Empire of Sand

by Tasha Suri

  One thing, at least, was clear: If nothing changed, the Maha would soon have no Amrithi in his service at all.

  Lalita

  Would you really send a tribeswoman back into the great monster’s grip?” a woman named Sohaila asked, disbelieving. “Jabir, elder, I never thought you would betray a fellow Amrithi. I’m ashamed of you.”

  “I never said I would send her back,” the elder blustered. “I said someone may want to send her back. It’s very different.”

  “I don’t see how. I don’t see—”

  “Some people,” Jabir cut in loudly, “might be worried what terrors the world will suffer if the Maha doesn’t have one of our own to perform his rite. Some people might consider one girl a price worth paying.”

  “Why don’t you hand yourself to him, then?” Sohaila countered.

  “I don’t have the amata.”

  “Then I don’t think you’re in a position to comment.”

  “Daughter, calm yourself,” another woman said, placing a gentle hand on Sohaila’s shoulder. “And Jabir, no one is handing a tribeswoman, never mind the Tara’s very own daughter, to that monster. Be serious.”

  “Agreed,” said another. “But I do fear that allowing the girl to join the clan would be premature, nonetheless.”

  A murmur of agreement ran through the circle of Amrithi who surrounded the communal fire. In order of seniority, elders sat close to the warmth of the flames, with the youngest and newest members of the clan at the very edges. Lalita sat at the outer limit of the circle, wrapped up tight in both a heavy robe and a shawl tucked about her shoulders. She listened.

  In their Tara’s absence, the clan had gathered to discuss Mehr’s fate. Although the Tara held the greatest power in a clan, the view of the clan as a whole held great sway, and a Tara could not easily deny her clan’s united will.

  The will of Ruhi’s clan, tonight, did not seem particularly unified.

  The question of whether to allow Mehr a full place in the clan was a fraught one. A great number of the clan feared that she was still vow-bound to the Maha. They feared he had sent her in search of others with the amata that he could take and bind to his service. Others—like Sohaila—argued that all Amrithi deserved a place in the arms of a clan. Lalita, new as she was, had done her best to merely listen and interject only rarely.

  Kamal walked out of the darkness and touched Lalita on the shoulder.

  “She’s back,” he said. With no little relief—she had never cared for the laborious business of Amrithi politics—Lalita nodded and stood up.

  Kamal gestured at the inner circle, and someone reached a ladle into the pot simmering over the communal fire and filled a cup. They passed it back to Kamal, who placed it in Lalita’s hands. She nodded her thanks and headed away from the circle.

  Ruhi was walking up the curve of a dune, a defeated turn to her shoulders. Lalita walked toward her and handed her the steaming cup of steeped herbs, which Ruhi drank fast and handed back to her. Lalita held the cup tight. The night had been bitterly cold, and warmth was welcome.

  “Go and rest,” Lalita said.

  “I will,” said Ruhi. “But first, tell me what the others said.”

  “They’re still arguing,” Lalita said.

  “Have they come to a consensus yet?”

  “About allowing Mehr into the clan proper? Not at all,” Lalita said with a sigh. “But they won’t countenance giving her up to the Maha. They’ve agreed on that, at least.” She saw Ruhi’s shoulders slump and gave her a look of surprise. “Did you really believe they would make any other decision?”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Ruhi said tiredly. “These are trying times, Lalita.”

  “Oh, I’m very aware. Now sleep,” Lalita said pointedly. “I’ll make sure someone else keeps watch.”

  “Will you go to her?” Ruhi asked abruptly. Her expression was raw. “Will you comfort her?”

  Ruhi did not say, because I cannot, but there was no need. Lalita understood.

  She was reminded of the day, so very long ago, when Ruhi had asked her to take care of Mehr and teach her the rites. Ruhi had been the Governor’s concubine long before Lalita returned homesick to Jah Irinah, but becoming the mother of two half-Ambhan daughters had shattered something within Ruhi and tipped her from uneasy contentment into slow-moving, dreadful awareness. Lalita remembered pitying her. Ruhi hadn’t married the Governor, hadn’t made any vows, but the children were as good as a chain holding her fast within the palace walls. And Ruhi had come to understand, far too late, how ill-suited she was for Ambhan society.

