Empire of Sand

by Tasha Suri

  “That can’t be,” Mehr protested. She knew the mystics had tried to take Lalita. She knew Amrithi tribes had been vanishing. Where could they have gone but straight into the Maha’s searching grasp?

  Amun shot her a look through lowered lashes.

  “You recognize that what I do is heresy,” he said flatly. “It horrifies you.”

  Mehr said nothing. It was true.

  Amun took her shoulder. Mehr stiffened. To all appearances he was correcting her stance again. But Mehr could feel his breath against her cheek, hear his voice, as soft as the beat of a daiva’s wings.

  “Heresy is a crime against our blood. Binding our souls, forcing us to bend the fabric of the world …” His breath was soft, so soft against her skin. “Death is preferable. Or so the Amrithi of the clans believe.”

  “No.” Mehr’s denial was reflexive.

  “I’ve seen it, Mehr. I know it.” He raised her arm slightly, his touch light. His voice became even lower. “We carry knives for a reason.”

  Mehr wrenched away from him. Amun flinched back.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be,” said Mehr. Deep breath. “I asked for the truth. I can’t blame you for sharing it.”

  She thought of Usha bleeding and dying. She thought of Lalita. She thought of all the clans that had vanished. She thought of her mother.

  The men were watching. The sand was shifting in the wind, golden-bright in the glare of the sun. And Amun was watching her, waiting for her, an apology shaped in every line of his body, his night-dark eyes.

  “Be thankful you were raised without a tribe,” Amun said. “It will make this burden easier to bear.”

  Mehr had never had a tribe. But she’d loved people, and now she had lost them all.

  She wondered if the people she loved—Lalita, her long-exiled mother—had fallen to their own daggers. She thought of the way she’d pressed her blade into Arwa’s hands. How she had done it to keep Arwa safe.

  She should have embraced ignorance. She should have been thankful for it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As the daylight began to wane, the two men finally interrupted Mehr and Amun’s lackluster training and gestured for them to return to the temple. Mehr was glad to stop. She had no heart for the rites now, not after everything Amun had revealed to her.

  The men waited for Mehr and Amun to enter the temple before barring the door behind them. “We will need to practice again later,” Amun told her, as one of the men paused to light a lamp. “You still have a great deal to learn.” He hesitated. “I will speak to Edhir tomorrow. He may be able to tell me exactly when the dreamfire will fall.”

  Mehr made a noise of agreement.

  They made their way through the dark corridors, not speaking to one another. Mehr couldn’t bring herself to utter a single word. She had no desire to ask any more questions, and innocent conversation felt like it was beyond her reach. The truth was a heavy weight in her skull. She couldn’t think beyond it. She couldn’t even muster up surprise when they entered a large hall filled from end to end with people. Some looked at her curiously. She looked back.

  Mystics, divided by gender, were kneeling on the floor. Lamps flickered along the walls. Before them all, wreathed in incense, stood an altar. Upon it was a carved statue, faceless, wearing a jewel turban, a world etched into one upraised palm.

  “You need to sit with the women,” Amun said. He stood stubbornly next to her, even as mystics jostled past them. She knew he wouldn’t move until she responded.

  Mehr nodded. That was all the response she felt able to offer. She joined the throng, kneeling down on cool stone on the women’s side of the hall. She wished she had a pillow or a low divan to perch on, but there was no such comfort here.

  The Maha was standing before the altar. He didn’t kneel as the mystics did. He stood tall, as proud as the effigy of the Emperor. She watched as he clasped his hands, closed his eyes. She saw the women kneeling on either side of her bow their heads. Mehr stared at the Maha’s own head, blinking away the sting of incense from her eyes. She was heavy. Heart heavy, soul heavy. But there was rage building inside her, growing ever stronger as the voices rose around her and the prayers began.

  Mehr had always avoided prayer. The rites had always been her preferred form of worship. But this was an Ambhan temple, and Mehr had no guilt-stricken father to indulge her any longer. She was the Maha’s property, and she would have to play at praying the way the Ambhans prayed: with mortal words and mortal song.

