by Tasha Suri
And she would choke their strength too. Suppress their dreams. Crush them back into sleep and darkness.
It was anathema, an utter heresy—and Mehr would have to learn it, if she wanted to keep what little power she had, and if she ever wanted to find a way to be free.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
She didn’t know how long he held her. She let herself relax, listening to the crackle of the lantern flames, the soft sound of Amun’s even breath. She listened to the rush of blood in her own head. As the seconds and minutes ticked by, she spiraled deeper and deeper into herself.
“Mehr.” Amun’s voice. “Come back.”
Mehr flinched, startled. She wasn’t sure what had happened. She hadn’t been asleep, but she had been—away. Drifting in shadow, the kind of heady silence that lay somewhere between sleep and waking.
He eased her back to standing, letting her go only when she assured him she was back to herself again.
“It worked?” She wasn’t quite sure.
“It did,” he said. “As long as you feel as you do now, when you perform the rite, you will know you’ve been successful.”
Mehr could have cheered. What a relief it was to finally feel like she was making progress. But she could still feel the echo of Amun’s fingers against her back, and her insides were light and strange, something close to embarrassment coiling through her.
“Is that all it is?”
Amun nodded in confirmation.
“Thank you,” she said. “It made all the difference. Your help.”
“I should have tried earlier, but …” He shook his head.
Mehr understood, a little. He was always careful when it came to touch. It was his hesitation, the deliberate distance he kept between them that made her so utterly aware of his strength and the leash he kept it on.
Amun was so sure he was a monster. But it was the way he handled touch—with utter care and respect—that told her he was the opposite of one.
“I was taught the rites in just the same way,” Mehr said, trying to put him at ease. She told him about how she’d learned the first steps of her first childhood rites by placing her feet over her mother’s. Dancing with her. As she chattered on Amun listened, his eyes half lidded, letting her words wash over him.
A thought eventually occurred to her. “How did you learn the Rite of the Bound?” If learning the rite required being held, required weightlessness—who had held him? Whom had he trusted for the task?
“There was another Amrithi here for many years,” he said. “She taught me.”
“What happened to her?” Mehr asked. The lightness in her went leaden. She could guess, but she wanted to hear it.
“The rite was hard on her. The rite is always hard, but she was growing old, and eventually the strain was too much. She died,” he said frankly. “After that, the Maha went in search of a replacement.”
And here I am, thought Mehr.
Amun had seen so much darkness in his life. His parents were gone; the woman who had trained him had died; the vows written on his soul had left him feeling monstrous and alone. She couldn’t fathom how he could still look so steady and so whole, after all he had suffered. She couldn’t understand how he could remain so gentle when he had never sought or received gentleness from others.
“You have so much history,” she said helplessly. “So much.”
The look he gave her was soft, so soft.
“We all do, Mehr.”
She heard footsteps from the corridor beyond the hall. Laughter. She wondered if any of those laughing voices belonged to Hema’s women. She watched the softness leave his eyes. He’d forgotten for a moment that they were constantly watched, eyes and ears always on them. Mehr had forgotten too. But she remembered now. She watched him lean back against the wall, brushing a hand self-consciously through his curling hair.
“I’ll be glad when the storm has passed,” Amun said.
“As will I,” said Mehr.
But she feared the storm too. It was awful, that fear. She’d always considered storms holy. She’d been awed by dreamfire, humbled and joyful. But the beauty had been stripped away, and all Mehr had left was her dread that acted as the bones of awe.
“The Maha will want to meet you again soon,” Amun told her. Mehr’s stomach lurched. “He’ll want to ask after your progress.”
Anyone could have been listening. So instead of asking Amun How do I lie to him? she said simply, “What do I do?”
He gestured with the flick of his wrist. Come here. So she did. She leaned against the wall next to him, their shoulders brushing.
His voice was a murmur, so quiet she had to strain to hear it.
“Surviving with the Maha is just like surviving the Rite of the Bound. The skill will serve you for both. You let his power wash over you. You let it take you. And then you bend it. You give it the shape you need it to have. Decide how to obey him. That’s all.”
Amun spoke as if the task were simple. Mehr wasn’t convinced. She let out a choked laugh and pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Mehr.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “Don’t you worry.”
“I have faith in you,” Amun said in a low voice. Mehr didn’t look at him. On the ground, their shadows were tangled together by lantern light.
She knew he had faith in her. She knew.
It was a shame she couldn’t share that faith.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Amun began teaching Mehr the sigils necessary for the Rite of the Bound the next day. Mehr was familiar with the language of the daiva, but the sigils of this rite were a new tongue—a cryptic, clever thing that twisted her fingers into knots. These sigils, Amun told her, were the language of the Gods. Amun demanded utter precision from her. Every movement had to be perfect. The angle of her wrist, the flick of her fingers, the height of her hands, all had to match Amun’s demonstrations exactly.
“Together the sigils have a specific power,” Amun explained. “They are what allow us to act as a conduit. They make the dreams of the Gods vulnerable to the influence of the mystics’ prayers.”
