by Tasha Suri
“We’d best catch up,” he said. When she turned to look at him, she saw his gaze tracking the mystics, who were still walking ahead of them. His hands were clenched at his sides. She nodded and started walking again.
They were met beneath the shadow of one low dome by three men who drew them inside and shut the doors behind them. As the mystics started to chatter and embrace, their voices low with relief, Mehr took her first few steps into the interior of the temple. With the doors shut, the natural light was quenched. Here there was nothing but the flicker of lamplight to illuminate the bare walls and long corridors. She kept her eyes lowered, breathing softly against the folds of cloth around her face. As long as she kept quiet and let the mystics talk, they would most likely ignore her. And Mehr needed a moment alone to find her strength.
The temple around her was far from beautiful, but it felt like the desert: arid but somehow vibrant. Alive. The floor was not the pale marble of home, but the burnished gold of sand under sunlight. She wanted to reach down and feel it with her fingers. It was hard not to believe that it would exude heat the way the desert did during the daylight hours. Her gaze flickered up to the walls, a deeper hue of bronze, and to the hooks where the lamps hung, swinging in a breeze funneled through the winding corridors. She didn’t know where the breeze had come from. It smelled sweet, like water or soil in rain.
She glanced back at the welcoming party. The men were still laughing, embracing, but one lone man was standing quietly by Kalini’s side. Mehr saw him whisper something in Kalini’s ear. Kalini caught Mehr’s eye; she crooked a finger at her. Come here.
Mehr obeyed, stepping back over to her.
“We need to leave,” Kalini told her. “The Maha has requested your presence.”
Kalini strode past her. Mehr looked back, just for a moment, seeking out Amun’s gaze. He was still standing at the entrance, his back to the closed door and his arms crossed. He wasn’t looking at her.
“Quicker,” Kalini called out. Mehr looked away and followed her.
What had she expected him to do? Run after her? No. Not that. But she had expected him to raise his eyes, to look at her as she left his side for the first time in days. She already missed the reassurance of his presence at her side, the solidity of him, the coolness of his shadow over her. Her face was hot. She clenched her hands up tight. What a fool she was.
She didn’t need Amun to reassure her. She needed to rely on herself, first and foremost. To do otherwise would be to cultivate an unforgivable weakness. And Mehr could not allow herself to be weak.
“You will need to dress appropriately before entering the Maha’s presence,” Kalini said, leading Mehr down a dizzying array of corridors. “Use the bathing room. I’ll send someone to collect you.”
She gestured at Mehr to stop, and showed her into a room with one high unshuttered window, open to the light. The floor was tiled, the air cool.
“I don’t have anything with me,” Mehr said. “My clothes. Kalini—”
Mehr turned, but it was too late. Kalini was gone.
Mehr gritted her teeth, holding back the curses she couldn’t allow to spill from her lips. Kalini wanted her to dress for the Maha? Well, that was a doomed project. Mehr had been wearing these clothes in sweltering heat for days on end. There was no way on earth that she could transform them into acceptable garb. The Maha would have to be disappointed.
Mehr undressed and folded her clothes in the corner of the room. Someone had clearly anticipated Mehr’s arrival, because a low basin of water had been prepared, with a pitcher and soap by its side. Mehr crouched down and took the pitcher in her hands. She skimmed it through the water, then raised it, pouring the liquid over her head. The water was shockingly, gloriously cool. She blinked it out of her eyes, watching dirt-clouded water pool around her knees.
She didn’t know how long she had, so she made a clumsy attempt at untangling her hair before giving the task up. She focused instead on scrubbing herself clean, sloughing away the grime of the journey. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed the tunic she’d worn beneath her robe and daubed the underarms with a little water and soap.
She heard a cough. She looked up, tunic still held in her hands. There was a woman at the door, a young woman with a bundle of clothes in her arms. She gave Mehr an embarrassed smile and held the bundle out. “Kalini sent me to bring you this,” she said.
Mehr took the bundle from her, her own tunic clutched loosely in front of her in a semblance of modesty.
