by Tasha Suri
“Use the rite the Maha turned to his own purposes. Use it to return the world to balance, as it was always intended to be used.”
“Can I do that? Return the balance with the rite?” Mehr asked, full of wonder. “The Maha told us the Rite of the Bound was for two people. That it was an act of creation, not an act of balance.”
“You can,” said the daiva. “You, the Amrithi with amata. Or you, alone, here and now, because there is no one else.”
Mehr saw a great set of scales in her mind’s eye, heavy with dreams. Good dreams. Ill dreams. A world balanced by unknowable forces, by waves of stars that sped beneath the closed eyes of sleeping immortals. Her breath caught.
“The rite was a gift once,” the daiva said. Its voice was a woman’s voice, soft with regret. “From an immortal mother to a mortal daughter. It was a promise that all darkness would pass, and all suns would set. It was a gift of hope. It can be a gift again.”
The daiva opened its fist. An obsidian blade, Amrithi in design, sat upon its palm. A gem, pale as tears, lay embedded in its hilt. The daiva took the blade in one hand and carved open its palm. The shadows of its skin peeled back to reveal stars whirling under the surface, galaxies bursting into miniature life. Mehr’s breath caught.
“My blood,” the daiva said. “I make this vow on my blood. Make the Gods sleep, little daughter. Lull them back into slumber. Ask them for nothing but this. Do not cage their nightmares or demand their gifts. Teach them peace. Dedicate your life to this service. Maintain your vigil whenever the dreamfire falls, and when you are prepared, teach others with amata to share your burden. It will be a long vigil, but if you choose to serve, we will do more than forbid harming you. In return for your service we will protect you, and as the keeper of balance, we will enthrone you. You will be the first among Taras, the first in your own dynasty. We will give you the glory an Ambhan man once reshaped the world for.” The daiva’s blood dripped to the ground, shattering like glass. “Will you take my vow, small one? Will you take it to give you the strength to do what must be done?”
Mehr looked at the daiva’s star-strewn blood. She looked into its eyes.
“What are you?” Mehr whispered. “You’re no small bird-daiva. Nothing I’ve ever known.”
“When we were worshipped, I was called Elder Mother,” the veiled daiva told her. “I wept for my children, who were mortal and soon lost to me. Now I have no children, no tears, no name. But you may call me Elder, if you wish, because that at least is still true.”
“Elder,” Mehr said. “Forgive me. I can’t bargain with you.”
The daiva chimed around her. The nightmares howled. Mehr winced, closing her eyes, holding her strength close. She opened them again.
“I’ll do as you ask,” she continued. “I’ll dance the rite. I’ll beg the Gods for peace. I’ll dedicate my life to the task, if I must. But I will not make a vow again. I will not bind my soul, not for anything. Certainly not for the hope of human glory.” She thought of Amun: his blue-limned sigils, the deep darkness of his eyes. “My last vows … I hold them sacred. I will never hold any above them. That was a promise I made to myself, and I will not break it.”
“You will face the storm with no promise of hope for the future?” the daiva asked. “You will face our mothers and fathers with nothing but your mortal hope?”
Mehr gave the veiled daiva a watery smile.
“Yes,” Mehr said. “And I am afraid it will have to be enough.”
Mehr bowed her head and made a gesture of thanks. Elder considered her carefully, then raised one hand up to touch the edge of her own veil.
“Then I will simply give you my blessings, little one,” Elder said. “My blessings on you, and your mortal heart.”
She raised her veil and pressed a kiss to Mehr’s forehead. Mehr heard the great sound of fluttering wings, and the daiva were gone.
The dreamfire returned, fierce as ever, and it was swallowing her whole.
This time Mehr did not falter. She let the fire of the dreams and the nightmares both take her. She didn’t fight. She yielded, with absolute trust.
She thought of the first time she’d danced with the dreamfire, in the storm when she’d tried to make her way across Jah Irinah to Lalita’s side. She hadn’t commanded the dreamfire then. She’d had no clan, no partner. She’d had no Rite of the Bound, no knowledge of her true gifts. She had pleaded with dreamfire, simply pleaded with all her heart for it to guide her to Lalita’s home. And it had.
