Empire of Sand

by Tasha Suri

  “The clan was led, before, by a Tara named Rukhsar. Her mother.” The woman frowned faintly. “Ruhi may have passed on. If so, the new Tara won’t be of her blood, I expect. Do you know of the clan?”

  “Where is your clan?” he managed to ask.

  “Long gone,” she said. “I left Irinah a long time ago. I’ve had no choice but to return.”

  Ah. She was one of those who had left Irinah and tried to begin again elsewhere. Once, Kamal had wanted to be like her. He’d hungered to see the world. But he’d loved his clan too much to leave them, and he’d been afraid if he went into the world beyond even for a short time, he’d come back and find them dead or gone, and never be able to find out what had become of them. The thought alone gutted him.

  “Why have you come back to Irinah?”

  “Oh, the usual reasons.” She shrugged, a faint ghost of a smile gracing her lips. “Furious noblemen, desperate to cleanse the Empire of the scourge of our blood. I left before they could punish me and drive me out here themselves. It seemed … wiser.”

  Kamal swallowed.

  “Have you had food?” he asked. “Water?”

  “Some,” said the woman. Her voice cracked with exhaustion. “A little. An Irin woman assisted me. But since then I’ve struggled. I find life on the desert … difficult. Far more difficult than I remember.” She shook her head, then said, “Just tell me if you know where I can find the clan. Please.”

  It was in Kamal’s nature to be suspicious. Distrust had saved his life numerous times. But this woman was Amrithi, gaunt and still, and she knew his Tara’s name. He thought of the villager, her threat, the child flinging its rock and laughing. He handed her his water container. “Drink,” he said.

  She drank.

  “My name is Kamal,” he said. “And yours?”

  “Lalita.”

  “That isn’t an Amrithi name,” he said.

  “I gave up my Amrithi name long ago.”

  She took another swig of water.

  Gods save him, he couldn’t allow a fellow tribeswoman to perish out alone upon the Salt. He didn’t have it in him to lie.

  “Ruhi is my clan’s Tara,” he said, when the woman lowered the container. “You must be blessed with good fortune, to have found me.”

  The woman laughed. Her laughter sounded perilously close to weeping.

  “Yes, I must be blessed,” she said. She pressed a hand over her face. “Ah. Thank the Gods.”

  She lowered her hand. “Please,” she said. “Take me to your Tara.”

  “Walk with me,” he said. “We’ll see what the Tara says.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A frustrating morning was followed by more prayers—Gods save her—and another thinly apportioned flatbread flecked through with vegetable to stretch the meager serving of grain. They returned to the hall where Amun continued to encourage her onward with growing impatience. But Mehr couldn’t do as he asked, and they were soon sick of the sight of each other.

  For two days they followed the same pattern of snatched food and knee-aching prayers and careful breathing that was supposed to lead Mehr away from her own skin and failed to lead her anywhere but to frustration. Her only respite on both evenings was the presence of Hema and the other women, who sat with her and shared their food and their laughter.

  Mehr told herself that spending time with the women was a pragmatic decision. Hema and her women did not have seniority within the temple, but they possessed a different kind of power. Working in the kitchens meant they controlled all the food and water in the temple. If Mehr ever hoped to escape—and she did hope, despite what her good sense told her—she would need to be able to visit the kitchens without causing concern.

  Spending time with them also gave her information that Amun had not thought to share with her. By listening to their conversations, she learned about the courier mystics who traveled between the provinces of the Empire and the temple, bringing food supplies and messages from other mystics and the Emperor himself to the Maha.

  “How do the couriers navigate the desert?” Mehr asked. She broke apart her flatbread into manageable pieces as she spoke, keeping her tone casual. “The desert is so vast,” she said. “I can’t imagine how anyone could find their way through it.”

  “They use the stars,” said Rena, no suspicion in her face or her voice. “But there are trade routes too. They use those to visit the villages.”

  Mehr was sure Kalini and the others hadn’t brought her to the temple via a trade route. They’d traveled over unmarked desert, and kept their distance from villages. Mehr doubted her ability to navigate by the stars, but she stood a chance of understanding trade routes, and navigating using individual villages as signposts.