“She told me to tell you not to cover your face,” said the woman. “He wouldn’t like that.” Another lopsided smile, and the woman dashed away. Mehr looked down at the bundle. A tunic, a sash, a pair of trousers. No shawl, no veil. She let out a long, slow breath and started getting dressed.
Mehr needed no mirror to know that she looked nothing like the Governor’s daughter any longer. She’d grown thinner on the journey, her body all muscle and bone. Her skin had darkened in the sun. She wore no ornaments, and her clothes were clean but plain and ill-fitting. She’d bound back the tangle of her hair with frayed thread, but she knew it had done little to improve her appearance. She thought of the way the mystics spoke of the Maha, thought of Amun’s blue marks and bleak eyes. Nervousness gripped her insides. Being herself was not enough. She wanted fine clothes and jewels and a veil to protect her from the Maha’s eyes. She wanted an armor of beauty, strong and glittering. But she had nothing. She was unarmed.
Kalini led Mehr out of the darkness of the corridors up onto a wide balcony open to sky. The sudden change in light left Mehr blinded for a moment. Dazzled, she stood still and listened to the howl of the wind. She could smell water. Before the desert, she hadn’t known water had a scent. She did now.
Her vision cleared. At first she thought her eyes were tricking her, that she was seeing one of the wavering illusions common in the desert heat. But then she took a step closer to the edge of the balcony, breathed in that scent of water, and knew that what she saw was real after all.
Like the havelis of Jah Irinah, the temple had an inner courtyard. But the courtyard was massive, its breadth equal to the size of a village. It had to be, to encompass the oasis lying at its heart. The oasis was huge, and surrounded by vegetation and signs of irrigation. Its water glimmered in the light. Mehr had never seen such a large natural body of water. She’d never expected to see so much lush life here. It took her breath away.
She heard footsteps. Kalini bowed low to the ground beside her, her head pressed to the floor. Mehr’s mark, the one etched into her skin above her breasts, began to ache.
Mehr bowed down, following Kalini’s example, her limbs doing what was necessary for survival even as her senses sharpened, taking in every detail of the world around her: the sharp acid sting on her skin, the heat of the sun. The sound of those footsteps going still.
It was his boots that she saw first. They were sturdy, hard leather, unmarked by the outdoors. The hem of his robe was a deep, lustrous blue, dark like the robes of the other mystics but made of a far finer material. If there was one thing Mehr had learned as the Governor’s daughter, it was how to identify finer things.
“Stand up,” said the Maha. Mehr and Kalini stood.
Mehr looked into the Maha’s face.
It was not the blank mask she had half feared it would be.
On the surface, the Maha looked like a mortal man. He wore no turban, no mark of noble status. His hair was cut brutally short in the military style, but what little of it she could see was peppered gray. He was old—she had guessed, of course, that he would be old—but every inch of him exuded strength and charisma that belied his age. His eyes were as sharp as knives and unclouded by time. His bones were hard, but his mouth was shaped into a kindly smile. He reminded Mehr absurdly of her father.
“Kalini,” he said. He kissed her forehead. Kalini closed her eyes, savoring the touch of his mouth. “You’ve done well.”
“Maha,” she said. She pressed a fist to he
r chest. “It was my honor.”
“Did Amun give you trouble?”
“No, Maha,” said Kalini. Her mouth firmed. She seemed to steel herself. “There was a daiva.”
The Maha gestured at Kalini to continue.
“It was dealt with,” Kalini went on, a pleading note in her voice. “Amun performed the rite. No other disturbances occurred. It didn’t harm the girl.”
“The others?”
“Were also unharmed, Maha. Amun banished it swiftly.”
“You should have been more vigilant, Kalini,” he said.
“Yes, Maha.”
“Blood first,” he told her. “The rite should always be a last resort.”
Kalini lowered her head, chastised. The Maha placed his fingertips against her forehead, at the same spot where he had pressed his lips. Mehr saw Kalini’s shiver. The sight made her stomach knot.
“Go now. I wish to speak to your new sister alone.”
