Empire of Sand

by Tasha Suri

  “Mehr, no.”

  “Our vows set me free. Do you think I’d want any less for you?” She shook her head. “I love you enough to want to see you unchained, even if that means I remain here alone. I mean that, Amun. I want you to go.”

  Amun looked as if he wanted to argue. He held out a hand, reaching for her. He began to say her name—

  A daiva flickered at the edge of Mehr’s vision, just beyond the window. She turned her head sharply.

  “What is it?” Amun asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  He followed her to the window. They both looked out.

  An armed group of people was approaching the temple. Amun tensed at her side.

  “Those are not mystics,” he said.

  “No,” Mehr said, looking at the figure leading them. Her face was exposed, her body wrapped in dun-colored cloth, her braid whipping out behind her. “That’s my mother.”

  The daiva were waiting when Mehr and Amun walked out of the temple into the sunlight. They clung to the temple walls and circled their feet. A few swooped through the air high above them.

  The Amrithi were a small group. All adults, Mehr saw. They looked nervous, but not afraid, exactly. Their expressions were perilously close to hopeful. Only Ruhi’s face was unreadable, her eyes shadowed.

  Mehr saw Lalita standing just behind her mother. She smiled at her, tears threatening to overwhelm her again. “Welcome,” she said.

  “Ah, Gods,” Lalita said. Her smile was watery. “It’s good to see you alive, Mehr.”

  “Likewise,” Mehr said, somewhat foolishly.

  Mehr made eye contact with her mother then. “Why have you come?” Surely they hadn’t come for her. Mehr didn’t think her mother would have put the clan into such clear danger, not even for Mehr’s sake. Certainly, Lalita wouldn’t have allowed it.

  “We saw the storm,” said her mother. “We felt the nightmares come, the earth shudder, and we thought the world was coming to an end. But the storm ended, and we did not.” Ruhi looked at the daiva flying above them. “The daiva came for us,” she continued. “They beckoned us. We knew then that we had to take a risk and follow them.”

  “We didn’t know they would bring us to the temple,” Lalita said. “That was a pleasant surprise.”

  “The Maha is dead,” said Mehr. An audible ripple ran through the Amrithi. “But I danced his rite, his anathema rite, which was never his to begin with. I reclaimed it, and I kept the world whole.” Mehr felt Amun encircle her wrist. She took strength in that touch. “I don’t regret it. I regret nothing I did for the sake of our survival.”

  Her mother’s face remained expressionless. “Will you take his place?” she asked. “Rule the Empire as its quiet master, sequestered here among your worshippers?”

  Mehr could see the same doubt in the eyes of some of the other Amrithi. She understood that her mother spoke not only for herself but for her clan.

  “She has saved us all,” Amun said, his voice rich with utter conviction. He looked at them with clear, cloudless eyes. “Tara, Mehr has ensured that no one will be bound to the terrible service the Maha demanded ever again. No one will wear the scars I wear. She is nothing like him. I know, better than any living creature, that she is the best of us. She is hope.”

  “The daiva wouldn’t surround her if her path was evil,” one of the Amrithi said. A woman, her face weathered, her hair pure silver. “She acts with their blessing.”

  “They have asked me to keep the balance,” Mehr said to her, to them all. “And that is what I have chosen to do.”

  In response to her words, the daiva swirled up around her—somewhat ostentatiously, Mehr thought sourly. Still, a symbol was a symbol, and the joy growing in the eyes of the Amrithi was desperately beautiful to see.

  “All I ask,” Mehr said to her mother, as the daiva settled around them, “is that you don’t try to stop me.”

  Her mother took a step forward, then another. In one swift motion, she kneeled.

  “I am thankful, beyond thankful, that you have risked your own soul in order to save us all.” Her eyes shone with barely contained emotion. She looked up at Mehr with a face that was all feeling, fierce and broken with love. “We owe you a debt of gratitude, daughter. We can never hope to repay it.”

  The Amrithi behind her touched their hands to their foreheads, their chests, in a gesture of respect. Mehr almost wept again at the sight of them.