  She would need to find a way to visit the scholars—and their maps—again without arousing suspicion.

  It was her third evening in the company of the women when Mehr finally agreed to visit them in their shared room by the oasis. They had been offering, subtly and not so subtly, since the first time they had met her. Mehr couldn’t refuse any longer without showing outright rudeness.

  She had so many reasons why her choice was a sound one. She rehearsed them over and over again in her head as she and Amun practiced in the hall and then returned to his room. If he attempted to argue with her, if he called her foolish, she would be more than able to argue with him. But Amun didn’t argue. As she drew her shawl around her shoulders, as she turned to leave the room, he said only, “Be careful.”

  “You’re not going to try to stop me?” she asked.

  “Could I?” he asked. He shook his head. “No, Mehr. Do as you will.”

  Mehr thought of the fragile trust that had built between them, stretched so thin now by the weight of the storm that was coming for them. She felt a pang. She pushed it away. She was far too prone to sentiment.

  She met Hema at the foot of the stairs.

  “Finally!” Hema called out at the sight of her. She turned on her heel, stopping once to make sure Mehr was following. “I thought you weren’t going to come.”

  “I was just delayed,” said Mehr.

  There was a mystic standing guard at the entrance to the oasis that Hema led her to. When he saw Mehr his mouth thinned. But Hema was already tutting and shaking her head, a smile fixed on her pretty mouth.

  “Come now, brother,” she said. “Is this how you treat family?”

  “I haven’t said anything,” he protested.

  “I can see it in your face,” Hema said. Although her words were challenging, her voice was playful. “You were going to stop us.”

  “Not you. Just her.” He jerked his chin in Mehr’s direction.

  “Oh, don’t be so cruel.” Hema put her hand on her hip. “The girl needs company.”

  The man shook his head, his jaw set to an angle. Mehr saw the fingers on Hema’s hips curl. When she spoke again, her playful voice had an unexpected edge to it.

  “You don’t trust me, brother?”

  The man said nothing.

  “If you don’t consider me trustworthy,” Hema continued, “perhaps you should go to Kalini and see what she says.”

  Mehr looked between them, taking in the tilt of Hema’s head, the tight set of the man’s shoulders. It was soon clear that Hema was victor. The male mystic finally stepped out of the way. Hema gave Mehr a wink, then turned to lead her through the doorway into the outdoors.

  “Kalini,” Mehr began haltingly.

  “She’s my sister,” said Hema, not waiting for Mehr to finish. “By the Emperor’s grace, the Maha saved us both when we were children. Our parents died when we were small. We would have starved without his kindness.” They walked farther out into the moonlit night. “I know Kalini is … difficult. But she loves the Maha, and she loves me.”

  Mehr thought difficult was somewhat of an understatement, but she nodded, and said nothing. Sometimes silence was wise.

  They walked along the edge of the oasis under the moon’s glow. The ground
was soft and even beneath her feet. The water smelled almost unbearably pure, sweet without being cloying. Mehr felt some of her frustration begin to ease. She’d missed the outdoors.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Hema was gazing out at the water. “I was offered a room deeper in the temple, once. Near the kitchens where it would be warm at night. But I said no. I couldn’t give this up.”

  Mehr followed her gaze. The moon was reflected back on the water, a circle of white against pure undisturbed black.

  Yes. It was beautiful.

  The girls were all awake and waiting in their shared room, their bedrolls all stretched out across the floor in service as cushions. They welcomed Hema with joy, and Mehr with warmth and kindness. Anni stood when she saw them. “Come sit by me,” she said to Mehr, and drew her over to the corner of the room.

  Although the room was cramped, it was a riot of color, with lengths of fabric draped along the walls, and florid patterns chalked into the corners of the floor. There was a wooden board covered in blocks and markings on the ground between the women. Rena was leaning over it, dusting it furiously with powder. Hema sat across from Mehr and gave her a small grin.

