The Moon Gate was always crowded, but today's throng was still, silent. They gathered, focused on the scene unfolding in front of the gate. Tension gripped the entire press of people.

  The eastern side of Baradon was situated on the Shiqu River, with the Moon Gate opening to the vast, mysterious plains of the east. The street here was stone, to accommodate the travelers and merchants that rode in from those dark, distant lands.

  Ordinarily the street would have supported a steady flow of people, many of them bringing their wares to the market bazaar in the center of town, but today a gathering of nobles and soldiers held the people transfixed. A line of soldiers stood between the crowd and the assembly.

  One of the court heralds stepped forward and addressed the people.

  "Today," he cried, "we witness the outworking of the law. The most heinous crime under the moon and before man is treachery and treason. One who sits close to the heart and then strikes out against it. This is a disruption of the natural order. Today we return order to nature. Bring forth the condemned."

  Two burly soldiers stepped forward, escorting a slender woman between them, dressed in the fine, colorful silks of the palace. It was Dhruva. In spite of all her caustic and defiant words in the prison, now she was sobbing. She stumbled and dragged her feet, but the soldiers guided her firmly to a heavy wooden block.

  The nobles and royalty stood under a shaded canopy, watching the proceedings. The Sultan glared at the palace maid with his arms crossed. He had been grim and silent throughout. Fortney, too, was among the nobles, wrapped in long linen to hide her injury.

  Fortney took no pleasure in this activity. But she had forced herself to be here. Dhruva's betrayal had been aimed at her, it was her duty to witness the justice meted out. She could not hide from this.

  It was the only thing left to her that she could do for her friend.

  "Dhruva al-Fayruz," the herald cried, "handmaiden to the princess, has betrayed the heart of the palace and of Namar?n by consorting with wicked powers to bring the princess to harm. She has disrupted the proper order." He unrolled a scroll listing out the punishments.

  "Firstly, she is removed from her position as handmaiden to the princess."

  One of the soldiers untucked Dhruva's sash, her badge of office, and pulled it away. He tossed in on the ground next to the wooden block.

  "Secondly, she is removed from the palace."

  The other soldier pulled off the colorful silks she was wrapped in. Layer after layer came free and was discarded until Dhruva stood there in her plain shift and wrappings.

  "Thirdly, she will be executed, and her head hung over the Moon Gate as a warning." The herald continued reading from the scroll. "All this is in accordance with the law."

  The soldiers pushed Dhruva to her knees in front of the wooden block. A third soldier, the executioner, stepped forward, a heavy curved saber in one hand. The two escorts pushed her shoulders down until her face was pressed against the wooden block. Dhruva was openly crying, her sobs the only sound floating out across the crowd. The executioner stepped forward.

  "Thus to any who would harm Namar?n."

  The executioner raised his saber high.

  "All witness the mercy of the Shazedah," the Sultan growled.

  The sound of the sword striking home made Fortney flinch violently. Dhruva's sobbing ceased. Fortney closed her eyes and lowered her face.

  Justice was completed.

  Within a few weeks of the execution, things in the palace began to fall back into their usual routine. Early one morning, Fortney trudged up and pushed open the door to the viewing-chamber.

  "Ah my daughter, flower of my heart," the Sultan said, getting to his feet. "You shine like the spring sun through a fine ruby." His voice was soft, as though he were afraid of hurting her by speaking too loudly.

  Fortney shuffled into the viewing-chamber, her eyes down. In spite of the heat of the early morning, she was dressed in a thick linen top, heavily wrapped around her, masking her form.

  "Good morning, father," she said dully.

  "Come, sit and eat," the Sultan said brightly. "The kitchen has brought us many fine delicacies this morning. Here, look, we have honey-cooked figs, your favorite."

  Fortney took her place by the table. She had to adjust herself a few times. It hurt too much to lean on her left elbow as she was accustomed, so she finally sat up straight with a huff of frustration. She began eating mechanically.

  The Sultan's brow furrowed. His daughter's body was recovering, but her heart was not.

  "How is the light of my eye feeling this morning?" he asked once the meal was underway.

  "Fine," she said.

  The Sultan's face split in a broad smile, though unspoken pain lurked in his eyes.

