by Tasha Suri
As she and Amun moved through the sigils of the rite, the Maha instructed them. He told Mehr how to arc her wrist, how to shape the movement of her fingers and her arms. It was difficult for Mehr to follow his guidance through the white haze of her fear. Harder still, because he guided them by words alone, never raising a hand to illustrate.
When the glow of the lantern shifted the shadows from his form, she saw his skin in brief slants of light: his flesh, riven and thin, bright with light; his eyes, black in the darkness. She didn’t think his body was capable of demonstrating the delicate movements he described. When she thought too hard on what had become of his flesh, her own skin itched with revulsion.
“Enough,” he said eventually.
The Maha walked toward them. Mehr tried not to look at him or at Amun. She fixed her gaze on the wall beyond his shoulder, as the Maha stepped between them and placed a hand gently on Mehr’s hair.
“You’ve improved,” said the Maha. His voice in her ear. His voice beneath her skin. “Good.”
His hand stroked her hair, once, gently. She hated the relief that poured through her when the touch didn’t hurt.
“Thank you, Maha,” Mehr whispered. “I am trying. As I promised, with all my heart.”
“We’ll see,” he said. But he sounded pleased. He stroked her hair once more, then let her go.
Mehr’s eyes met Amun’s then. His expression was shuttered, but his gaze was unwavering. He was here. Thank the Gods that he was here.
“I will return tomorrow,” said the Maha. “Prove your worth to me. Show me you have learned to obey, and I assure you, you will not suffer.”
Mehr understood the threat. She shivered a little, ducking her head as Amun said, “We will, Maha.”
With that, the Maha left. But he returned again the next morning, and four more times after that before he was satisfied that Mehr was teachable and would not fail him when the next storm came.
Mehr was painfully grateful when his visits stopped altogether. Without the Maha’s eyes on her, without the threat of punishment looming over her for every error, she could breathe again, and turn her attention back to the most important task at hand:
Escape.
It was disturbing how quickly they returned to a familiar daily routine: hours upon hours of punishing practice of the rites, broken up only by morning and evening prayers, and breaks for food. The only marked difference in their days was that a mystic now remained to watch them during their practice sessions, standing by the door for hours on end.
Mehr knew the presence of a watcher was a message. The Maha didn’t need to set a guard upon them. But he wanted them both to know that his eyes were on them, and that if they faltered in their practice, if they gave him any less than perfect obedience, he would know about it. And they would face the consequences. Under those eyes, they practiced all the harder, until exhaustion set in and beyond. They couldn’t rouse the Maha’s suspicion. They had to be fearful. They had to be good.
The days were terrible, and therefore the same as always, but the nights …
The nights were different.
“The sigils of this rite are so different because they speak a different language from the traditional Amrithi rites,” Amun said. “This is a darker language. Not the language of daiva, but the language of Gods.” He stopped for a moment, considering. “The woman who taught me believed it was a rite taught long ago to the first clans by the daiva, and lost over the generations.”
As Amun spoke, Mehr lit the oil lanterns hung on the walls, using the light of the one held in her hand. The light banished the darkness to the corners of their bedroom, leaving everything illuminated in a warm, flickering glow. “But the Maha found it,” she prompted.
“I suppose he must have,” Amun said.
When the Maha had conquered his provinces and created his Empire, he had come to the desert to establish himself as the ruler of the faith and soul of the Empire and—Mehr understood now—to take control of the dreams of the Gods and establish the immortality of his legacy.
They would never know how the Maha had learned of the Rite of the Bound, or how he had forced or cajoled Amrithi into his service. Some things were lost to time.
“Just our luck.” She shrugged, a fluid movement she felt down to her toes. She winced. After practicing all day, her body was bone-tired, her muscles sore. But the nights were the only time they had to themselves, to try to untangle the rite and use it for their own purposes.
Amun stood in the circle of light, feet bare, his body straight and tall. “Are you sure you’re able?”
