by Tasha Suri
But it seemed both the mystics and her father were determined to adhere to convention. The woman cleared her throat.
“I, Kalini, servant of the Maha and the Emperor, have brought the Maha’s favored, Amun, as suitor for Lady Mehr.” She spoke the words in a deep, sonorous voice. If there was one thing the mystic knew how to do, it was to give a ritual its deserved weight. “Does the lady consent to this meeting?”
If Mehr refused now, the mystics would be obliged to leave. If they refused to do so, her father would have every right to defend her honor. He would love the excuse to vent his rage, she was sure of that. The choice was in her hands.
Mehr possessed so very many choices. The choice to run, the choice to stay. The choice to say yes or no, the choice to place Arwa’s neck under the sword alongside hers, or face her fate alone. Layers upon layers of choice, and every single one felt like another cloth pressed over her mouth, slowly suffocating her.
“Daughter,” prompted her father.
“I consent,” Mehr said. Of course she did.
“The suitor may speak,” said her father.
The silence stretched, filling the room from end to end. Time moved in slow, unbearable increments. And then finally Amun spoke.
“Lady Mehr,” he said. “I am honored to meet you at last.”
He didn’t sound honored. His voice was like glass: colorless, smooth, entirely lacking in warmth. She wanted to recoil from it.
“I am the one who is honored,” Mehr said demurely, lying through her teeth. “I am unworthy of the attentions of such a favored servant of the Maha.”
“You have been misled by my holy sister’s kindness. I am a lowly servant in truth.”
“Not so lowly, I think, if the Maha and Emperor have chosen to bless you with the gift of marriage,” said Mehr. “Unless marriage is a common gift granted to your kind? I had thought mystics were celibate, and dedicated to service.”
“We are whatever the Maha bids us to be,” Amun said. “But marriage is a unique gift. I am blessed.”
He didn’t sound like a man who considered himself blessed. Mehr could read nothing in his voice, nor in his lowered, shrouded face. He was a negative space, a void.
The mystic woman, Kalini, was beginning to frown. Her displeasure was much easier to read.
“You must consider yourself blessed too,” she put in. “To gain the Maha’s attention is a beautiful thing, Lady Mehr, a wondrous thing.”
“Yes,” Amun said. His voice was still colorless, his words careful. “You must consider what makes you special, Lady Mehr. You must consider what has set you apart and brought you to our illustrious leader’s notice.”
Kalini sighed. Mehr saw Amun’s fingers curl slightly against his knees.
“Do you have any questions for me, Lady Mehr?” Amun asked abruptly. “I will answer anything you ask as honestly as I am able.”
With Kalini’s eyes on her, she weighed her words carefully. She had to avoid giving insult or showing weakness. Soon her life would be entirely in the mystics’ hands. She didn’t want to give them any further reason to harm her than the simple fact of her blood already offered.
“I don’t know what questions a woman should ask a prospective husband,” she said finally. And she had no more time left to find out.
“Neither do I, my lady,” said Amun. “In this I cannot guide you.”
Mehr bit her lip. She considered her options.
“Would you be a good husband to me, if I chose you?”
“What makes a good husband, my lady?” he asked immediately.
Mehr was suddenly quite sure that if she could have chosen her own suitor instead of being drawn into the mystics’ net, she would have selected the kind of man who did not answer a question with a question. She wanted a truthful man, a straightforward one. She wanted someone who would not make a game of her life.
Nahira’s words rose up in her head, unbidden: A good choice for you would be a man who doesn’t enjoy wielding power over his people.
“Compassion,” she said. She shouldn’t have said it, but she couldn’t take back the word now. “I don’t know what a good husband should be, but I know I would like a husband who is compassionate.”
Amun raised his head. Mehr found herself staring into eyes the color of a moonless night, deep and dark.
“Then I will do all in my power to be a good husband to you,” he said.
She reminded herself to speak—once, twice. Her heart had leaped strangely.