  "It is a blessing to have you back in the palace," he said. "Now that you have returned to me, everything feels normal again."

  She stopped eating, staring at the table.

  "Nothing is normal," she said.

  The Sultan's lips trembled, but he kept his smile fixed.

  "I know," he said quietly. "But we will endure. Steel hearts. Remember?"

  Fortney resumed eating. They carried on in silence for a while. Fortney's eating slowed.

  "I am sorry," she said finally.

  "Sorry for what?"

  Fortney's face screwed up in anguish.

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  "I'm sorry for all that's happened. I'm sorry I could not be a better princess. I'm sorry that I was so ignorant that I drove my friend to hatred." She paused, her breath hitching. "I am sorry you have a broken daughter."

  "Fortney, my precious gem--"

  She banged her shortened arm on the table, reveling in the pain. "I'm sorry you have an aflīj in the palace now." She barked a bitter laugh that was dangerously close to a sob. "You can't even marry me off. No prince, nor even mud-carrier would marry a cripple. All I will do is live in the darkest parts of the palace for the rest of my days."

  The Sultan bustled over to her taking her in his arms.

  "Shh, shh, shh," he said, stroking her hair. "No, my heart, my daughter. Your wounds are not shameful, they are those of the fiercest warrior. You are still my perfect Shazedah. Above all, you are still here." He hugged her tightly. Her chest heaved, trying to unlock her sorrow, but she would not allow it. "You are still here. As long as you are safe, my heart can go on beating. If you were gone, I--" The Sultan's eyes filled, but he shook the thought away. "You are still here," he finished.

  They sat like that for a while, him rocking her. After emotions had calmed, he looked down at her.

  "Did you like the new arm they crafted?" he asked, looking for a less sensitive subject to discuss.

  "It does not fit," she replied tersely.

  "Ah, well, I will have them try again. We will let every craftsman in the kingdom try their hand at it until somebody gets it right. The kingdom will not rest until--"

  Fortney's hand tightened on his robe.

  "Father, no. Please." She looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Do not--I do not want to turn my hurt into a competition across the kingdom."

  "Oh. Oh, of course not," the Sultan said. "I didn't mean it that way. I just... wanted to..."

  Fortney nestled into her father's chest, drawing comfort from his gentle arms.

  After a time, they separated and stood. Servants came and cleared away the breakfast things.

  "Come, Fortney, I would share with you news of the kingdom," the Sultan said.

  "What does it matter?" she asked, downcast. "I will never be malakeh. It's meaningless."

  The Sultan winced.

  "You may yet be malakeh," he said. "We do not know what gifts the next sun will bring. And it concerns you."

  Fortney nodded. The Sultan cleared his throat.

  "Here, let us go to the deliberation hall."

  He led her deeper into the palace, into an interior room. There was no sunlight, but good lamps burned clean oil, filling the room with steady light. There was a circle of cushions on the floor, used by councils and heads of state when they came to discuss matters with the Sultan.

  They seated themselves on two of the cushions. The Sultan cleared his throat and frowned, trying to think of a way to start.

  "We will start with the bad news," he began. "Recent events have emboldened the rebellion. More whispers pass from ear to ear. 'If even the palace can be touched, no man is safe.' That is the whisper the roaches carry. With the Amtaka out on venture, the people feel even more unsettled. Though they were not responsible for the safety of the city, their presence was a comfort the people now lack." The Sultan frowned. "More of our granaries have fallen to sabotage. The rebellion seeks to further antagonize the people by threatening the food supply. We have lost two good years of grain in these attacks. We have tripled the guards on the granaries, which has halted the granary attacks, but now there are not enough guards to patrol the night. Criminals are flourishing in Baradon."

  Fortney nodded, her face drawing in.

  "That is the bad news," he said. "But there is good in there, as well."

  "Where is the good, father?"

  "The rebellion is bolder, but weaker. We have put out whispers that they are responsible for the granary fires. Few believe it, but it is making people hesitant to support them fully. And the increased patrols around the granaries have caught some of the rebels directly. They have few hands willing to do their wicked work, and each pair we cut off weakens the rebellion."

  The Sultan started and he looked at Fortney's linen-wrapped arm, realizing what he'd said. "I... I am sorry, my daughter. I did not mean--"

  "It's fine," she said shortly.

