lips thin and expression plaintive. “Your brother had a good heart. But that was his fatal flaw. He trusted strangers too easily; he saw good in those who only had bad within them. He could have been a valuable ally to you, to us, but when it came down to the crucial moment, he didn’t prove himself.”
She knew Neela was right, but it didn’t make any of it easier. “He spent his last moments hating me.”
Neela pressed her cool, dry palm against Amara’s burning cheek. “Then let that hatred make you stronger, Dhosha. Hatred and fear are the most powerful emotions there are. Love and compassion make you weak. Men have known this since the beginning of time, and they use this knowledge for their own gain.”
Her grandmother spoke without a trace of anger or pain in her voice. Rather, she made her statement simply, as a truth handed down from a woman who’d lived her whole life under the thumbs of oppressive, controlling men.
A question Amara had locked away inside her heart her whole life burned on her tongue, brought back to the surface after having been insulted and dismissed by her father. She needed to ask it now—needed an answer that could help her make sense of so much.
“Madhosha . . .” It was the Kraeshian word for grandmother, just as dhosha was for granddaughter. As he continued to add new kingdoms to his empire over the last three decades, Emperor Cortas had allowed their language to fade away in favor of the universal dialects spoken by most of the world. Neela had always mourned the loss of her native language, and had privately taught Ashur and Amara several Kraeshian words to ensure that they would retain some of their heritage. Amara had a large Kraeshian vocabulary, but the language was complex and she wasn’t nearly fluent.
“Yes?” Neela replied gently.
“I . . . I know we’re not supposed to speak about the ancient laws, but . . . please, I’m nineteen and I need to know. How did I survive the ritual drowning? How is that even possible?”
“My sweet, it pains me greatly that you even know about that horrible day.”
The memory was foggy now, as Amara was not much more than five years old, when she’d overheard her grandmother and father talking about her—her grandmother speaking softly, her father’s voice booming.
“Special, you say,” he snarled. “I see nothing special in her.”
“She is still a child,” her grandmother replied, her voice small but calm—a tiny ship in the middle of the sea confronted by a looming hurricane. “One day, you’ll see why the gods spared her.”
“Bah. I have three fine sons. What use do I have for a daughter?”
“A daughter means a marriage to the son of a worthy king, to help political negotiations.”
“I’ve no need for negotiations when all I need is to send my armada to that worthy king’s shores and take his land in the name of Kraeshia. But blood . . . I could certainly use a fitting blood sacrifice as an offering to the gods to keep my empire strong.”
“You already had your chance with Amara,” Neela hissed. “One chance and one alone. But she survived, because she is special and meant for greatness. Make any further attempt on her life and it will be a black mark against your soul. You know this to be true. Even you would not be so bold as to risk so much.”