“Don’t fuss, Amun,” Mehr said. “I know you’re more feeble than I am at the moment.” She walked up to him, facing him, mimicking his stance.
“I’m fine,” he said flatly.
“You hide it well,” she agreed.
Obviously choosing to ignore her, he settled into the first stance of traditional rites, rolling back his shoulders, centering himself.
“The woman who taught me …”
“You never say her name,” Mehr noted.
Amun gave Mehr a level look. Continued. “The woman who taught me often trained alone with the Maha. He was—fond of her. As you’ve seen, Mehr, he knows everything about the rite and the language that shapes it. Because of his fondness for her, he taught her a great deal more about it than he ever taught me.”
He raised his hands before him.
“It’s lucky,” he said, “that I was good at learning by observation.”
Mehr knew he didn’t want her to ask any more questions. And because she was tired and pained—and knew Amun had to be accordingly infinitely more tired and pained than she was—she kept her silence and mimicked his movements again.
“Teach me what you know,” she said simply.
Amun talked her through each sigil patiently, explaining their meaning, their syntax, as best as he could. Ever since the Maha had interfered with their training, Amun’s reluctant hope had transformed into a fierce, focused determination to transform the rite to their needs. Every night they worked through the sigils, learning the language, theorizing how to reshape those movements from a conduit for the mystics’ prayers into the commands they needed for escape. Vow, loyalty, breaking—or does that mean damage? Again. Try again.
For all that their schedule was exhausting, Mehr preferred to keep active. Activity silenced her mind and stopped her from considering the fact that her bruises had turned bright and livid and still throbbed painfully when she so much as moved. Whenever mystics looked at her with speculative, pitying glances Mehr thought of the sigils. She thought of escape.
Mehr didn’t mind practicing at night either. She didn’t sleep well anymore anyway. When she wasn’t dreaming of veiled faces, or Arwa turning to dust, or the cold of the Maha’s floor, she was thinking of sigils. Sigils for freedom. Sigils for vows. Sigils for subterfuge. So many sigils, she could barely contain them.
When Mehr began to yawn, Amun insisted that they stop practicing.
“You need to rest more,” Amun told her.
I’ll rest when we’re free, Mehr thought. But Amun was wavering a little on his feet, and Mehr couldn’t forget that he was still weak from the storm. Still weak from Mehr’s last failure.
“You’re right,” she said. But even after Amun had fallen into a fitful but—Mehr hoped—healing sleep, Mehr stayed awake and stared at the ceiling, wishing she had a knife under her pillow to keep the nightmares at bay.
She tried to imagine what she would write to Arwa, if she had ink and parchment, if she were allowed to reach out to her sister, if it were safe.
Dear sister,
Dear Arwa—
I love you. I miss you. I hope Hara is beautiful. I hope Maryam still loves you like you’re her own blood. I hope you haven’t forgotten me—
—I hope you have.
She scratched the words out in her mind’s eye. What self-pity she was capable of! She was glad Arwa would never know how afraid Mehr was,
and how small the world had made her. She hoped Arwa would never learn the lessons she’d learned. She hoped Arwa was happy.
She touched her fingers to Amun’s side, listening to him breathe, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. One breath at a time. That was all they could do, the both of them. That was all there was.
Little sister …
I am trying very hard not to let go of hope.
Mehr knew that in order to keep hope alive, she would have to prepare for escape as if it were a certainty. Although she couldn’t avoid prayers or practice without consequences, she tried to be watchful for an opportunity to return to the scholars’ tower and access a map of Irinah without drawing suspicion. If—when—she and Amun escaped, it would be important for them to be able to navigate the desert.
An opportunity arose unexpectedly, one morning after prayers. Mehr and Amun had only just left the Prayer Hall. They were still surrounded by all the many mystics who had prayed alongside them, when they heard a sharp yell cut through the air. A young boy in heavy robes, a pack upon his back, ran headlong into the crowd, stopping only when an older mystic caught hold of him and bade him to be still.