  Where Lalita had flourished, gaining financial independence and a modicum of security, Ruhi had become a shadow of the woman she’d once been. She’d had fire in her once. She’d been a Tara’s daughter, and a headstrong one at that, determined to make a better life for her clan and her people. But her life in the Governor’s palace had crushed the spirit out of her and filled her soul with terrible, unanswerable fears. Lalita remembered the way Ruhi had taken Lalita’s hands in her own, her grip firm, her eyes blazing.

  Take care of Mehr for me, Ruhi had said. Teach her. Help her. I can’t be the mother she needs. Please, Lalita.

  Lalita had known that day that Ruhi would leave eventually. She’d never blamed her for it. The clan had needed a Tara, after all, and Ruhi had needed to survive. If she’d remained in Jah Irinah, she wouldn’t have.

  “Of course,” Lalita said gently. “You don’t even need to ask.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Despite everything, Mehr’s body healed and grew stronger. She slept—briefly, restlessly, her sleep riddled with dreams. She ate the food left for her, which wasn’t plentiful but was still more than she’d been able to stomach in those last weeks of service to the Maha. Sometimes Lalita came and kept her company, and nearly every night her mother kept watch outside her shelter.

  She had no idea when her mother rested, and didn’t ask. Ever since the first night when they had spoken so freely to one another, Mehr had struggled to find the words to simply talk to her mother. All the words she had were raw, weighty, an echo of her wounded heart. She didn’t dare let them pass her lips. Instead she sat by her mother in silence, watching the daiva writhe on the distant horizon until dawn broke the sky.

  She saved her questions for Lalita instead. On one of Lalita’s visits, Mehr asked her if there was any way she could assist the clan. “I’m just a burden as I am,” Mehr said with a shrug, thinking of all the food she had eaten, the prayer flames she’d burned that could have been put to a better use. “I’d like to help if I can.”

  “How would you like to help?” Lalita asked her, quirking an eyebrow at her.

  Mehr shook her head. “You know well enough I have nothing to offer.” She smiled. “I have a noblewoman’s skill for doing nothing.”

  “Oh, hush.”

  “Let me contribute,” Mehr said. “Teach me a skill, if you’re willing.” She thought of the way Amun had fixed her torn sleeve with those large, gentle hands of his. She swallowed and said, in a voice that was less even than she’d hoped it would be, “I can’t simply sit here and wait. I feel—restless.”

  Lalita made a soft humming sound. “I can teach you to sew. When the clan accepts you, they’ll be glad of the skill.”

  “You can sew?”

  “There’s no need to sound so surprised, Mehr.”

  “Forgive me,” Mehr said. “It just doesn’t seem like something that would interest you.”

  “It isn’t. And yet here I am, darning day in and out.” Lalita’s laugh was strained. “And you wonder why I wanted a life in the Empire,” she added wryly.

  They spoke of other things after that, but Mehr noticed the way Lalita looked down at her own hands, studying the new calluses that had covered their old softness. Mehr was reminded, forcefully, that she was not the only one who was struggling to adapt. Lalita had chosen a life beyond the desert and flourished in it. Now she had been forced to return to
a clan that wasn’t her own by birth, to a desert haunted by strangeness, and a life defined by her blood and not by her choices. Her dear friend had been murdered. She was adrift, just as Mehr was adrift, struggling to carve a place in a world that was not fit for her.

  When Lalita moved to leave, Mehr reached for her. She took Lalita’s hands in her own, feeling their new roughness, and their new strength. Her heart was so heavy inside her.

  You’ve always been my clan, Mehr thought. Even when I didn’t realize it, fool child that I was, you were more a mother to me than I understood or deserved.

  Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

  “What is it?” Lalita asked.

  Mehr couldn’t say all she wished to, not without splintering the brittle strength Lalita had drawn tight around her, keeping her tall. So instead she said, “I would love it if you taught me to sew.”