  Her mother stood. “I am so glad you’re safe, Mehr,” she said softly. “I was so afraid you were lost to me.”

  “I’m here,” said Mehr. “I’m whole.”

  She felt it when Amun’s hand released her own. Her mother embraced her, held her tight, and Amun walked toward the other Amrithi. She saw him murmur something about food and shelter to the silver-haired woman, and then he was gone. Just another robed figure in the crowd.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Dear Arwa, Mehr wrote.

  It’s been so long, little sister. I hope you are happy. I miss you. Do you miss me?

  I have a good life now, better than I once hoped for. One day I’ll tell you all about it, but I’m sure you’re having adventures of your own now …

  Mehr sat in the library. Its shelves were half-ransacked, all the clever silver-dialed instruments long gone. She was sure Edhir had been the one to raid the library. The other mystics had taken useful things, food and fuel and clothing. But Edhir had loved his maps more than all of those things. He would never have left them behind.

  She tried not to think too often of what had become of all those mystics: the young and the old, the ones who’d truly believed the Maha was their God and had loved him better than anything in the world. Their world had been shattered, their safe universe of prayer and service and glory utterly destroyed. Mehr did not want to have any sympathy for them, but despite herself, she did.

  Hema had been one of them, once.

  She sat by the window on a table, legs crossed, writing so hurriedly that the ink kept smearing. There was a daiva on the edge of the window, fluttering lazily, occasionally chirruping. She ignored it.

  She told Arwa about her life. Only the good things, for now. Arwa was so young. Perhaps later Mehr would tell her the whole truth. For now she only wrote about the sand, and how it shimmered and spun itself into shapes, for the sheer joy of it. She described the daiva, and the way they were growing stronger, their shadowy forms growing more solid day by day, their numbers growing. She told Arwa that she hoped she would see her very soon. She was still writing when she heard footsteps on the stairs.

  Lalita peered in. “He’s ready to leave,” she said. “Come quickly now.”

  Mehr picked up the letter carefully, trying not to smudge the ink any more than she already had. She followed Lalita down the stairs toward an exit that led to the desert. Kamal was waiting for them, a pack slung over his shoulder. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Mehr flapping the letter as she walked.

  “Is it dry?” he asked.

  “It will have to do,” said Mehr, handing it to him. He rolled it up neatly, placing it in his pack beside the letter she’d written for her father.

  “If your sister is in Irinah, I’ll deliver it to her. If she isn’t …” Kamal shrugged. “Well, I’ll do my best.” He looked at her narrowly. “You could come as far as Jah Irinah with me, if you like. See if you can find her.”

  “I can’t risk leaving,” she said. “Besides, I doubt it would do any good. No doubt they’re far away from Irinah now.”

  “No doubt,” he agreed.

  Mehr had learned some days ago from the Amrithi that her father was no longer the Governor of Irinah. He had left the province entirely. The news had hit her like a physical blow. Generations of her family had governed Irinah. Now their governance—the blessing they had earned through loyal service to the Emperor and his line—had ended.

  She didn’t know if her father had chosen to relinquish his position willingly or if politics had forced him from t
he role. All her knowledge was fragmented and secondhand; the brief gossip the Amrithi had imparted to her told her nothing of the games of power that must have been played in her father’s court after her departure, or how well her father had fared. She desperately wanted the truth, but she had chosen to dedicate her life to a service that ensured the survival of the world. She couldn’t step beyond Irinah’s borders and seek out her family herself. Secondhand knowledge, then, was all she would ever have.

  But ah—her heart ached for him, her father, who had governed Irinah loyally, who had loved her and Arwa so unwisely, who had promised to keep Arwa safe, no matter the cost.

  So much was unknown to her now. She had little hope that Kamal would find her father or Arwa. But little hope was still hope, and Mehr had learned that even the smallest kernel of it, preserved in the darkness, could bloom into a miracle.

  “Thank you,” she said to him. “It was a kind offer regardless.”

  Kamal’s smile was thin. She knew he still didn’t care much for her.

  “You’ll be missed,” Lalita told him gently.