“Calm down,” said the older mystic. “Breathe. Tell us what’s wrong, brother.”
“Daiva,” he gasped. “There’s a daiva—attacking the other couriers—we need help—”
There was suddenly a great deal of noise as some mystics ran outside, and others crowded the boy, asking questions. It was only then that Mehr saw the cut on the boy’s sleeve. The skin beneath it was bare and wounded, livid with blood. His face was wan with terror.
Amun gripped Mehr’s hand.
“You should go now,” he said. “They’re going to want our blood soon.”
“The maps,” Mehr said quickly. “I could go now, they’re distracted—”
“Mehr. Just go.”
He squeezed her hand tighter, then released her.
The crowd was large and cloying, but Mehr slipped between the mystics as swiftly as she could, and raced toward the scholars’ tower. She ran up the winding staircase; out of breath, she stopped when she reached the room and looked inside. For once, luck was on her side: The room was empty.
Catching her breath, she walked over to the rows of shelves. She traced them with her fingertips, trying to ascertain where the map of Irinah was located. She probably didn’t have much time. The boy would only serve to distract the mystics for so long. She needed to act quickly.
She drew down one map, then another. Neither was of Irinah, so she placed them back on the shelves in short order. The third—thank the Gods—was a map of Irinah in all its glory. She unfurled it fully on the table and took the sight of it in. There, limned in bright color, were the villages that surrounded the Northern Oasis and the Eastern, and the trade routes that spidered across the desert. Even the temple was there, set at a distance from all other human settlements, and signified by the Maha’s seal.
She drank it in with her eyes. Remember. I must remember this.
Only a few minutes had passed when she heard a noise echo from the bottom of the stairs. Someone was coming.
Mehr cursed inwardly. The map was far too large for her to conceal and take away with her. Her memory would have to suffice.
She had just managed to put the map away when a mystic walked into the room and paused abruptly at the sight of her. His eyes widened, then narrowed.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked.
Mehr leaned back against the shelves, her hands shaking with adrenaline. She felt light-headed with terror.
“The daiva,” she said. Her voice was shaking too. Good. She could use that.
“What?”
“The daiva, is it … is it gone?” She crossed one arm over her body and held the other to her cheek, as if she were trying to ward off tears. “I—I saw someone had been injured and I was frightened. I thought if I hid in my room I’d be safe but I—I think I’m lost, and I didn’t know what to do—”
The mystic didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close thing.
“It’s gone,” he said. “Come on. I’ll take you to your husband.”
“Are you sure …?”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Follow me.”
Much to Mehr’s relief, Amun was in their chambers rather than their practice hall. The mystic left her, and Mehr sat by Amun’s side.
“I saw the map,” she said.
“Describe it to me,” he said. He listened to her as she spoke, as she closed her eyes and envisaged the map, the trade routes, the villages. When she opened her eyes Amun was drawing on the ground with kohl.
“At least this way we can wash away the evidence if we need to,” he told her, when he saw the look on her face.
Mehr kneeled down beside him and looked at his drawing. It was close, very close, to what she’d described. She rubbed some of the kohl away with her thumb, altering the edges of one route.
“Did you find out what happened with the daiva?” Mehr asked.
“Of course,” Amun said. “They needed me to will it away.”
“Did they take your blood?”
Amun nodded. “It was good that you left,” he said.
“Show me.”
He gave her his arm. She rolled up his sleeve. There was a small nick on his forearm, but the cut was clean and no longer bleeding, which was a comfort.
“There were three couriers,” he said. “The boy, you saw. A daiva followed them for a full day. It shouldn’t have harmed them. They had old blood of mine, and the Empire’s good fortune to protect them. But the daiva attacked them suddenly. They’re badly wounded. It will take time for them to heal.” He looked at her. “Mystics aren’t usually easily hurt.”