  Mehr began to murmur along with them. Harmonies cut sharply through the air. She clasped her fingers tight enough for her nails to press grooves into her skin. She was heavy, so heavy with hate. The voices rose together in song, higher and higher, echoing off the domed ceiling of the hall. The voices sang of love and beauty and wealth, of a throne wreathed in gold. The mystics prayed for the Empire. They prayed for Hara and Numriha and Irinah and Durevi, for the provinces of the Empire, for the provinces still to come: the unclaimed countries that would one day be subsumed by the Empire’s glory. They prayed for Ambha itself, the jewel of the known world.

  They prayed for the Empire to grow, ever larger, ever more wealthy and powerful. They prayed for the immortality of the imperial line, for the Maha to continue strong and everlasting as their leader and their guiding light.

  Every single thing they prayed for would come to pass.

  Mehr fixed her eyes on the statue upon the altar. The effigy was faceless by necessity: It stood for all Emperors past, present, and future. Son followed father, life followed death, generation after generation sat upon the throne. But there would always be an Emperor. There would always be an Empire. There would always be the Maha, ancient and glorious, the source of all imperial power.

  Mehr bowed her head when expected, clasped her hands when the mystics clasped their own, and thought not of the Maha, but of the Emperor.

  For all that he was mortal, all her life he had been like a God to her—distant, powerful, untouchable. His displeasure was death; his favor was a promise of a life of contentment and luxury. Her father served him with unflinching loyalty and had been rewarded with Jah Irinah and all its arid, raw beauty.

  Mehr had been told the Emperor hated her mother’s people. The Emperor’s hatred of the Amrithi for their old rebellion against the Empire and their heathen ways had been held over Mehr like a knife. She had been told to hide her customs, her beliefs, to forget her mother. To let Arwa forget their mother. Because if she attracted the Emperor’s gaze …

  She clenched her hands tighter. Well. Now she knew the consequences.

  But she knew something else now too. He had never hated her mother’s people. He had just never considered them people at all. They were the kindling wood that fed the fire of the Empire’s strength.

  The Amrithi were the Empire’s tools. They were there to be put into service, to harness the dreams of Gods to shape the Ambhan Empire’s golden immortality. Mehr had always been told that the Gods dreamed sweetly for the Empire. Now Mehr understood why they did so. Their dreams had been compelled. Their dreams had been stolen.

  Bitterness welled up in her.

  There was a lull in the prayers. As the song quieted and the Maha began to chant, silken ancient litanies to the sleeping Gods, Mehr raised her eyes again and stared at the statue of the faceless Emperor until her eyes burned.

  The Empire was rotten to the core.

  Finally, after years cloistered away in privilege, Mehr’s eyes were open.

  Mehr could not help Lalita. Either she had escaped the Maha’s reach—and Mehr could only hope, dream, that she had—or she had turned her blade on herself. Whatever the case, she was firmly beyond Mehr’s reach.

  The only person Mehr could help now was herself.

  After prayers, the mystics moved as a group to a large canopied veranda open to the air. Mehr could smell cooking fires and was reminded suddenly, achingly of her old home. The kitchens in the Governor’s residence ha
d smelled just the same, of oil and spices and burnt sweetness. But no place in her old home had been so full of strangers, or so open to the velvet darkness of the night. She wrapped her arms around herself and followed the flow of the crowd.

  Even here, the mystics had divided themselves along gender lines. Mehr could not seek out Amun, and that was probably for the best. She was growing far too reliant on him for company. He was her bastion of safety, the only one she could trust in this forsaken place. But Mehr was not safe and couldn’t allow herself to fall into the trap of believing she was.

  As the crowd kneeled in rows, younger mystics ran down the line, spooning out food onto plates at a lightning-fast pace. Mehr kneeled before a plate of lentils, still steaming with heat, and a flatbread crisp to the touch. She barely tasted any of it. She ate far too quickly for that. Her hunger was a furious thing.

  Now that prayers were over, the noises that filled the temple were of clattering plates, quick footsteps, and chatter. None of the noise drew near Mehr. The mystics kept their distance, leaving her be. She was surrounded by her own small sea of silence.

