Fortney sat in her room on her bed. The morning light strained to come in through the closed linen curtains.

  It had been an entire moon since the attack, but she'd only been back in her room for two days now.

  The palace was a comfort to her. As much as she appreciated the temple and the skills of the sanat-magi, the palace was her home.

  Home of the palace baths, as well. When she'd returned, she had never before needed a bath so badly. Sinking into the warm water of the tiled basin as a constant stream of maids carried in jugs of hot water was bliss like she'd never known before.

  Washing had been complicated by her missing hand. Everything was complicated by her missing hand. She frowned at her stump.

  Everything was complicated.

  She reached under her pillow and fished out a square of hunter-green silk. She felt the smooth fabric slide through her hands, watched the light gleam dully off its fine surface.

  She barked a bitter laugh, and stuffed the silk back under her pillow.

  Bayze Shab would protect the people no longer. A crippling wave of sadness swept across Fortney. For the people, and for herself.

  She stood and crossed to the cedar table against the far wall. The table was thick and ornately carved, and it held a long box. She knelt in front of the table and slowly opened the hinged box.

  Nestled within was a false limb. She lifted it out. It was well-crafted from elm, painted and varnished. She pinched her lips as she looked at it.

  She forced out a sharp breath. She had to try it. She hated the very look of it, but she reminded herself that it was her mutilation she hated, not the work of the craftsman.

  She clumsily brought the limb up to her foreshortened arm. The straps and buckles were confusing and poorly fitted. She fumbled with the thing for long, frustrating minutes.

  The limb was padded with leather, but it was not nearly enough to keep from hurting her as she put it on. Hurting worse than usual.

  Her missing limb hurt all the time regardless. Zamiran had said the pain in her arm would eventually abate, but he looked away as he said it. He was a terrible liar. Fortney gritted her teeth.

  She would have to endure. As in all things, she would endure.

  She finished strapping it to herself as best she could, and stood. She walked over to her rarely-used cosmetic table, which held a bronze mirror on an elegant stand. The mirror was turned to face the wall.

  Fortney took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut. She turned the mirror around without looking, then stepped back to the middle of the room.

  She opened her eyes.

  In the orange-tinted reflection, she could see herself. Her long, powerful legs supported her. Her strong, flat stomach held her back straight. Her fierce, mud-brown eyes glared back at her from under her short-cut hair. And her arms...

  One arm was long and muscular and perfect. The other hung, clunky and awkward, from her shoulder. It seemed more like a drooping, diseased tumor than a proper limb.

  Fortney's face twisted in rage and disgust. The ugliness of her form filled her with self-loathing and shame.

  With a screech of fury, she tore the false limb from her and threw it with all her strength into the wall, smashing it to flinders.

  "Not me!" she screeched.

  She whirled, preparing to kick over the cedar table, to tear her room apart in her rage. But she paused. Kadir's teachings came back to her.

  The first enemy is self. Defeat self.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth so tightly she feared they might crack. But slowly, inch by inch, she regained control of herself.

  With her eyes closed, she could see in her memory the darkness of the mill, smell the old flour, hear the hollow rolling grind, see the towering runner stone stone as it drew closer.

  With a shout, she opened her eyes again, panting, staring at her missing arm.

  She should have let the hashashim finish their work.

  A faint, deferential scratch sounded at the door. One of the servants.

  "Darozer eh Shazedah," came his voice. "I beg you many pardons, Shazedah, but your father has summoned you to his presence."

  Fortney took a deep breath and swallowed down all her feelings.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "I will be there in a moment," she said.

  Fortney stalked down the stairs. The air grew colder and more moist the deeper she went. She carried a flickering lamp, holding it high enough to keep the light out of her eyes so that she could see the stairs; there was no other light down here.

  She exited into a wide, low room that had been carved out of the rock. Two guards stood by the entrance to the stairs, armed with sabers. Ordinarily, guards would have spears, but the room was too short for them to use their spears effectively. One of the guards pointed her further in.

  Her father had wanted to send her down with a retinue of bodyguards, but she'd refused. She did not want to have this conversation in front of a crowd. She did not want to have this conversation at all. But she must. Her heart was too torn to do otherwise.

  Fortney walked into the wide room with only the light of her little lamp to guide her. All else was oppressive darkness.

  The room was technically high enough for her to walk comfortably, but it felt claustrophobic to her, tall as she was. She unconsciously ducked her head a little as she walked deeper in.

  Finally she came to a row of alcoves that had been scooped from the rock. They were small and uneven, and rough bars of Namar?nian iron blocked each one. There were no windows this far underground.

  Fortney slowed her walk, stopping in front of one cell. The floor was covered with straw, and a bundle of rags huddled in the far corner.

  "Dhruva," she said.

  The rags pulled in on themselves a little tighter.

  "Dhruva, please talk to me," Fortney said. "I... I want only to understand."

  The bundle shifted, and Dhruva's face peeked out.

  "Ah. The princess," she said dully.

  Fortney's heart was torn all over again.

