“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.”

Neela spoke with a quiet strength that not even the emperor could ignore.

When Amara had tentatively approached Neela about what she’d heard, her grandmother had bristled, sent her away at once, told her she had nothing to worry about.

“Please tell me, Madhosha,” Amara insisted now. “Why didn’t I drown? Even if I was, somehow, special . . . I was still just a baby. A baby is not a fish; they’re not born magically knowing how to swim.”

“Magically,” Neela repeated slowly, nodding. “That is an important word, isn’t it?”

Amara studied her grandmother’s wise gray eyes, her heart skipping a beat. “Did magic have something to do with my survival?”

“It is time you knew the truth.” Neela went to the window and gazed out at the sparkling Silver Sea. “Your mother loved you so much. She barely survived the beating she received for birthing a girl.” Neela’s cheek twitched, as if it pained her to recall the memory. “My daughter hated her husband, your father, from the moment she learned they were to marry. He was well-known to be especially vicious toward women who knew their own minds and argued with him. He enjoyed breaking them of this tendency until they agreed with every word he spoke. For years she tolerated his abusive ways. After you were born, she knew that he would invoke the ritual to rid himself of a female child, a symbol of his own perceived weakness. She had stopped trying to protect herself by then, but she swore to protect you at any cost. She found an apothecary from a recently conquered kingdom, who was rumored to be able to brew a very rare—and dangerous—potion, which she poured in your ear just before the ritual took place.”

Amara knew next to nothing about her mother, who’d died shortly after she was born. Her father—who had yet to remarry, but kept many mistresses—refused to talk about her, and thus so did everyone else in the Spear. “The potion—that’s what kept me alive?”

“Not exactly. It was a resurrection potion.”

Amara regarded Neela with widening eyes.

“The potion did not keep you alive,” Neela said gravely. “The potion brought you back from death.”

Amara clasped her hand to her mouth to cover her shocked gasp. She always believed there had to be a simple answer to why she didn’t drown—perhaps the water hadn’t been deep enough. Perhaps she’d managed to float or a nursemaid had done something secretly to help her stay alive.

There were many potions that could be acquired for a variety of illnesses and uses, but Amara had never heard of anything so powerful. “What is the price of such magic?” she asked, her voice raspy.

Neela curled her gnarled fingers around the locket at her throat. “It is the most costly magic of all. A life for a life.”

An icy wave of dizziness stole her breath and nearly knocked Amara to her knees. She absently grabbed for a chair behind her and sat down with a thud. “My mother gave her life for mine.”