Mehr knew the fresher the blood, the stronger its ability to defend its carrier from the daiva. She’d been taught by Lalita to mark the windows of her home once every turn of the moon. But for a long time the daiva had been weak, only strong enough to cause harm in the hallowed time surrounding the storms. No doubt the couriers had rarely required the protection of new blood.
“I know,” Mehr murmured. She could remember the way the ancient daiva they’d met in the desert had flinched away from the mystics. “Something must have changed.”
Amun looked at her. They both knew exactly what had changed.
“The daiva are stronger now,” he said.
Amun’s expression was as opaque as ever, but Mehr knew how to interpret his face. She took his hands in her own. Mehr had given the dreams of the Gods an outlet to dream without compulsion, natural dreams full of both good and ill fortune; daiva had injured mystics; and now Mehr and Amun were learning the sigils that would set them free.
He’d been unable to even contemplate the idea of escape once. Since then he had chosen to work with Mehr toward their goal of freedom, and poured all his efforts into the task. But he was only now starting to really, truly believe they stood a chance. He no longer needed her to have faith for both of them. He was beginning to hope all on his own.
Mehr knew she should feel some sort of sympathy for the mystics who had been hurt, but she couldn’t find it in her to care about their fate. All she cared about was the light in Amun’s eyes.
“I’m glad,” said Mehr. “I truly am.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After everything that had happened, Mehr had almost entirely forgotten Kalini’s warning to keep Hema at a distance. It was only when she left the bathing room one evening and found Hema waiting for her that the memory jolted back. Mehr froze in her tracks. Hema’s mouth ticked up into a solemn smile.
“Hello, Mehr.”
Mehr hesitated, still. She wasn’t afraid of defying Kalini, not exactly. But she could remember the look in Kalini’s eyes, hard and cold and furious. It was sensible to be wary of a look like that. Besides, her interest in utilizing Hema and her women to learn more about the temple had waned as her focus on learning the sigils of the Rite of the Bound had grown.
> “What are you doing here?” Mehr asked.
“Waiting for you,” Hema said. “It’s hard to get you alone, you know.”
“I know.” Mehr took a step forward, conscious of her damp clothes, her even damper hair, the sharpness of her wrists where they protruded from her sleeves. She’d grown thin over the past weeks. In contrast to her, Hema looked pristine and healthy, her skin glowing, her hair neatly pinned away from her face. “But why do you want to talk to me alone? You could have approached me at meals, any time you liked …”
“You’ve been avoiding everyone,” Hema said bluntly. Her lips pursed. Then her voice softened. “I’ve been watching you, Mehr, and you seem … out of sorts. I know the failure of the storm was hard on you—it was hard on all of us—but you need to take care of yourself. The Empire relies on you.”
Hema took a step forward.
“I brought you this,” she said. She held a cloth parcel out. “You haven’t been eating.”
Mehr took the parcel. She peeled back the edge of the cloth. Inside were sweets, soft and dense, made from red dates and butter clarified to a golden sheen. The last time she saw food this rich was on the Maha’s table. The thought robbed Mehr of what little was left of her appetite. She covered the food back up. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Hema gave her a careful look, with none of her usual sly humor in it.
“Tomorrow night, do you think you could slip away from your husband?” Hema asked. “Rena and I, we’ve managed to get our hands on a good few bottles of spiced wine. The strong kind.” Her eyes twinkled. “We need something to make us all smile again, don’t you think?”
Mehr could hear the coaxing note in Hema’s voice. She didn’t want to agree with Hema. She wanted to stay with Amun and practice the rite, find the sigils they needed to demand that the Gods break their chains and set them free from their vows. She and Amun had spent the night before trying to refine their copy of the map Mehr had seen in the scholars’ tower. Mehr hoped it would help them when they escaped the temple, but the task of creating it had consumed time they could little afford to lose.