"All four of them?" Jarem looked up from the parchment on his desk.

"Yes, Commander," confirmed the man in a nondescript black cloak. "They seemed to be working on the plan laid out by Deo di Amarra. The Lady Zahara, from what I heard, has just joined them tonight."

"I see." Jarem placed down the documents and leaned back on his chair. "Tell me what you've heard, every word, exactly as it was said."

The spy reported his findings, which revealed the details of the plan and those involved in the conspiracy. When he was finished, Jarem paid him for a job well done, and then paid one of his officers to kill the man on his way out of the Tower. A pity, given how skilled the spy was, but loose ends couldn't be untied, not now and not for what was at stake.

It was a problem—a huge one, in fact—that Jarem hadn't expected. A conspiracy this large formed by none other but Deo di Amarra before he conveniently relocated himself out of reach was bad enough without all these influential figures in play. The salahari alone, being a regular patron of most temples in Rasharwi, had enough priests on her payroll to start a crusade. Now, with Amelia whose ambitious merchant father could move large funds at will without having to pass the Tower's scrutiny, the conspiracy was rock solid in foundation. The fact that the salar had yet to name an heir also made Azram the most reasonable successor, being both the oldest of the living sons and one of the salahari. And now, with Zahara in the mix, things could easily get out of hand even with Jarem knowing all their plans.

Something had to be done before all hell broke loose. It would, however, mean dealing with all four of them at roughly the same time. And the right time.

The salahari couldn't be killed—there was too much at stake for that given her father's political power and her involvement with the priests. Azram, however, could be exposed together with Amelia and then both eliminated for treason. They might even be able to pin the same crime on Amelia's father and seize all his assets before executing him, or press the man into giving up his fortune to the Salasar in exchange for his life. It would benefit the salar and his projects immensely. But before all others, Zahara, being the most immediate and biggest threat to the throne, had to be the first to go. The question was how to do it without getting half the people in the Tower killed—himself included—for a death declared off-limit by the salar.

He would need a goat for this, Jarem thought, drumming his fingers on the desk. The death would have to be accommodated by someone outside the Tower. Someone with his own motive that couldn't be traced back to him. Someone the salar wouldn't think twice about killing.

"Imran," he called.

The door opened and in walked General Imran izr Imran, pausing to execute a crisp salute two steps into the room. The General had been with him since the massacre of Vilarhiti—the only man, in Jarem's judgment, whose loyalty couldn't be bought. "Commander."

"Put together a unit of a hundred men. They are to be stationed here in the Tower waiting for my command night and day. Replace all the guards around the royal family, make sure they do not leave the Tower until I say so for their own safety. I want a full report of everyone coming in and going out of the Tower on my desk every morning starting tomorrow," said Jarem, rising from his chair to put on a robe. "Get me a horse. I will have a talk with Yakim, wherever he is right now."

***

The girl whimpered as Yakim wound his fingers around her hair, pushing himself deeper into her mouth. He usually preferred girls with more meat on her bones and more spirit to break. This one—just shy of eighteen and sent to him from the countryside by a pious couple—had been brought up almost too well where faith was concerned. It didn't take much to convince her to surrender completely to Rashar, to be blessed by the god's embodiment on earth such as Yakim himself. Then again, such a plain, insignificant life should find it a blessing to be of service to a High Priest of the god. She would live in comfort and luxury here, in the temple of Sangi, if she served Rashar well. Her parents, of course, would also reap the benefits. After all, rewards should be given to poor farmers who sent their daughters to serve in the house of Rashar.

"Good, my child," he told her, gripping tighter on her hair as he guided her into a faster pace. Virgins needed to be taught, yes, but there was always something sacred about the first time they allowed themselves to open up to his divine power and to tremble before it. The girl, plain as a poor man's bread, was indeed trembling as she knelt before him—a perfect overture to the deflowering soon to come. After which time, she would follow the others' footsteps and become Rashar's blessed and humble priestess in the temple of Sangi. It was how all women should strive to be, and his lifelong goal to make sure as many succeeded.