  On the journey, Edhir had always tried to engage Mehr in conversation, eager for company his own age. Bahren had made strained efforts to be kind to her. Now that she was at the temple, she wondered if she would start being treated the way Amun was. The thought of being invisible to all these people was oddly comforting.

  Comforting, but short-lived. A woman thumped down on the ground across from her. She wore the same dark robes as all the mystics, but her curling hair was bound back with vibrant green thread. It took Mehr a moment to recognize her: She was the one who had interrupted Mehr when she’d been bathing. She gave Mehr a grin, a dimple etched in her cheek.

  “Do you like that?” she asked. She pointed at one of the dishes on Mehr’s plate. “Anni and I made it.” She made a vague gesture over her shoulder at one slim, dark-skinned woman who was walking over to join them. Behind her were a handful of others.

  The one called Anni smiled and gave Mehr a weak wave as she kneeled down. The other women sat down on the ground behind her, ducking their heads shyly.

  Mehr nodded cautiously. “It’s lovely.”

  “My name is Hema,” the woman said, showing no cautiousness whatsoever. Her gaze was direct and steady. “Anni and I work in the kitchens most of the time. So you have us to blame for the meal.”

  Mehr swallowed, trying to find her bearings. She’d been so thoroughly wrapped up in her own misery that she hadn’t expected anyone to approach her. She should have. After all, she was a stranger among the mystics. She was a new commodity, a new tool in the Maha’s arsenal. That made her a curiosity.

  Mehr could use that in her favor. She had nothing to barter or bribe with: nothing but her newness, and the novelty that provided. In order to survive here, she would need to learn about what it meant to live in this place. Hema’s interest in her was not an opportunity Mehr could allow herself to lose.

  “Blame isn’t the word I would use,” she said. She forced herself to keep her voice light, welcoming. There was a trick to this. She’d grown rusty at friendly conversation, but she could remember if she tried hard enough. “I’d rather thank you. I haven’t had anything so pleasant to eat in a long while.”

  “You’re most welcome,” Hema said graciously.

  Anni leaned forward. “Is it true you’re from Jah Irinah?” she asked tentatively. “From the Governor’s own household?”

  “Yes,” Mehr said. It was no secret, surely. “I’m the Governor’s daughter.”

  She was suddenly faced with a barrage of noise. It took her a moment to make sense of the jumble of questions being aimed at her. The women had only given the appearance of being shy. They wanted to know everything—absolutely everything—about Jah Irinah.

  “What do the buildings look like? Are there gardens—and water fountains? I heard you have so much water there you can decorate with it.”

  “What is the food like? Is it different from here?”

  “Are the buildings really covered in jewels? Rena told me they were—”

  “I didn’t,” the one called Rena said indignantly.

  “Rena, you did!”

  Mehr looked from one speaker to the next, trying to look beyond the dark robes that marked them as her enemy. Girls, Mehr thought. They were just girls. Many of them looked younger than Mehr, maybe only a handful of years older than Arwa.

  She still wanted to hate them the way she hated the Maha, but it was extraordinarily hard to dislike people who were so earnestly curious about water fountains and havelis and the fine clothes that noblewomen wore. Mehr answered them as truthfully as she could: Yes, there were water fountains—Ambhan nobility loved to surround themselves with beauty. Yes, the havelis were grand. No, they were not encrusted in jewels.

  She described some of the beautiful things she had seen her stepmother wear over the years: gold brocaded, sash-bound tunics; robes so long that they required a maidservant to hold the ends as she walked. She described the fine mesh of the veils noblewomen wore, the turbans of the men.

  The girls drank it all in hungrily. When Mehr finally allowed her voice to falter, some of them leaned forward, just a little. One entreated her to continue.

  Good.

  She’d woven an image of Ambhan life beyond the temple walls—an image of opulence and beauty, rich with color and light—and the girls had fallen under its spell. She had something they wanted now. Tales were not much to barter with, but they were better than nothing, and far more than she’d had only moments before.

  “I like to sew,” Anni said. “If you could draw that robe I could try to make it. I’ve saved a lot of cloth.”