Kalini bowed again, forehead to the ground. Then she stood and left.
The Maha turned his sharp eyes on her. Mehr was uncomfortably aware of her bare face, and of the ache of the mark on her skin.
“How do you like my temple, Mehr?” he asked. His voice rolled over her like a storm. She felt the mark flare to a biting pain. She sucked in a sharp breath and saw that kindly mouth twitch.
“It’s like nothing I have ever seen, Maha,” said Mehr. Careful words were required, she thought. “A holy place indeed.”
“It truly is,” he answered. “Look out there.” He swept a hand out in the direction of the oasis. “An oasis so vast and fruitful shouldn’t exist in such a desert. But this marvel thrives because our prayers ensure that the Gods dream a world that is kind to us. The Gods bless our Empire with good fortune. The world turns its tide in our favor, over and over again.” He looked at her. “Do you know how Durevi was won, Mehr?”
“No, Maha,” Mehr said. Durevi was the newest province of the Empire, but so distant from Irinah that Mehr had never paid its fate much heed. Her father’s household had celebrated its conquering—there had been prayers, and sweets—but she knew no more than that. “I am sorry, Maha.”
The Maha ignored her apology and curled a hand around the balcony’s edge, his eyes still fixed on Mehr’s face. The longer she looked at him, the less human his face appeared. There was a light within it: a glow that came from beneath his timeless flesh, as if his skin were a lamp concealing a flame.
“By prayer,” he said. “My mystics prayed fervently for the success of our army and the destruction of the Durevi royals, and the Gods blessed us swiftly. A wave of sickness came over the army. The royal family were consumed by madness and took their own lives. Our men entered the kingdom unchallenged, and Durevi was won. Now it is part of our Empire, blessed by order and civilization, and thankful for it.” He laughed then, softly, as if he had amused himself.
The sound—ah. There was no denying the power his voice had on her now. She could feel it under her skin.
He carried on in the slow, soft voice of a man speaking to a particularly ignorant child. “You will not understand this, child, because you have been born in my Empire blessed by glory and grace, but there is only so far that an army can extend its supplies, its weaponry, its men. There is only so far it is possible for one ruler to expand his territory. The Empire has surpassed those limits, time and time again. All empires fall, Mehr, but my Empire will not. Do you understand why?”
She swallowed through the knot of fear in her throat and fixed her eyes on the oasis, grateful for the opportunity to avoid the Maha’s piercing face.
“Prayer, Maha,” she said, forcing the words out. “Because of prayer.”
Mehr could hear the smile in his voice. “Indeed.”
Mehr remembered what her father had said, when she’d asked him why he feared the mystics.
Ah, Mehr! I have seen cities put to death at their word. I have seen plague and famine and slaughter fall on men at their whim.
She had not doubted him, and yet …
She hadn’t expected the Maha to be as he was, human and yet entirely inhuman. She hadn’t expected the feel of his power, the sound of his voice, the terror deep inside in her bones.
“That is how we serve,” the Maha said. “Our prayers bring blessings to the Empire. Our prayers turn our enemies to dust. Truly, there is nothing more holy than service.”
She felt the Maha come to stand beside her and tried not to flinch away. His physical closeness made bile rise in her throat.
For a long moment he stood by her quietly, watching the wind sweep the surface of the water. Then he said, “How do you like your husband?” Without missing a beat he spoke again, his voice casual, conversational. “Look at me, Mehr.”
She felt the mark flare hotter. Felt herself tugged, like a puppet on strings, to do his bidding. Invisible hands coaxed her head to turn to his. Ice ran through her veins.
She could have resisted. The compulsion wasn’t all-consuming. But the shock of it made her turn unthinking, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She looked up at the Maha with wide eyes, unable for an agonizing moment to hide her fear.
He saw it. She knew he saw it. He’d ordered her to look at him for one reason alone: to show her what he could make her do. To make her fear.