This rite was not a terrible act of creation. It was a gift of hope. A gift of balance.
She thought of balance. Even nightmares had their place. She remembered the sweetness of Arwa’s laughter and Nahira’s brusque kindness, the bitterness of Maryam’s hatred and the loneliness of the women’s quarters. She remembered the suffering the Maha had inflicted on her, and the scars it had left forever on her heart. She ached with the memory of Amun’s love. All of these things had shaped her. They were part of her now.
So she didn’t demand that the Gods shape the world into an image she desired. She didn’t ask for their kindness. She didn’t ask them to restrain their nightmares or their fury. She moved her limbs with the dreamfire, let it sing through her flesh and her soul. She held all her memories close and shaped the sigils of the rite. They flew from her fingers like birds.
Gods, mothers, fathers. I ask you, please do not awaken. Sleep. Let the world remain whole.
She poured all her will into the task, into the rite, into a dance that stretched beyond her limbs. She felt grace rush through her. It was an awe not born from fear but from true love, pure and good.
Sleep, and let your children live. Sleep, and let the balance return.
When the nightmares reached for her, she let them. She held her hope close to her skin. She didn’t turn from the fear. Instead of swallowing her terror away, she accepted it and let it flow through her, with her. The fear, too, was part of the balance.
Sleep. Please, sleep.
For the sake of your children, your love—
She danced beyond exhaustion. Danced until the light of the dreamfire began to fade from the sky, and the sand was still and even beneath her feet. She danced and pleaded, heart and soul. And she hoped.
She danced until she could dance no longer. Her legs buckled. She fell, and kneeled in the sand, gasping for air, sweat cooling on her skin. Her hair was loose and wild, tangled over her shoulders. Her skin felt raw. Unable to even kneel any longer, she let herself collapse to the ground. She lay on her back and stretched her arms out at her sides, open to the vastness around her.
When she next opened her eyes, she saw nothing but blue above her. The sky had cleared. The dreamfire was fading. The sand was still and unmoving beneath her body. Somehow, she was alive.
She was alive, and the world was whole.
Mehr would have wept, would have laughed, if she’d had the strength. Instead she could only smile alone, helplessly joyful, at the sky.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Ah, thank you.”
She could have happily continued lying there in the sand until unconsciousness claimed her, but her need to see Amun was a fierce thing, stronger even than her exhaustion. Mustering up all her remaining energy—of which there was precious little—Mehr clambered to her feet.
Ah Gods, it was hard! She was so tired. But she knew her own stubbornness now, and she pushed herself onward. Limping, she began to walk back toward the temple.
She hadn’t walked far before she was forced to stop again. She froze in her tracks. She could go no farther. The way back to the temple was barred.
The mystics were waiting for her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
There were only ten mystics. There was no sign of Kalini or Bahren, or Hema’s women. But the mystics waiting for her were all armed, and Abhiman was at the head of them, striding toward her with his sword unsheathed. His gaze was murderous.
Mehr was far too tired for this.
“What good will it do to harm me?” she yelled, stumbling back as he strode ever closer.
There were red scratches on Abhiman’s face and a new bruise swelling up his left eye. “You did this,” he snarled. “I know you did. I found the Maha dead. My brothers and sisters are gone, or scattered to the winds.” His sword wavered in his grip. His face was stained with blood and sweat. “You’ve destroyed all that’s pure and good. The Empire will fall. We will all fall.”
Mehr shook her head. “No, Abhiman,” she said. Her head was pounding terribly. She didn’t want to die here, but Abhiman was weeping now, teeth bared, and she thought, He will not let me go. “I’ve saved us. That’s all.”
Abhiman howled. It was a sound of pure animal fury.
“You wretched bitch,” he snarled. “I’ll cut your heart out, I swear it!”