  “Our brother is probably still hovering about, so we can’t have anything special to drink, I’m sorry to say.” She shrugged apologetically. “Next time, maybe.”

  Rena began to portion out a small pile of dark and light wooden discs, all equally sized and no bigger than the palm of Mehr’s hand. “We’re going to play karom,” Rena said. “Will you join us?”

  “I don’t know the game,” said Mehr.

  “We can show you, no problem,” Anni said cheerfully.

  A dozen voices piped, clamoring to describe the game. But Mehr was more used to the chaos now, and dispelled it by laughing and shaking her head, clapping a hand pointedly to her ear. “Just one of you, please!”

  Eventually Rena, frowning until everyone else quieted, began to explain the rules. The game was fairly simple. Each team had a set of pieces they could use to force a central black piece to the edges of the board. Sending the black piece to the end of the board belonging to the other team would result in points; the farther the piece moved into the darker squares at the edges, the higher the score. Beyond that, there were more complex rules about how the pieces could or could not be moved, and penalties for incorrect moves. Mehr understood the gist of it well enough, but she elected to watch for the first match rather than take part.

  She realized she had made the right decision when she saw how intently the girls played. They didn’t play simply for the pleasure of the game. As points were gained and lost, they gambled objects between them: a thin silver chain, a beaded necklace, a length of carefully worked leather. Bread scrounged from the kitchen. Spices.

  Mehr was reminded of the way Maryam had entertained visitors to the women’s quarters, in the early years when Mehr had still been welcome in Maryam’s private salon and able to watch the refined games of strategy that noblewomen favored. Like the women of her father’s household, the Maha’s female servants had their own ways of exchanging and establishing wealth and power.

  Mehr gave Hema a sidelong glance. Hema, no doubt, had the best of everything: dry spices in pouches tucked in the lining of her bedroll; jewels on chains tucked beneath the collar of her tunic; access to food, to water, to the things that made life bearable in this place. That was power. If she asked any of the girls for their winnings, no doubt they would hand them over without complaint. Mehr had seen the way they worshipped her, a worship far more real and personal than the awed, terrified way they bowed their heads before the Maha. Beyond this room Hema may have been a kitchen maid, but here she was a queen.

  The powder on the board helped the pieces move more easily, but it wasn’t long before all the women’s fingertips were stained white with chalk, and the residue was threatening to make its way onto their clothes and bedding. Seeing a chance to do more than watch uselessly, Mehr got to her feet and went in search of water. There was a clay jug in a corner. She brought it over and helped one of the younger girls rub her hands clean. Mehr was given a grateful smile in return.

  “Now you come play,” Hema said imperiously. When Mehr tried to demur, Hema took her hand and drew her back down to the pillows. The jug was removed from Mehr’s grip.

  “I don’t know all the rules,” Mehr protested.

  “It doesn’t matter if you know all the rules,” Hema said. “Anyway, this is the best way to learn.”

  All avenues of escape were gone. So Mehr sat with them, eyeing the board with its many shades and discs and the fine layer of powder on its surface. “It’s your turn,” Hema prompted.

  Mehr had nothing to barter, and no one asked her to offer anything up. Somehow that did not comfort her. If she failed, the possessions of other team members were at stake instead, and although this was a game, just a game, she was still an outsider. She didn’t know if they would look kindly on her failing them.

  Mehr looked at the board again, leaning forward. Most of the opposite team’s black pieces sat like guards, defending their corners, but a few were encroaching on the opposite side of the board. She touched her fingers to the edge of one disc. Instead of trying to score a point, she flicked the disc to the left, sabotaging the opposite team by blocking their route. Her side of the room shrieked with delight, as the other side gave good-natured yells of disbelief.

  “You can be on our side next time,” one girl said.

  Mehr leaned back and laughingly agreed.

  She had a few more turns with the discs after that, but there were enough people in the room that—once the novelty of her appearance had worn off—she was able to fade into the background. Eventually as the hours ticked by and the night deepened, some of the women curled up in their bedrolls to sleep. The game drew to a close and the last winnings were carefully apportioned out by Rena, who then wiped the board clean with water and tucked it away. Mehr got up to leave, and Hema followed after her.