Her whimper accelerated and grew louder as he pushed himself in deeper, filling the private prayer room reserved only for the High Priest of Sangi with sounds that opened up the path to heaven. Divine power was everywhere here. He could see it, most of all, in the mirror at the other end of the room, revealing an image of the greatest offering to the god himself. A daughter of Ravi—kneeling as she should—in front of Rashar's truest vessel.

It was in the middle of such a thought that the door to the chamber flung open, revealing the figures of three men, two of which were his priests who had been put in charge of guarding the privacy of the prayer room. The third man—the one in front—strode into the chamber in full uniform, armed, confident, and paying no attention to the pleas from the priests behind him.

Startled by the interruption, the girl jerked back in panic. Under such circumstances, it was reasonable, expected even, for any man to share such a feeling including Yakim. But there was a difference in how a man should act and how a High Priest of Rashar should. Yakim izr Zahat did what a High Priest should, which was to lean back on his chair and resume what he had been doing. Here, in the temple, even the salar himself was expected to bend in respect to him.

"Continue, child," he said, guiding the girl back to where she was. "One mustn't allow mere mortals to interrupt one's service to Rashar." Turning back to the men, he gestured for the two priests to leave and spread his free hand toward the chair on the opposite side. "Commander Sa'id, please, have a seat. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The Commander, eyeing him with distaste he didn't try to hide, went to pour himself a drink and settled down on the chair with an air of someone who owned the place. Yakim had never liked the man or his master. They were both savages and neither had respect for the temple. They would pay for their sins, of course, in time.

"I bring a message from the salar," said the Commander, sipping the wine his cup.

Yakim held the man's gaze as the girl continued the interrupted service. "I see. Go on, izr Sa'id. I'm listening."

Jarem izr Sa'id looked at the girl, hesitated for a moment, then replied casually, "Your request for the burning of a hundred Shakshi slaves has been denied. The salar also wants you to know that if you proceed without permission, a priest will burn for every Shakshi you put on a pyre. That is his answer to your request."

Yakim smiled, partly over the message he had been expecting, partly over the pleasing warmth around his shaft. "So," he said, winding his fingers tighter around her hair, earning himself another whimper from the girl, "the Witch really has him by the balls, it would seem."

"Watch your tongue, Yakim," said the Commander crisply, "or this might be the last time you are serviced in the name of Rashar."

"A sound advice," Yakim nodded, "and one you should also offer the salar. Temples and their priests have served as the pillars of peace in every city for as long as religion existed, my lord Commander. Faith is what holds people together as one, not swords or rulers. It is the salar who ought to be more careful with his tongue," he paused, trying to recall the words and then traced them, "or this might be the last time he is serviced in the name of Rashar."

A bold statement, Yakim knew, but a true one. Rulers of all nations have had to bend to religion and its leaders for centuries, even Salar Muradi. Even Eli the conqueror. It needed to be said, in his opinion, if only to demonstrate the power of Rashar himself.

Jarem izr Sa'id considered it for a time and settled his cup on the table. "Is that a threat, Yakim? Are you," he asked calmly, smoothly, leaning forward as a hand moved to caress the hilt of his sword, "threatening the Salar of Rasharwi? My superior? The man I would die for?"

Yakim swallowed. He had forgotten how loyal the Commander was to the salar, how far back they went. Salar Muradi may not risk a war with the temple, but one of his loyal subjects like Jarem izr Sa'id could kill him for personal reasons, take the blame, and peace in the city would still be intact. Yakim might have held enough power over the people of Rasharwi to have clashed with the salar many times and survived, but he was wise enough to know where the line was. A ruler feared by his enemies and respected by his people had the power to wrestle with the temple. He was aware of this and begged Rashar forgiveness for his arrogance.

"I'm merely stating the importance of holding peace Commander," he said, clearing his throat. "There must be some form of punishment on the Shakshis to settle this unrest. A ruler cannot be seen to put his mistress before the people. He is allowing himself to be under a spell of a heretic, and we, as his loyal subjects, must free him from such witchcraft, don't you agree?"