The mystics’ prayers: prayers for the Emperor, for the Maha, for the Ambhan Empire’s strength and its glory. It was because of this rite, Mehr reminded herself, that the Empire possessed unnatural good fortune. It was because of this rite that the Empire could expand ever larger, that the generations of Emperors had lived long and fruitful lives, the Empire’s cities untouched by plague, its borders secure.
Good health, safe borders—these things sounded like blessings. But the thought of all the blessings of an Ambhan life—of the life Mehr had lived for so many years—now left a bitter taste in Mehr’s mouth. Ambhan wealth had been won with Amrithi blood. No more, no less.
“How am I supposed to lose my flesh and remember all of this?” Mehr demanded, wriggling her fingers pointedly.
“You learn,” Amun said shortly.
Mehr gave Amun a doubtful look.
“You must perform this correctly, Mehr.” Amun sounded tense. “If you make a mistake the consequences will be unpleasant.”
“Tell me what could happen,” Mehr said.
“You know already.”
“I like things to be clear.” She gave Amun a pained smile, half grimace. Her fingers were cramping from practice. She shouldn’t have wasted energy goading him. But oh, she couldn’t help herself. She began massaging her hands together, working the stiffness from her knuckles. “Humor me.”
His gaze flickered down, fixing on her hands. She thought for a moment that he would take her hands in his, or ask if he could—
But no. Her mind was playing tricks on her.
“If you don’t control the dreamfire, channel it, direct it, then it will move like fire does, and consume everything in its path,” he said. “When we dance the rite the fire is inside us, Mehr. To perform it wrongly is to risk immortal dreams burning your soul clean away, leaving nothing of your soul or self behind.” He paused. “Or the Ma
ha could punish you.”
“I’m sure both things would be equally unpleasant.” Her hands dropped to her sides. “Fine. Let’s continue.”
“Are you—?”
“I’m fine. I’m ready.”
Amun’s mouth thinned.
“Let me show you again,” he said. He raised his hands.
“Watch my fingers now,” he said. “Don’t copy me just yet. Rest your hands. Just watch.”
Evening came, and with it more prayers. Mehr lowered her head and sang in honor of the Emperor along with all the mystics, but her mind was in another place entirely. Sigils flared in her mind’s eye. Her head was full of the sight of Amun’s hands making shape after shape. His wide, scarred hands, dark like earth after rainfall. His hands teaching her a new language.
Mehr could learn this. She could.
After evening prayers finished she began heading toward dinner with the others. An urgent tug on her sleeve stopped her. She stopped in her tracks and turned.
“Hema wants you to meet her,” Rena said. “It’s important you come now, before the others notice.”
Her voice was urgent, her jaw hard. So Mehr followed her.
Rena guided her through the winding corridors to a tower no different from any of the others they had passed. She urged Mehr up the steps, which were so narrow they could only make their way up one at a time. Stone skimmed Mehr’s arms. She could feel the darkness pressing on her.
Hema was waiting at the top, her hands on the edge of the only window carved into the curved wall.
“I have her,” said Rena.
Hema look back at them. She didn’t smile, but she gave Rena a wordless nod of thanks. Rena turned and left without another word.
“Come to the window,” Hema said. “You need to see it.” She gestured sharply, her fingers trembling. “Come to the window, please.”
There was enough room for Mehr to stand next to Hema and look outside. This window faced away from the oasis, to the stretch of endless sand visible beyond the temple’s walls. Mehr leaned out, the cool breeze meeting her bare face. She looked. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Gods,” Mehr breathed out.
“I know,” Hema whispered. “What a sight.”
It was dark outside, but not so dark that Mehr couldn’t see the shadows coiling on the horizon, their edges tinged with a blush of red-gold light. Daiva. So many daiva.
The storm was coming.
Together she and Hema stood in stunned silence, watching the shadows writhe, gleaming in the growing dark. The breeze carried the scent of the daiva with it: incense, sweet as the smoke of a prayer flame. Mehr had thought the coming of a storm was beautiful, when she had lived in Jah Irinah. Here in the heart of the desert the sight of it was almost overwhelming. The daiva were a wall, a rising wave of dark mingled with light, jeweled fire and shadow. When the dreamfire fell the daiva would sweep down with it, and the temple would surely drown in them.
“Before I came here I was nothing,” Hema said. Her voice was even, but its evenness was like a bandage on a bleeding wound. Her trembling fingers had tightened on the edge of the window and gone still. “All of us were nothing. Just fatherless children, hungry and alone. But here we have the power to change the world. Here we can ensure that the Empire remains ever glorious, spreading its prosperity and its goodness, preserving the immortality of our Emperors. Here, we are the heart of the Empire.”
Mehr listened without speaking.
“You’re not happy,” said Hema. “But there is glory in this life.”
“Why did you bring me here?” Mehr asked.
Hema did smile then, a wry, secret smile.
“When I was a little girl, my sister brought me here too and showed me just this sight,” she said. “She showed me and told me that I mattered. That I was the heart of the Empire. My prayers. My service.” Hema touched a fist to her chest. “The Empire is the glory we have created.” She looked at Mehr. “This is your glory too now, Mehr. All that power you see out there? You can make it do something good.”