  Lalita laughed at that. “You’ll forgive me if I doubt you.”

  “I would,” Mehr insisted. “I’ve always found you to be an excellent teacher.”

  “Ah, well then, that’s good.” Lalita smiled. “Next time I come, I’ll bring a needle and thread.” She clasped Mehr’s hands tight in return. “You’ve always been my favorite student.”

  “I’m your only student.”

  “That makes it no less true, dear one.”

  Mehr hadn’t been joking when she had claimed she had a noblewoman’s typical lack of practical skills. She was able to navigate an Ambhan household artfully. She’d learned long ago how to play the dutiful child while not-so-secretly transgressing. She could read and write, and knew how to dress appropriately to reflect her station. She could recognize beautiful art and make meaningless conversation. But she could not mend clothing or start a fire, or cook or heal or contribute in a way that would assist her own survival, or anyone else’s.

  The only skill she had that was of any worth here was her ability to dance the rites. So that was exactly what she did.

  She began to spend the early mornings performing the rites out in the light, before the heat of the day became unbearable. When the sky darkened, before her mother came to keep vigil, Mehr would practice again for a half hour or so more, taking advantage of the cooler weather. She danced every rite she could remember, danced until exhaustion consumed her. She danced until the restlessness in her bones eased, until she could breathe without thinking of Amun and the red of his agony, the red of Hema’s blood. She danced until she no longer had the strength to run, as she so wanted to.

  Mehr blamed the distraction the rites offered for the fact that it took her far longer than it should have to realize the daiva had taken to watching her dance. They hung in soft shadows around the edges of the shelter, shaping themselves to the swinging arc of her own shadow as she moved through the sigils and steps of each rite. She froze the first time she saw them—saw the glow of their golden eyes, the whisper of their talons—and hesitantly offered them a gesture of respect. But when they remained unmoving, simply watching her, she returned slowly to her practice of the rites. When they remained complacent, unmoved, she grew more confident.

  If they were content to leave her be, she would do the same for them in return. This was their desert, after all. Mehr was merely an interloper, as all humans were, on this land that belonged to sleeping Gods. If the daiva wanted to use their new strength to simply watch her, well then, that was their right.

  The daiva finally acted when foolishness—foolishness and the force of habit—led Mehr to err.

  She’d been dancing all morning, tracing the air with her limbs, stretching her strength. For a moment, she felt as if she were back in the Maha’s temple, moving through the rites in the rote way she and Amun had grown to perform them: one rite after the other, warming up their muscles, preparing themselves for service. She felt the ghost of Amun at her back, remembered the way he’d move closer to her after the first hour of practice, his voice low and considering. She remembered the brush of his breath against her hair. If you’re ready, Mehr, then let go—

  Her limbs grew loose, and her breathing deep. She exhaled slowly, her body soft around the hum of her own thoughts, the beat of her heart. She could feel the morning’s light against her skin, smell a faint sweetness on the air, a pale ghost of godly dreaming. She reached for the part of her that wasn’t mortal in response, reached for the part of her that was ichor, that held a trace of immortality—

  A howl echoed through the air. A heavy weight slammed into her chest and flung her to the ground. When she raised her head she saw the daiva circling her in a black cloud. Her heart thudded sharply in response, fire shooting through her blood. Ah, Gods. She was a fool.

  The daiva did not like the rite. Amun had told her that long ago. And oh, silly child that she was, she’d begun to perform it, by instinct, by habit. And there they were, the children of those Gods she’d compelled, bristling at her, their darkness growing to surround her—

  Just as quickly as they’d risen, they drew back, flinging themselves away in wisps of shadow. It was only then that she realized her lip was warm and wet. At some point she’d bitten her lip, or abraded it on the sand. The result was the same: She had bled, and her blood had reminded the daiva of their vows, banishing them away. She waited a moment, until she was sure the daiva had departed, then climbed shakily to her feet.

  Without the daiva around her, the sand glittered menacingly. The sky was a blue so bright it burned. Gasping, she leaned against the wall of her shelter and thought: There’s a storm coming. I know it.