He ran toward her, swinging his sword with fury and no finesse. Mehr tried to scramble away from him, tried to run—and froze all over again.
Something dark shifted under the sand beneath her feet.
A daiva ruptured up from the ground between them. It was a monstrous thing, vast, its shadowy body bristling with thorns. She saw its vast array of teeth, its glittering stretch of eyes. It stretched its body out between them, a great wall that blotted Abhiman from her vision. Then it swooped down. Mehr heard an awful sound: the snap of teeth meeting resistant flesh.
Abhiman was dead before he hit the ground.
Mehr bit her tongue hard enough to bleed, forcibly holding back her instinctual scream of horror at the sight of the severed remains of him. She didn’t even shudder as the mystics shrieked and recoiled, faces gray with terror. She curled her hands into fists and stood stock-still.
The daiva curled itself up, small and sleek, its teeth carefully tucked away. It glided across the sand to her. A tendril of smoke wound its way gently around her wrist and uncurled her fingers.
A weight pressed itself into her palm. The daiva made a soft sound, somewhere between a coo and chitter, and sank back into the sand.
Mehr looked down into her open palm. On it lay the black blade, its teary gem gleaming in the light. She stared at it, long and wondering, then tucked it carefully into the sash of her robe.
Mehr had made no vows to the daiva. Apparently, they had decided to protect her regardless.
Thank you, she thought.
“You should leave this place.” She didn’t bother to imbue her voice with threat. She let the threat of the daiva act as her armor. When she took a step forward, the armed mystics flinched. “Irinah has no place for the Saltborn any longer.”
She knew her words were true. She’d felt the dreams of Gods. She’d been in the presence of a daiva so ancient it spoke her tongue. Returning the balance of the world, allowing the Gods to dream naturally, would return the world to order. But balance did not have to be kind. Balance wore the face of a nightmare as easily as it wore the guise of a daiva veiled in stars.
The mystics had praised the Maha. The mystics had loved him. The mystics had helped him chain the Gods and weaken the daiva, and now with the Maha’s death the world had slipped swiftly, brutally from their grasp.
Mehr looked at their feet, pressed to the sand. Beneath it, the Gods they had helped chain slept and dreamed their unleashed dreams. She thought of the shadow of the daiva and the way it had risen beneath her feet. She thought of the flat, silver eyes of nightmares too-long crushed beneath mortal heels. She thought, too, of Abhiman’s death. His blood hadn’t yet begun to cool.
They shouldn’t be surprised, Mehr thought, if the world shows them its teeth.
They would be wise to leave Irinah swiftly. She did not think they would find what passed for balance, here on the backs of sleeping Gods, anything akin to a kindness.
She held her courage, held the iron in her spine, and walked toward the temple. The mystics parted like a sea to let her pass. Their weapons hung useless at their sides. She knew she would never see them again.
Amun was still unconscious. Mehr leaned over him. Sand had come into the room through the open shutters. His face glittered with dust, the loose curls of his dark hair etched with gold. Mehr brushed the sand from his eyelids. He didn’t stir.
“Please wake up,” Mehr whispered. She whispered it against his forehead as she kissed him, just once, as if her mouth could pass on blessings just as Elder’s had. “I can feel you. I know you’re not gone. Come back and see the world we’ve saved.”
She took his hand. His skin was warm. “Please, Amun.”
She was too raw not to feel her own fears. They washed over her. She feared that fighting his vows to the Maha had broken him irreparably. She feared that the Maha controlled him still, those vows extending beyond death. She feared having to let him go. She feared that it had all been for nothing, that the world would go on but Amun would not, and Mehr would be left behind, alone with nothing but her grief to sustain her.
It turned out that she had the strength left to cry after all.
She curled up beside him like she had so many times before. She wiped her tears on her sand-stained sleeve. She nestled herself against the crook of his shoulder and took hold of his hand again, taking comfort in the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his knuckles, the familiar softness of his palms. In a voice hoarse from all she’d been through, she sang to him. She sang the lullaby she’d sung to him that night when the pain had consumed him, when there had been no hope left inside either of them. She sang him the lullaby she’d sung on the night when they had made their own hope.