  The Sultan colored, but continued.

  "Some of the granaries have burned, but our fields and farms still grow ever more barley and wheat. The growing season has been especially good this year. The Amtaka will return soon, once their work is done. This will help calm the people. Once the rebellion has been tamped down, we can reduce the guards on the granaries, and turn them back to addressing the thieves in the city. This is an unfortunate circumstance, but it is temporary."

  The Sultan cleared his throat nervously. His eyes cut around the room. Fortney looked at him shrewdly.

  "But?" she asked.

  He cleared his throat again and lifted his chin.

  "But," he said, "we need to take some temporary measures in order to secure the kingdom. There is one great risk that remains."

  Fortney's brow furrowed in thought.

  "What risk, father?"

  "There are many things I must do," he said, "many hard things I must accomplish. But I have a great weakness. It is evident to our enemies, and now it is evident to me."

  "Nonsense, father. You are a great and strong Sultan. What weakness could you possibly have?"

  The Sultan smiled at her.

  "All your life I have encouraged you to have a steel heart, my daughter. In truth, I have asked you to grow for yourself that which I never have possessed." The pain finally broke through his smile. "My heart is easily wounded, easily broken."

  Fortney's brow wrinkled in confusion.

  "But father, you have ruled well for many years, with strength and honor. Why do you say these things?"

  "Because when I thought I lost you, I..." The Sultan stumbled to a stop. His mouth worked silently. Finally he was able to squeeze a few words out. "I cannot rule with a broken heart. I must protect you." His face hardened, and an edge of iron-hard determination crept into his voice. "I will protect you."

  A pit opened in Fortney's stomach. Her father's vulnerability had drained away, replaced with resolve.

  "Father? What are you...?"

  The Sultan stood in his seat and put on his sternest face.

  "Fortney, I have decided to send you to Arden."

  The pit in her stomach expanded, threatening to swallow her whole. Her vision narrowed, and ringing began in her ears. Fresh terror roared through her.

  "You... would send me away?"

  "I have made arrangements with a very good school there," he said, his voice brittle-bright. "You be safe once you are far away from this uprising. This will be an excellent opportunity for you to learn about the Ardenian language and culture. It would only be for a short while, until this business with the rebels is cleared up. Perhaps no more than a year."

  Every word layered despair deeper and ever deeper over Fortney's spirit. She crumbled more with each sentence.

  She flung herself out full-length the ground, arms out in front of her, heedless of exposed injury, and pressed her face into the floor and cried out in a raspy, raw voice.

  "Father! Please don't send me away! I have lost half myself, I cannot lose my home as well!"

  The Sultan looked down at his daughter, his precious dove to whom he had never denied a single thing in all her life. Her pleas and her torment tore his heart within him. But her shortened arm lay within his view, steeling his resolve.

  "I would that there were another way," he said. "But you must be safe."

  Her hand curled into a fist.

  "I know I have failed you... I will be a better daughter! I will do anything! I... I will join a cloister! I will be stronger! I will obey you in all things! Just please do not throw me away!" She turned her anguished face up to him. "Please, father."

  Sultan Azhar Nurani, Diamond of Namar?n and Protector of the Eastern Wastes, was stricken to the bone by his daughter's grief. He had to turn away. He could not face her.

  "The kingdom rests on you, my daughter," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "If you are safe, I can be as strong as I need to be, I can make the world suitable for you. You are the heart of my heart. I cannot have a steel heart if you are in danger. If you are gone... there is nothing for me." He scrubbed an arm across his eyes. "The strength of the kingdom is the strength of my heart, and the strength of my heart is in you."

  Fortney lay on the floor, her chest hitching, her throat locked tight with sobs she could not release. She squeezed her eyes shut, painfully tight, to hold the tears back. She lay on the floor and struggled for long minutes with her own self. The Sultan stood resolute, staring at the wall, silent.

  Of all she had endured, all her struggle and strife, this was the cruelest cut she had suffered so far.

  Fortney swallowed all her pain, her rage, and her sadness. She held every muscle in her body clenched, forcing everything away. At long last, she lay still. She was hollow. Her heart was empty and her mind numb.

  "I will obey the voice of my father," she whispered.