  The knowledge lay in her memories, in her dreams; it lay in her body, in her muscles and her bones and the way she moved when she forgot she was no longer a weapon for the Maha to wield. A storm was coming, and no matter how far Mehr had run, the knowledge of how to wrap the dreams of the Gods between her footsteps hadn’t left her. The rite waited in her blood.

  Steadying herself, she went back inside the shelter and sat down on the ground. She held herself very still, painfully aware of the hum in her blood, a strange kind of foreknowledge.

  With a dark sense of foreboding, she waited. As the sun rose to its zenith, the scent of incense rose with it. The hair at the back of Mehr’s neck prickled.

  There was no denying it now: A storm was coming.

  Mehr went outside, holding a hand up to shade her eyes so she could watch the horizon. It wasn’t long before a figure appeared in the distance, striding swiftly toward her despite the oppressive midday heat. The figure was too tall and broad to be her mother or Lalita. When it drew a little closer, she realized it was Kamal. His hood was drawn low over his forehead to keep the heat at bay, but Mehr could still see the tension in his jaw and in his narrowed eyes.

  “The Tara sent me to check that you’re still whole,” he said tersely, once he drew close enough to see her. He crossed his arms. His hands were in fists.

  “I’m well,” Mehr told him. “Entirely whole.”

  “Good. I’ll tell her so.” He turned abruptly on his heel, ready to leave, when Mehr called out to him.

  “Why did she send you?”

  The look he gave her, as he turned back, was utterly incredulous.

  “Don’t you sense the storm coming?”

  “Of course I sense it,” Mehr said. “I’m merely wondering what my mother fears. What did she think could have happened to me?” She cocked her head to the side thoughtfully, looking at Kamal narrowly through the glare of the sun. “The Maha is unlikely to find me here.”

  His lips thinned.

  “There are dangers in the storm. Apparently she wants to protect you from them.”

  “The nightmares,” she said. “You mean the nightmares.”

  When he simply stared at her, uncomprehending, she touched her fingers to the nape of her neck. “The fury you feel at the back of your skull. The pale thing, the force that has flesh. You’ve felt it, haven’t you?”

  Mehr hadn’t thought it possible, but somehow the look of dislike on Kamal’s face seemed to i
ntensify. No matter. Mehr didn’t need him to like her. She simply needed him to listen to her.

  “Go inside,” he said in response. “Don’t come out until you’re told to.”

  “I could make them go away,” Mehr told him. “You know that.”

  “I know that I’ve done what my Tara has bid me,” he snapped. “And now I want to return to my clan. Are you finished?”

  “My mother believes the Maha will find another gifted Amrithi to replace me,” Mehr continued calmly, refusing to let him sway her. “But he hasn’t, and he won’t. I know my mother fears I’ll try to return to him because of my vows, but that isn’t what you fear, is it?” She met his eyes, unwavering. “You fear what the nightmares of the Gods will do, without someone to control them. You fear me staying.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I feel,” Kamal said, which was as good as a yes. “I do what my Tara bids. That’s all.”

  “It does matter,” Mehr insisted. “You’re not wrong to be afraid. But I can make things better. All I ask is that you convince your Tara not to come here tonight. Tell her your clan needs her this storm. Please.”

  “So you can sneak back to your master? No.” His voice was flint. But he didn’t walk away.

  Mehr crossed the sand toward him. She gazed at him steadily, thinking of Amun, of the deep red of his pain as he suffered far beyond her reach. She thought of the nightmares, their flat eyes, their malevolence. She knew what had to be done.

  “Kamal,” she said softly. “It’s in all our best interests that I go back to him.”

  She stepped even closer, until she was looking up at him, raising her head to meet wary eyes. “The one who shared the burden of service with me is as good as dead, and if you fear the nightmares now, you have no grasp of how much worse they’re going to become.” Mehr didn’t blink. Didn’t allow herself to waver. “I know. I’ve felt them.”

  Kamal still looked wary, but some of the brittleness was gone from his voice when he spoke again. “I don’t lie to the Tara.”