Eventually, her voice began to fade. Her eyes began to close, exhaustion claiming her.
When she felt him move, she thought she was dreaming.
Then his hand curled tight around her own.
She shot upright. Heart in her throat, she looked down at his face. His eyes were unfocused, pained by the light. Blinking hard, he slowly began to focus.
“Mehr,” he rasped. “Mehr.”
“Amun.” She clasped his hand tighter in return. She was trembling. “I’m here.”
“Mehr. The Maha. Can’t—feel. Him.”
“I know, Amun.” Now that she was looking at him in the clear light of day, she could see that the scars of his vows had lost their color, had faded to thin white traceries on his skin. Their master was gone, and the power of the vows scarred onto his skin had gone with him.
“The Maha …”
“He’s gone,” Mehr said, her heart so full, so very full. “He’s dead, Amun. We’re free.”
There would be time enough to tell him everything later. For now it was enough to see the smile that dawned on his face and the light that grew in his eyes. For now it was enough to have his hand reach up to touch her tangled hair and feel his mouth against hers, the vow between them humming with life, golden and strong.
They rested and ate first. Then, much later, Mehr told Amun all she could. Amun listened silently, asking no questions until Mehr’s voice faded, until she shook her head and told him that she had explained everything she knew.
“The daiva protect you now?” he asked. “They won’t allow anyone to harm you?”
“I made no vows to them,” Mehr said. “But they made vows to me, and I think they’ve decided to keep them, bargain or no bargain.”
Amun looked unbearably relieved.
“You could go home,” he told her. “You could see your family. Your sister.”
Mehr felt a pang in her chest. “No. I can’t. I have to stay. I have to perform the rite again,” she explained. “Every storm. The Gods’ fury won’t be so easily quelled, and the balance will take a long time to be restored. I need to maintain the peace. I’m the only one who can.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“Perhaps one day I’ll teach other Amrithi with the gift,” she said, shrugging, looking carefully down at her hands so she wouldn’t need to meet his eyes. She would need to. One day. “But who would learn now? There are so few of us left, and it’s an anathema act. Still,
there will be time enough, I expect. I’m young yet.”
“Mehr.” Amun’s voice was sharp. Mehr looked at him. “Don’t pretend you misunderstand me. I can take up the burden. I’ve performed the rite all my life.”
“No, Amun,” Mehr said softly. “I would never ask that of you.”
“I’m a free man now,” Amun said. “It would be my choice.”
His gaze was so steady, so clear. Mehr forced herself not to look away.
“You’ve sacrificed enough for me, Amun.”
“My choice,” he repeated. “Don’t you consider choices sacred, Mehr?”
“Ah, Gods.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Opened them. “You’ve been trapped in the heart of a nightmare since you were nothing but a child. And now you’re free. Don’t you see, Amun? The thought of you staying in this place, forcing yourself to perform the rite for my sake …” She paused, struggling to speak through her feelings. “Amun,” she whispered finally. “It would shatter me.”
Mehr stood abruptly. She didn’t want to hear his protests. “You need more water,” she said, “and more food.”
She searched through the supplies they’d scavenged earlier. The mystics had taken almost everything when they’d fled, but there had been water and a little food left. Enough to last them a few weeks. She poured some water into their cups, then carefully peeled spiked fruit and carried it over to him. By the time she returned to him, she’d found some of the words she needed.
“If you had a choice, if it weren’t for me,” she said, “would you perform the rites—any of them—ever again? Would you set foot in this temple? Or would you go somewhere else, far away from here, and begin again?”
When he was silent, she said, “I thought so.”
“Mehr,” he said sharply. “We’re vowed to each other. Does that mean nothing?”
Mehr’s stomach plummeted. “Oh.”
Amun straightened. “No. You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly,” she said, cutting in. “I never, ever wanted our vows to chain you. I didn’t make those vows to trap you in a new cage.”