“And what do you expect from a wife?” she asked. Not kindness, surely. “I know what is expected from the wife of a nobleman, but I know nothing of the life of a mystic.”
“I have been told Ambhan women share their husbands’ burdens.”
“Yes,” Mehr agreed.
“Then you would share my burden,” he said. “And my burden is service. To the Maha, and to the Emperor.”
All the human feeling absent from his voice was tucked in those eyes. He stared at her, unblinking for a long moment. Was there a warning in his gaze? She didn’t know. She couldn’t be sure. She wondered if he knew she was staring directly at him, unblinking herself, her heart in her throat.
“Our service is holy. Our prayers are vital to the Empire,” Kalini said. Mehr looked at her. For a split second, she had almost forgotten the woman was there. “Our prayers ensure that the Gods show the Emperor and the Empire the favor they rightly deserve. It is a truly glorious burden, Lady Mehr.”
Prayer, service—those words meant nothing. Kalini was not trying to help Mehr understand what lay in store for her. Her intention had been to sever that momentary connection between Mehr and the male mystic, and she had succeeded. Amun had lowered his eyes.
“I imagine it is,” Mehr managed. She wanted Amun to look at her again. She said, “Amun, do you have anything to ask me in return?”
Amun did not look up.
“I have some questions for you, Lady Mehr,” Kalini said. She smiled. Her smile said: You will not win this fight. “I know my request breaks protocol, but if your father permits …”
Suren’s face was a stiff mask. He nodded, once.
“What happened to your mother?” Kalini asked.
“She was exiled by my father when I was ten years old.”
“Why was she exiled?” asked Kalini. The woman leaned forward. “Was she a traitor to Ambha and our Emperor? You must answer me honestly, my lady.”
“Nothing so dramatic,” Mehr said, keeping her voice even. “I was young, Mystic, but I know my mother was unhappy living in Jah Irinah. She wanted to leave the city and return to the desert.” Mehr tried to feel nothing. It was the only way she could continue. “She rejected my father and the comforts the Empire had graced her with, despite her blood. So my father did the only thing he could to protect his daughters from the taint of her choices, and forbade her from ever returning.”
“Your mother was faithless in the way of her people,” Kalini agreed. “You must be thankful, Lady Mehr, that your father chose to protect his children, despite their ill blood.”
Mehr inclined her head. Whatever her father had done—whatever bitterness she felt toward him, for his part in the loss of her mother—he had protected Mehr and Arwa as best he could. For nine years, he had even given Mehr the freedom to be her mother’s daughter. She was grateful for that.
Speaking about her mother’s departure and exile dredged up memories Mehr would rather have left undisturbed. She remembered so much, too much. She remembered how her mother had faded after Arwa’s birth. She remembered how her mother had stared out at the desert all those long months the way a maimed bird stares at the sky. When her mother had been exiled, Mehr had cried and begged her father to let her go too: Please, Father, let me go.
But her father hadn’t let her go, and Mehr had watched the desert day after day, waiting against all reason for her mother to come home. Only Lalita’s patient coaxing had—slowly, eventually—pulled her out of her stupor.
Mehr did not often dwell on the details of her mother’s departure. It pained her to do so now for an audience. Her dredged history sickened her like poison. And there was no kindness in Kalini’s eyes.
“I have one last question for you, Lady Mehr. Would you make a vow to the Empire, to our Emperor and the Maha to prove your loyalty? Would you vow to serve them with your body, your heart, your soul?” Kalini’s gaze was intent. “It would put my fears quite to rest.”
She spoke politely enough, but there was an avid hunger in her eyes that made Mehr’s stomach churn. She looked again at Amun, who was still as a statue carved in jet. He did not look at her, but she felt the weight of his regard. He was listening. He was waiting, so tense that he barely even seemed to breathe.
“How dare you,” Suren growled. His hands were in fists. He looked ready to rise to his feet. “Such an impertinent question is not to be borne!”