Mehr squeezed her own hands into fists. She thought of Amun’s vow-marked skin. The scar on her chest. The weight of the Maha’s eyes. The chafe of the marriage seal at her throat.
“You believe I can make a difference?” she said, glad the shake in her voice could be ascribed to so many, many things other than anger.
“Of course I do,” Hema said simply.
Hema truly believed in the Maha. They all did.
If the Maha had been kind to Mehr, had raised her up from nothing and dazzled her with his power and benevolence, perhaps she would have grown to believe in him too. Perhaps she would have wanted to don his chains, hand him her beating, bloody heart on a platter. But he hadn’t raised her up. He had struck her down.
The love he wanted from her was different than the love he demanded from his mystics. His mystics were his followers and his chosen, and from them he demanded a love that was as simple as a child’s, adoring and fervent.
But his Amrithi were his tools. From them he wanted a love that sprouted from the dark blood of fear, and Mehr refused to give that to him.
Mehr uncurled one hand. Placed it on Hema’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” Mehr whispered. “Thank you for being kind.”
Perhaps the Maha had asked Hema to win Mehr’s loyalty. Perhaps Hema had some other ulterior motive, some unfathomable reason for trying so stubbornly to win Mehr’s trust. Mehr didn’t know. But she did know that any kindness in this place was to be treasured.
Hema returned the gesture, the clasp of her hand firm against Mehr’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Hema said in return. “You and I—we’re not just citizens of the Empire any longer. We’re so much more. We’re Saltborn. We’re family now.”
The sight of the approaching storm left a fire in Mehr’s blood. Mehr could feel the necessary stillness inside her that Amun had worked so hard to teach her, and the sigils flowed easily from her fingers. But she lacked the concentration to learn any of the new tasks Amun was trying to show her, and the knowledge slipped through her fingers like so much sand.
Amun showed no impatience. Instead he was quieter than ever, his hands feather-light on her wrists as he guided her through shape after shape, sigil after sigil. His eyes had a faraway look.
She wondered if he knew how close the storm stood. If he could smell its sweetness on the air. Now that Mehr had seen it, she certainly could. Every time she breathed in, the aftertaste of smoke filled her lungs.
It didn’t take long for the news of the approaching storm to spread. Amun was standing behind Mehr, directing her arms in carefully timed increments, when he went still, his grip tightening on her wrists. Mehr froze. They weren’t alone any longer.
“Kalini,” said Amun.
“Continue,” Kalini said from the doorway. “Don’t mind us now, Amun.”
Mehr craned her neck. She saw the edge of Kalini’s dark robe, melding with the shadows on the floor. Behind her stood Bahren, his arms crossed.
“Mehr,” Amun prompted quietly. Mehr looked away.
Their already shaken concentration had been ruined entirely, but they returned to their training regardless. Instead of moving on to new sigils, Amun returned to careful, familiar repetitions of movement that they had perfected earlier, putting on a show of competence for Kalini’s judgmental gaze. Mehr knew she could have done better—nervousness made her clumsy—but she hadn’t expected Kalini’s eyes to narrow with such clear displeasure in response.
“Is that all you’ve accomplished?” Kalini’s voice was full of disapproval.
“We’ve accomplished a great deal,” Amun said.
“Don’t try to lie to me,” said Kalini. “The Maha told me what to look for. She’s learning too slowly.”
“She’s learning far more swiftly than I ever did,” Amun replied.
“You had years to learn. She has days,” Kalini said. Her gaze cut to Mehr. Her voice wa
s pure ice. “You need to do better. The Maha demands it of you.”
“I’ll be prepared,” said Mehr. “I know my duty. You can tell the Maha so.”
“Tell him yourself. You’ll share dinner with him tomorrow night.” She gestured at Bahren, who stepped forward. Mehr hadn’t thought it possible, but somehow the older mystic’s face had become even grimmer. “Tonight Bahren needs your assistance.”
Amun hesitated, then stepped away from Mehr, walking to Bahren’s side. He stilled as soon as he heard Kalini speak again. “I’ll send the girl to meet you in a moment.”
“I can do it alone,” Amun said sharply.
“You’ll finish the job more quickly together.”
“I don’t need her help.”
“Sweet as your efforts to coddle her are, your wife shares your burdens. She made a vow. Like it or not, you will have her help.”
“Come on,” Bahren muttered. “We have work to do. Stop this.”
Amun looked at Mehr, indecipherable emotion flickering through his midnight eyes. Then he turned and followed.
Mehr had no idea why Kalini wanted to be alone with her, but she didn’t think any good could come from it. She wanted to cross her arms, to cower back as if her own strength could give her safety. But she stood straight and tall, folding her fear away for another time. She couldn’t defend herself, not here under the Maha’s thumb. But she could try to hold on to the tatters of her pride.
“I hear you’ve been neglecting your husband and spending your time with kitchen maids,” Kalini said.
Mehr said nothing. It was no secret, surely, that Hema and her friends had cultivated a relationship with Mehr.
“You’re going to leave my sister alone.”
Mehr took in a deep, slow breath. She should have known this was coming.
“As the Maha wills,” she murmured.