  Mehr shook her head with a faint smile. “I’m a terrible artist. But I would be happy to describe it to you again, if you like.”

  That seemed to please Anni.

  “I lived in Jah Irinah once,” Rena confided. She had dark, serious eyes. “But that was a long time ago. I remember very little anymore.” Her voice was wistful.

  “You left?” Mehr asked.

  “The Maha brought Rena here,” Anni said. “He brought all of us here.”

  They told her then, each of them, their own stories of life in the Empire. Like Edhir, they had all been unwanted children once. Illegitimate or orphaned, they’d had no place in an Empire that valued bloodlines and order, and their lives had been defined by poverty and fear. The Maha had saved them. Mystics had taken them from their home provinces and given them sanctuary in the temple, where the Maha had fed them and clothed them and given them a purpose. When they were friendless, alone, and desperate, the Maha had raised them up, and they loved him for it.

  The reminder of how lucky Mehr and Arwa had been was sobering. Mehr’s life had not been perfect, but she had never hungered as the girls had hungered. She’d never doubted that she would be fed and clothed and sheltered. If she had suffered and been saved as the mystics had, perhaps she would love the Maha as they did. Their love was the trembling, hopeful adoration of a kicked dog under a kind hand. It was a love born from pain.

  Of all the women, only Hema said nothing. She’d simply sat and listened, a smile playing on her mouth. She reminded Mehr a little of Lalita. She had that same confidence, that same sly mirth in the shape of her lips, as if the world were one glorious amusement to her.

  “We’re lucky to be here—we never forget that, do we, girls?” Hema said, and the other girls fell silent, hanging on her words. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not curious about the world outside.”

  “Perhaps you could go to Jah Irinah one day,” Mehr suggested. She watched their faces. She saw the shadow pass over them.

  “No,” Anni said, speaking for Rena, who was playing with the hem of her sleeve, her head lowered. “Our place is here. This is where we serve.”

  “I apologize,” Mehr said, looking from one face to the next. At least she knew now: She wasn’t the only one caged here. She softened her voice, allowing vuln
erability to creep into it. “I still know very little about what it means to serve the Empire as you do.”

  “Well, we’ll be happy to teach you,” Hema told her. “We can show you all the beauty we have here.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “It may not compare to Jah Irinah, but I promise, despite first appearances we have plenty of it. The oasis, for instance.” There was a chorus of agreement. “We share our own room near the water,” Hema continued. “You’ll have to come and see it.”

  They were watching her expectantly, a dozen eyes fixed on her face. It was unnerving.

  “I would love to, if I can,” Mehr said finally. She doubted she would be allowed to slip away to meet them, but it would be pointless to reject their offer. Better to make them think kindly of her than turn them away entirely.

  Hema smiled at her, pleased. “Good,” she said.

  Many of the mystics had vanished. Under the canopy were dozens of abandoned lengths of cloth and plates. Hema looked around, gave a sigh, and rose to her feet. Mehr watched with some amusement as the other women followed her lead again. Hema, she thought, was like an empress holding court.

  “You could help us tidy, if you like,” Anni offered shyly. “We could always use another pair of hands.”

  Mehr rose to her feet. Before she could respond, she felt a hand clamp tightly onto her arm.

  “Unfortunately she isn’t available,” Kalini said curtly.

  The girls visibly cowered away. Only Hema was foolish enough to stand her ground. She narrowed her eyes. “Kalini,” she protested. “I don’t think—”

  “The Maha expects this one to learn her place,” Kalini said, cutting smoothly through Hema’s own protest. “Have you forgotten yours?”

  Hema crossed her arms.

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” she said. “I hate it.”

  Mehr looked between them. With her pale eyes narrowed in her dark face, her mouth severe, Hema suddenly looked a great deal like Kalini.

  Kalini huffed out a breath. “We’ll talk later,” she said, and began dragging Mehr bodily away, her hand a vise on Mehr’s flesh. Mehr stumbled after her, thinking of the girls, of Hema’s crossed arms and Edhir’s shy smiles, and the way Bahren had always spoken to her—gruffly, gently, as if he had no desire to frighten her.