“It’s a simple question,” Kalini said mildly. “It was not intended to cause offense.”
“My daughter is an Ambhan noblewoman,” her father said, in a voice filled with barely leashed fury. “Noblewomen are a treasure of the Empire; their souls are in our keeping. They do not make contracts.” He nearly spat the word. “To ask her to make a vow beyond marriage is a barefaced insult.” His voice grew darker. “If the nobility learn your master seeks to pervert the honor of their women, there will be a revolt. I can assure you of that.”
“I apologize,” Kalini said, touching a hand to her chest. “You named your daughter tainted, Governor. I did not know you extended such an honor to her. That was my error, and I apologize.”
Before her father could explode, Mehr hurriedly cut in.
“It is I who must apologize, Mystic,” she said. “I would vow if I could. But my father has spoken. I am an Ambhan noblewoman and the vow is not mine to give.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Kalini. “I appreciate your honesty. My most vital task is to protect the interests of the Empire. You must understand why I am compelled to treat you impertinently.”
“I understand perfectly,” Mehr replied.
“Well then,” Kalini said softly. She gave Amun a look under her lashes. “We’re done,” she announced.
Mehr blinked. “What?”
“Lady Mehr, do you choose this match?” asked Kalini.
“I would like to speak to Amun a little longer before making my decision,” Mehr said, in the most respectful voice she could manage.
“One meeting is not enough,” Suren said. “Courtship is a lengthy process, Mystic. One meeting—”
“Is all that we have time for,” Kalini cut in. “We need the lady’s decision today, Governor. Needs must. The Maha requires our swift return.”
Mehr wasn’t ready yet. No time had passed at all. She had barely spoken to Amun, and he had barely looked at her, never mind spoken in return.
But this meeting had never been about introducing Mehr and Amun to one another. It was a formality, allowing the mystics to avoid transgressing sacred rights without allowing Mehr out of their grasp.
It was Kalini she’d spoken to. Kalini who had interrogated her, and smiled, and decided Mehr’s fate. Amun had decided nothing. Perhaps she hadn’t been able to read his face, his voice, because he felt nothing at all.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Mehr asked him. “Anything at all?”
Amun gave her the briefest glance, his dark eyes hooded.
“Lady Mehr,” said Amun. “In the name of the Maha, I ask you: Do you consent to marry me?”
“Is that the only question you have?” she asked quietly.
“It is,” he replied.
He was an absolute stranger to her. But that didn’t matter. Long before Mehr had walked into this room, she’d made her choice.
“Then I consent,” she said. “I will be your wife.”
When Mehr’s father had married Maryam, their wedding had taken place in the bride’s birth household, as was traditional. Neither Mehr nor Arwa had been present. But Mehr had attended a few marriage ceremonies for nobles in Irinah, and she knew that her impending wedding was meant to be a joyful occasion, celebrated for weeks on end with feasts and dance and music. The wedding of the Governor’s firstborn daughter—illegitimate though she was—should have been an especially lavish celebration.
The household was quiet. Suren had invited Mehr to eat dinner with him, and Mehr had accepted. They sat together and shared small dishes of rich, slow-cooked meat and lentil broth. As they ate, Mehr’s father told her there would be no time for celebration. She would have a simple wedding ceremony in two days’ time—all the time that the mystics, in their benevolence, had allowed. No poems would be recited, no music would be played, and no gifts would be shared between families. The ceremony would consist of nothing but a simple exchange of family seals. In time, Amun would remove Mehr’s seal from his own neck—when, exactly, her father didn’t say—but Mehr would wear her husband’s seal for the rest of her natural life.
Mehr could not understand why the mystics wanted the marriage to proceed so quickly. She had a terrible suspicion that they did not want to allow her or her father time to find a way to save her from the fate they had decided for her.