“Do you know why I dislike veils, Mehr?” He waited. Mehr stiffly shook her head, not looking away from him, compelled to obey. “I dislike them because they are so often used to conceal the truth. You, for example, child. You were hidden from the world by veils and walls. They concealed your nature from my many eyes. They kept you from service to your Emperor and your Maha. And what is service, child? Tell me.”
“Holy,” Mehr said dully. She felt her jaw work, felt the compulsion thrill its way up her throat like fire.
“Veils kept you from holiness,” he agreed. “When you left your veils and walls, when you left your father’s home and entered the storm that graced your city, you revealed yourself. I have eyes in many places, Mehr, who seek truth for my sake. Praise the Emperor that they found you. Praise be, that you revealed the full strength of your blood.” He smiled at her. “Because you stand before me as you do, unveiled and in service, I do not need you to tell me what you think of your husband. I see the truth of it burning in your eyes.”
She didn’t know what to say to him. She wanted to recoil in horror and in revulsion. She wanted to press her hands over her face and blot him out. She thought with longing of the veil she’d worn in her father’s household: a noblewoman’s veil, all soft gauze, that concealed her face in its entirety. He looked at her as if her flesh were itself a thin gauze and her heart a bright and bloody flame.
He can’t see my thoughts, she told herself desperately. He can’t see my secrets.
Mehr had always prided herself on her ability to conceal her true feelings. It wouldn’t, couldn’t fail her now. Her secrets were not written on her skin. Let him have her fear, let him have her revulsion. She would not show him the truth of her unfinished vow, the lie of it, the hope of freedom she couldn’t shake. She could keep those from him. She had to.
Mehr heard the scuff of gentle footsteps. The Maha looked away from her, his gaze lifting beyond her shoulder.
“Amun,” she heard him say. “Your presence wasn’t requested.”
“It is my duty as her husband to be by her side.” Amun’s low, unreadable voice had never brought her as much comfort as it did then, coming from the balcony entrance. She turned and saw him bow low, head to the floor as Kalini had done. His face was uncovered, marks gleaming a fierce blue in the light. He rose. “And it is her duty to remain beside me in return. I came to fulfill our mutual duties.”
“I’m glad to see you take your vows so seriously,” said the Maha. He sounded amused. Much to Mehr’s relief, he stepped away from her, allowing Amun to stand by her side in his stead. “I take it you have enjoyed your reward? Answer me honestly, Amun.”
“We’ve lain together many ti
mes.” Amun’s voice was a blank canvas. “She wears my mark.”
True. And not true. They had lain together, but not in the way Amun clearly intended the Maha to believe they had. She wore his mark, but it was incomplete, burning and churning her flesh like a small flame. Amun had not lied to the Maha, not disobeyed—he’d simply twisted his words so carefully, so cleverly, that he’d concealed the truth with a veil of misdirection. Knowing now how the Maha hated dishonesty, knowing the power of his voice, Mehr could only marvel. And bite down on her tongue to keep her own silence.
The Maha gave a soft laugh. He placed a hand on the edge of the balcony, raising his face to the sun.
“She pleases you, then?”
“She pleases me greatly,” Amun said.
If Mehr bit down any harder, she’d soon taste blood.
“A gift to you, and a gift to all of us,” murmured the Maha. “What a gem you are, child.” The Maha looked at her again. “You want to serve the Emperor, don’t you, Mehr?”
“I share my husband’s duties,” Mehr managed to say. She felt Amun’s sleeve brush hers.
The Maha straightened and reached for Mehr. Amun tensed.
“Don’t move,” the Maha said, and both Mehr and Amun froze as he reached for Mehr’s chin and tilted her head up. From a distance his eyes were the light hazel of Ambhan nobility, but this close Mehr could see that the dark pupils of his eyes had points of light within them, light as sharp and jagged as shattered glass.
Whatever the Maha was, he was not entirely human. Mehr was sure of that.
“You have the Amrithi look,” he said, tilting her head to the side for a closer inspection. Mehr’s skin burned where he touched it. “Once there were many of your ilk among us. But there are so few of you now, and still so much work left to be done.” He paused, looking at her. “You will need to learn quickly.”