  “Come back again tomorrow night if you like,” she said, walking alongside Mehr. Her words weren’t an order, but they sounded very much like one.

  Mehr would have liked to oblige. But she thought of Amun—of the Rite of the Bound, and the coming storm, and the weight of the seal around her neck—and could only offer up a helpless shrug in response. “If I can,” she said.

  “Mehr,” Hema began. Then she paused. Pursed her lips, before she said, all in a rush: “If your husband doesn’t want to let you go, you can tell me.”

  Mehr slowed her steps, then stopped entirely as Hema placed a light hand on her wrist. The look in Hema’s eyes made her uneasy.

  “We have a great deal to do,” Mehr said slowly. “That’s all.”

  Hema took a step closer. They were far enough from both the sleeping quarters and the temple that they were unlikely, at least for a moment, to be heard by anyone else.

  “You can tell me if he frightens you,” Hema said in a low voice. “I can try to help you.”

  For a moment Mehr didn’t know what to say. Frighten her? Why would Amun frighten her?

  “I’ve lived here a long time,” said Hema, when Mehr simply shook her head, wordless with confusion. “I’ve seen what he is. You don’t need to lie to me.”

  Amun’s moods could be mercurial, but even at his most sullen there was a gentleness in him, a vulnerability in every line of his body. Mehr saw it. She was sure the Maha saw it too, and Kalini. She thought everyone saw it when they looked at him. Despite Mehr’s warnings, his body was still the mirror of his heart.

  But Hema did not.

  Whatever Hema saw in Amun was enough to make her mouth take on a bitter curl and her forehead draw into a frown even at the thought of him.

  “I know what Amrithi are like,” Hema said softly. “They’re not like us. They don’t understand loyalty, or order, or the peace and safety the Empire has brought to many. They’re just … barbarians.”

  Mehr froze.

  “Hema,” Mehr sa
id. “I’m Amrithi.”

  “Oh no,” Hema said, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean you. You’re not like that. You’re a noblewoman, Mehr. You have an Ambhan father,” she said, as if that made all the difference in the world. “You’ve been raised to see all the good in the Empire, haven’t you? You’re not like him.”

  She knew it was wrong to ask. But she did so anyway.

  “What is he like?”

  Hema’s lips pursed.

  “He’s a monster,” she said flatly.

  Mehr thought of the other women. Her stomach curdled. No doubt they saw what Hema did in Amun. They saw something to be hated. An Amrithi. A barbarian. A monster. When they’d spoken to Mehr with bright curiosity, when they had invited her to visit them and join their game … all that time, they had secretly pitied her for being bound to him.

  “He’s said nothing to me,” she said, equally quiet. “I have the Maha’s work to do and it takes—a great deal of time.”

  “We all have our duties,” Hema agreed. But she looked far from convinced.

  She left Mehr at the entrance to the temple. Mehr returned to her room, where she found Amun in bed, at least feigning sleep. She blew out the lantern light and climbed into bed with him. She’d grown familiar with having him next to her. She traced the turn of his shoulder, the vulnerable line of his neck, with her eyes. The sight of him was strangely comforting.

  She wanted to reach out. A foolish instinct. Instead she clasped her hands together and closed her eyes tight.

  Everyone kept their distance from Amun. Everyone wanted to.

  Except Mehr.

  When she’d first seen Amun she had thought him a monster too. But she had seen a true monster now, and all horrors paled in comparison to the Maha. The women bowed before him, worshipped him, but they didn’t wear his mark. They hadn’t been bound the way Mehr had. Only Amun understood the Maha’s true nature as she did.

  Mehr felt loneliness close over her like a vise. She turned onto her side, facing away from Amun. Her own motives lay bare before her. She’d lied to herself. She had gone to the women not because it was clever or cunning. She had gone because she was lonely. She missed her own family. She missed her loved ones so much it felt like utter heartbreak.