Her father spoke in stilted, awkward sentences that eventually petered out into silence. Usually it was up to a mother to tell her child about marriage, but Mehr’s birth mother was in exile, her stepmother was gone, and Lalita was missing. Mothers were in short supply. In their absence, her father did his best, but the responsibility ill-suited him. Feeling rather uncomfortable herself, Mehr did nothing to encourage her father when his voice faded and he returned to his meal.
Mehr wasn’t particularly hungry, but the meat was soft, the lentils faintly sweet, and it was easier to concentrate on her food than to consider what lay in store for her. She would have been content to continue picking at her meal in peaceable silence, but her father had other ideas. He looked at her.
“Your mother,” he began.
Mehr set down the dish she was holding with a thump.
“No, Father,” Mehr said. “I don’t want to talk about her.” They had never discussed her mother’s departure. She had no idea what he wanted to say, and she didn’t care. Whatever it was—an apology, an excuse, an explanation—it had come far too late. “I spoke about her to the mystics because I had no choice. Will you force me to speak like they did?”
She had never spoken to her father like this before. But there was no anger in her father’s expression, only resignation.
“Your mother,” he said, gently, “never told me why she feared and hated the Emperor. I thought I understood her reasons, but now I see I knew nothing.”
What little appetite Mehr had left was gone. But she ate another bite, giving herself time to get her emotions back under control.
“I will send a messenger to inform Maryam about your—marriage,” her father said.
Mehr nodded silently. She tried not to think of her sister journeying away from Irinah never to return. She tried not to think of Maryam’s soft, spiteful words. I promise, Mehr: I will make sure she doesn’t miss you at all.
As if sensing the direction of Mehr’s thoughts, her father spoke again.
“Arwa won’t return here,” he said. “No matter what happens I will keep her out of harm’s way. On my honor, I promise you that.”
His eyes were flinty. Some of his old strength showed itself in the shape of his shoulders, his raised head. She found herself believing him.
Would he send Arwa away forever, to be raised far from him and from Irinah in safety? Would he allow Maryam to stay with her, or give Arwa away entirely, leaving her to be raised by strangers? Would he truly choose to lose both of his daughters in one terrible blow? Mehr didn’t want to ask. There was no answer he could offer that would not in some way break her heart.
“Thank you,” Mehr said softly, instead.
She looked down at her meal. No. She couldn’t eat any more. She couldn’t si
t here any longer either. Her father’s guilt was an oppressive weight. She could feel him looking at her still, things unspoken hovering in the air around him.
Your mother—
“Mehr,” he said. She raised her head reluctantly. “If you would like to write a message to Arwa, I will ensure that it’s delivered.”
It was a small kindness, but it brought a lump to Mehr’s throat.
“I don’t know what to tell her,” Mehr confessed.
“Think on it,” he said. “The messenger won’t leave until morning. You have time.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dear Arwa—
No.
Dear sister—
Mehr stopped, took a breath, and began again.
Starting the letter was hard. How formal should she be? How honest? Finishing it seemed like an impossible task. Mehr had never had much cause to write lengthy letters, and her feelings for Arwa were far too huge and complex to reduce down into words. But Mehr struggled on. She stained her fingers black and wasted copious amounts of ink, but the letter was finished in time for the messenger to carry it alongside her father’s missive for Maryam.
It was an inadequate letter, full of useless platitudes and soft, meaningless chatter. It wasn’t the message Mehr had wanted to write, but being honest about all the love and fear curdled up inside her wouldn’t have helped Arwa. So she lied, and wrote that her husband-to-be was handsome and kind, that her wedding was going to be beautiful. She wrote that she was happy.
She hoped Arwa would read her letter and believe every word.
There was no time to think about the letter after that. The household was in chaos. There was simply not enough time to plan a wedding, even one that had been reduced to nothing but its bare bones. From the murmurs of the servants, Mehr knew that a feast was being planned, suitable entertainment was being arranged, and the Lotus Hall was being decorated in fresh flowers, sourced by some miracle despite the withering desert heat.