To Yakim's relief, the Commander slipped back into his usual composure, letting go of the sword. He leaned back on his chair and picked up the drink again. "I am a soldier, Yakim, it is not my expertise to identify or deal with witchcraft," he said, his expression flat and unreadable. "You will have to enlighten me, if you believe he is bewitched by a certain Shakshi, how we might fix this situation."

Yakim thought for a moment, his eyes fixated on the symbol of Rashar at the far end of the room, hand still working on dictating the girl's pace. "I believe, Commander Sa'id, that the people do need retribution," he said, thinking now of the last time he'd had a pureblood Shakshi girl kneeling before him and Rashar, how appropriate, how empowering it had been to have served the god in putting a daughter of Ravi—and the goddess herself—in her place. "Or some form of submission from the Shakshis—a sign, if you will, that they are willing to bend their knees to Rashar, if burning is not to be allowed."

It would be a peaceful way of settling this turmoil, yes, Yakim congratulated himself for such a brilliant solution. He could see it now, the sons and daughters of Ravi submitting to Rashar, turning to the right path. A redemption to go down in history made possible by Yakim izr Zahat High Priest of Sangi. A legendary accomplishment on his part.

The thought gave him a sudden rush of energy. He urged the girl into a faster pace, imagining something else on top of the success of his career. "It doesn't take much, truly. In...fact," he said, a little out of breath as he was driven close to release by the warm, wetness around his shaft, and the possibility of it coming from a certain Shakshi, "it might...only take one."

The girl, whimpering louder from the force of his grip on her hair, fell into a perfect rhythm with his guidance. He could already picture it, could smell the corrupting, suffocating scent that had been taunting him for years. "There is one thing the Shakshis...treasure above all else, something they would die...to protect." He could run his hands on that dark honeyed skin, through that silver hair, slamming the fire out of those yellow eyes with his god-given power as he did. Yakim clutched the arm of the chair, straining muscles stretched tight like a bow bent close to breaking, as the image became crystal clear in his mind.

"Give us...the bharavi, Commander, make her...bend to Rashar in front of the people. Give us...the Witch." The girl cried louder from the force of his hand. Shivering all over at the sound, Yakim closed his eyes, saw a revelation of himself replacing the Salar of Rasharwi with the bharavi at his feet, between his legs, plunged himself into the girl's mouth one last time, shuddering as he came. "Then and only then, will all sins be considered paid for."

***

It was all too easy, Jarem thought on his ride back to the Tower. Not that he had expected it to be hard, but he had gone prepared to offer a few speeches for Yakim to come to that conclusion. The man's arrogance and blind faith in the god could be counted upon for him to make the most stupid mistake no sensible person would ever arrive at, but what Jarem hadn't known was his obsession with the bharavi. It was clear as day what had been on Yakim's mind when he'd brought forward such a proposal. Jarem chastised himself for having missed it. There must have been a look, a gesture, something that could have given it away every time Yakim looked at her in the past he might have caught. With that, Jarem made a mental note to be more observant of his surroundings in the future.

It made sense, however. Yakim izr Zahat despised women and their goddess. He considered them corrupted, inferior beings that needed to be taught a lesson in humility. Such a view had never been a secret, and who else would aggravate him more than a bharavi—a woman believed to be a direct descendent of Ravi proud enough to shame a peacock? A woman, as many believed, who had the salar himself wound around her fingers?

The problem was that Jarem couldn't tell how far from the truth such a statement happened to be. The salar definitely had other agendas with her, but there were times Jarem felt a presence of something else that clouded his superior's vision. Women, Jarem reminded himself, had been the cause of countless leaders' fall in the past. It was his job to make sure that didn't happen to Salar Muradi's rule.

Which meant that he would have to find a way to make the salar agree with this proposal. It would take only three days of cleansing for a heretic to be converted. They could promise a large enough escort for Zahara to make sure she would be safe before her return to the Tower. The salar could be made to see the benefits of ending the conflict with the temple and the people, and at the same time it would send a strong message that the Shakshis could be made to accept their rule and live peacefully among them. A win-win situation for the Salasar, as far as he was concerned.

Given that Zahara never returned to the Black Tower afterward.

It had to be done, Jarem decided, for the love of this nation and the making of a ruler who would exceed Eli the Conqueror.

***