  "Dhruva." Fortney paused. When her father had told her they had captured Dhruva, she burned to talk to the woman, but now that she was here, she had no idea what to say. She curled her fingers around one of the iron bars and leaned her head against its rough surface. "Why? Please, I want to know why this has all happened."

  Dhruva simply turned away. Fortney's heart crumbled.

  "Dhruva, tell me you did not do this!" she cried. "Tell me you were forced, or tricked, or, or confused! I will beg the Sultan mercy for you! We can--"

  "You can die," Dhruva said quietly. "That is the only favor I would seek from you now."

  Fortney's face hung open in shock. Her brow wrinkled in confusion.

  "Dhruva, we... you were with me for so long. I thought... I thought we were friends."

  The handmaid scoffed.

  "Friends? With you?" she said with mocking incredulity. Her face reappeared. "Why, when you cost me so much?"

  "Cost you?" Fortney's expression twisted in perplexity. "Dhruva, when did I ever cost you anything?"

  "I followed you!" she hissed. "I followed you as handmaid! My family were servants in the palace. I was young and beautiful! I had nobles panting after me! I could have been a concubine!"

  Dhruva panted with fury. "Two different court advisors and a satrap were pursuing me. I could have taken my pick, and if I'd had a first son, our family could have grafted into the noble line! But no. I had to have my dignity." She spat the word with more venom than Fortney had ever heard from another human. "I wanted to follow the princess, someday to be handmaid to the queen." Her eyes grew misty, distant. "Everyone would look up to me in my fine clothes and jewels, riding with the queen in her palanquin through the city, every eye on us in a despair of love and admiration."

  Her eyes fell back to Fortney. "But the princess wanted to run around and fight and roll in the dirt like a boy. So all I could do was dress like a common scrubbing-servant and chase you with a dust-brush."

  Fortney's mouth was open with shock. "Dhruva, I never said you couldn't marry, or, or be a concu--"

  "Who would dare touch the princess' handmaid?" Dhruva screeched. "Pure and perfect and undefiled! I may as well have been a temple maiden!"

  Fortney stared at the furious prisoner, wrapped in her rags.

  "I... never knew," she said. "Dhruva, if you'd told me--"

  "You wouldn't have listened to me! You're too high and mighty, too wrapped up in your fighting and your father and your kingdom, and, and--" The former handmaid huffed, covered her face with her rags. She scraped up a handful of dust from the floor and flung it toward Fortney. "Go away. Do what you will to me."

  Fortney still clung to the bars.

  "Dhruva, I wish you had just talked to me."

  "And I wish you had been a real princess! A real Shazedah! Tall and shining and glorious! A beacon of Namar?n's beauty and power! But you were just a dirty child."

  Dhruva wrapped herself in her rags and tucked herself back into the corner.

  Fortney stood there for a long moment in shock, staring silently at the small, rough cell.

  Then she spun on her heel and stormed out.

  The Sultan paced around the viewing-chamber while Fortney sat upright on a cushion and stared silently at the floor. A rich meal lay out, untouched.

  "In my own palace!" the Sultan fumed. "She plotted against my daughter right under my nose!" He stalked back and forth. "I'll draw every conspirator's name from her tongue! She'll cry out with every breath she draws! She'll tell me every sin she's committed since birth! She'll--"

  "Father, no," Fortney said quietly.

  "Her execution will take a week! People will talk about it in hushed tones to your grandchildren!"

  "Father!" she barked. The Sultan finally paused, turning his fury-red face to her. She glared back at him. "I said no!"

  He pinched his lips, heaving in his fury.

  "You are right," he said finally. "You were the one wounded, you should be allowed to choose the punishment. What would you like? We could use the boats? Progressive dismemberment? Impaling or burning? We could even invent something new, a terror to chill the hearts of all who see it!"

  "I want none of those things," she said quietly.

  The Sultan frowned.

  "I don't understand," he said.

  "I want none of those things for Dhruva."

  The Sultan's brow crinkled.

  "Fortney, my daughter, my light, she must be punished, and it needs to be public! The kingdom must know the terrible price of treachery. The law demands it. I demand it!"

  Fortney nodded.

  "I know," she said. "I know the demands of the law. It is right." She stared fixedly at the floor. "She will be punished. But... but not with torture."

  "Fortney..."

  She continued, her voice quiet.

  "Dhruva did a terrible thing," Fortney said. "An unforgivable thing." She lifted her linen-wrapped stump. "I will carry the results of her treachery for the rest of my life. But she was also a friend and a good servant for many years. I... I thought she was." She shook her head, then leveled a stare at the Sultan. "She is still in my heart, father. I cannot so easily push her out of it. Even now. I have had few enough to call friend."

  The Sultan stiffened, his face reddening further. "What would you have me do, then?" he said.

  "Public execution," Fortney said, her face downcast. "Nothing more."

  A storm of different emotions chased each other across the Sultan's face. Then he let out his breath in a gush.

  "Very well," he said, still tense with emotion. "I will save my punishments for the jackal behind this attack. You may have your mercy for your--for this traitor."

  Fortney bowed her head.

  "I thank you, father."