  “More Amrithi arrived this morning,” Kamal said to her, his expression warming. It was hard to dislike Lalita. “You won’t be short of company for long. And I’ll send messages, of course.”

  Amrithi had been making their way to the temple for the last few days, following the guidance of the daiva, the whispers on the wind. Many seemed determined to stay, hungry for the security and promise the temple now offered them. But some—Kamal included—had decided to leave. We’ll need to know what’s happening in the Empire, if we’re to protect ourselves, he’d told Mehr’s mother, and she and the elders had agreed. But really, Mehr thought he simply wanted to see the world beyond Irinah’s borders. The Empire was still far from a safe place for the Amrithi, but Kamal could travel through it now without fearing for the clan he’d left behind. The Amrithi had a home again: a safe haven, cradled on the backs of the Gods.

  “Where will you go?” Lalita asked him.

  “As far from here as I can,” he said swiftly. “I’ve never been to Chand. Or perhaps I’ll find the coast, cross the sea.” A pause. Then: “You could come, Lalita. See the world with me.”

  “Not with you,” Lalita said with a laugh, tossing her hair back. But Mehr could see the yearning in her eyes. Desert life wasn’t one Lalita had chosen. Irinah wouldn’t keep her forever.

  They watched Kamal go. When he was no more than a dark speck on the horizon, Lalita let out a sigh.

  “Do you think he’ll be safe, Mehr?” she asked.

  “I think the world is very changed,” Mehr said. She shook her head. “I just don’t know. I only hope he finds Arwa safe and well.”

  Lalita put an arm around Mehr for comfort. They stood like that for a long moment, watching Kamal vanish into the distance, the sunshine beating down on their heads. Then Lalita broke the silence.

  “Your mother is looking for you, by the way,” she said. “I hear there’s a great deal to be done.”

  There was indeed a great deal that needed to be done. More Amrithi kept arriving at the temple, beckoned by the daiva, the gifted and ungifted alike emerging from hiding and seeking the temple’s shelter. The oasis provided some sustenance, but work had to be done to ensure that the growing clan would be properly cared for. It was the kind of work Mehr knew nothing of and would never be able to assist with helpfully, but her mother seemed determined to involve her in it regardless.

  Mehr listened semipatiently as her mother and the elders discussed how the growing conglomeration of clans would be governed, and shared what little fragments of news they’d managed to discover about what was occurring beyond the desert’s borders. The Amrithi who had arrived so far had been by and large normal people. None were wealthy or well connected or in a position to know the direction of the political tides in Jah Irinah or the Empire beyond it. As a result, the clan elders—and Mehr—knew frustratingly little. Scraps. All they had were scraps.

  The nobility mourned ostentatiously. In villages and cities across the Empire, its citizens, noble and common alike, buried faceless statues of the Maha and Emperor as one in graves and wept, and wept, and wept. There were rumors that the Maha had not died at all—no matter what wild-eyed mystics claimed—and the Emperor had put a handful of the Maha’s own beloved Saltborn to death for reasons no one had yet been able to explain to Mehr or to the elders. Nightmares and daiva had begun to appear beyond Irinah’s borders. An Amrithi man who’d lived for a number of years in Jah Irinah told Mehr, once, that soldiers had been sent into the desert to retrieve the body of the Maha, but none had returned.

  Mehr had thought of Abhiman’s death and asked him no more questions.

  Even without scraps of news to guide her, Mehr would have known that the Empire was in tumult. The faith and law had been torn asunder. The strength the Maha had blessed the Empire with was fading. And yet, for all the Maha had done to her for the Empire’s sake, Mehr couldn’t be glad, not entirely, not when so many would suffer the consequences of the Maha’s choices. Not when her own family lived in the Empire. Not when she loved the Empire still, despite herself.

  But the Empire’s fate—thank the Gods—was out of her hands now.

  When the meeting ended, Mehr’s mother took her hand. “Come with me,” she said. “We should speak alone.”

  They walked out onto one of the balconies facing the oasis. Mehr could see Amrithi below, trying to make sense of the irrigation surrounding it. She leaned forward to watch them and saw her mother’s eyes focus on the ribbon around Mehr’s throat, the lazy shift of her marriage seal against the faded cloth of her tunic.

  “The man,” Ruhi began hesitantly. “Your fellow—servant …”

  “Amun,” Mehr said. “His name is Amun.”

  “Amun,” she agreed. “Amun has been helping the sick and the young settle. The elders like him. I’ve been told he’s a neat mender of clothes.”

  “He is,” Mehr said, feeling a tug in her chest. It wasn’t the bond. It was just pure affection.

  “He’s a gentle soul,” Ruhi said.

  “I know,” Mehr said. “Mother, what are you trying to say to me?”

  “If you don’t want to see him,” her mother said carefully, “you won’t need to. No more than that. There will be clans who choose to leave here when they feel safe to do so. He could be encouraged to go with one of them.”

  “Why wouldn’t I want to see him?” Mehr asked. “You said it yourself, Amun is a good person.”

  “Goodness doesn’t erase bad memories, and I know you shared a dark time together.” Mehr’s mother looked away. “I only mean, Mehr, that no one would blame you if you wanted to begin again. I believe he would understand.”

  Mehr bit her lip. She and Amun hadn’t spoken properly since the day she’d told him she wanted him to leave. Amun had kept his distance—a task that had become easier when the Amrithi had begun arriving and filling the temple—and Mehr had done the same in return.

  I will not be the Maha, she reminded herself. I will not keep him, if he wants to go.

  “I just want him to do what he wants to,” Mehr said. “No more.”

  Even without the maps and instruments of the mystics, the Amrithi elders were confident they could predict the arrival of the next storm. They mapped the stars from memory, discerned their patterns with their eyes. They smelled the storm on the wind and watched the daiva for signs of growing restlessness. They had assured Mehr the next storm was coming soon. The Gods remained unsettled, their dreams rising far too easily to the surface. They would need to be soothed.

  It was Mehr’s duty to prepare for the next storm, so she went to do just that. No one stopped Mehr from walking out into the desert or offered to accompany her. They knew already that she preferred to practice alone. Even the daiva didn’t hover around her, although she knew they were there. One day she would bring other amata-gifted Amrithi out here with her and teach them the rite, but the new peace was still far
too raw and fragile to be disturbed by unwary students. For now, she would have to manage on her own.

  She stretched her muscles, moving through familiar motions to warm her limbs and her blood. She manipulated her hands, shaping the ghosts of sigils on her fingertips. She was barely prepared to begin when she realized Amun was approaching.

  She felt him long before she saw him. The golden thread binding them hummed with the warmth of him. It wound tight within her. She touched her fingers reflexively to her marriage seal. When she looked up he was there, watching her.

  “Amun.”

  “Mehr.”

  He walked toward her. He was wearing a new pale robe. His face was still a little hollowed from his illness, but his scars were silver shadows, only an echo of the vows that no longer held him fast. He looked whole and alive, and Mehr could only drink the sight of him in.

  “I hoped you’d be here,” he said. “I’ve struggled to find you alone.”

  “Have you?” Mehr wondered if her mother had run interference, and cursed inwardly. “I thought you were the busy one. You’ve been making friends,” Mehr noted, her tone gently teasing. “I never thought I’d see the day, but I’m glad of it.”

  “It’s good to be among people I may one day trust,” Amun said.

  “One day?”

  “Give me time.”

  She looked him over.

  “Where did you get those clothes?” she asked. His hair had grown a little longer, she noticed. Her fingers itched to reach up and push one errant curl back from his face.

  “Someone gave them to me.”

  “I gathered,” Mehr said dryly. She found she couldn’t help but smile. “You look nice.”

  Amun smiled back at her. It lit up his face and warmed her like pure sunlight. “Kamal gave them to me, before he left.”

  “He must have liked you.”

  “No. I think he felt sorry for me.” The possibility didn’t seem to bother Amun.

  For the first time, he looked at ease in his own skin. It was as if the breaking of his vows had literally left him lighter.