Mehr lay next to Amun as the dawn lightened the sky. Amun was quiet. She could feel his eyes on her, drinking her in.
Her body felt different. Warm, wrung out with trauma and with joy. The sigil on her chest was burning, stretching its roots deep under her skin as it shifted and changed with the force of a vow made permanent. Her fate was sealed into her skin now.
She didn’t think of Hema, of Arwa, of anyone or anything at all. She listened to Amun breathe. She thought of the cage that had closed in around them.
They could no longer use the rite to try to win their freedom. All their escape plans—the sigils they’d strung together, the knowledge they’d carefully gleaned, the map they’d redrawn in kohl … it was all a waste. They were utterly bound, by body and by soul.
She fanned a hand thoughtlessly over her stomach, felt the heat of her own skin.
“You don’t have to fear,” Amun said. His voice was hoarse. All his agony had faded, but its ghost was still there, in his eyes.
“I have a lot to fear,” Mehr said wryly. “We both do.”
“No.” A moment of hesitation. Then he placed a hand over her hand, covering her bare stomach.
“You won’t …” He hesitated. “There’s no need to worry.”
Mehr sucked in a breath and nodded. She hadn’t even considered it. She should have sought out the herbs she needed, the bitter greens that Lalita had shown her once and warned her she would need someday.
“There are no children born here,” Mehr said. It wasn’t a question. She knew, suddenly; she was sure. “Why wouldn’t he have his Amrithi create him new servants, if he could?” she said out loud, wondering. “He can’t, can he?”
“He tried, with her,” said Amun. “The woman who came before you. He’d tried before too.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “In the end, he decided the rite was to blame. The dreamfire used in that way was … too much.”
Amun had told her that the Rite of the Bound took a toll. She’d felt its impact after the last storm. She hadn’t considered what other consequences the act of becoming a vessel for immortal fire could have on the human body.
“I am sorry for what has been done to you, Mehr,” Amun said in a low voice.
“Don’t you be sorry,” Mehr said, something savage in her voice. She turned, pressing her face to his skin. “Not you.”
The physicians came and took Amun away. He went without complaint, quiet and lumbering like the beast she knew he wasn’t, unsteady on his exhausted legs. Left on her own, wishing keenly that he were with her still as her scar thrummed and burned, Mehr went down the stairs. Bahren was waiting for her.
“I can tell him truthfully that you obeyed,” Bahren said. He looked profoundly uncomfortable, and profoundly tired. He must have stayed up all night, standing guard at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Mehr and Amun to obey the Maha’s orders.
She didn’t ask how intently he had listened to them. She didn’t ask what he had—or had not—heard. He had done the kindness of giving her a little dignity. That had to be enough.
“Thank you,” Mehr said quietly. She crossed her arms, looking around the dark hallway. Somewhere she heard the bells ring, calling the mystics to morning prayers. Soon there would be people walking the corridors, dressed in their dark robes. The girls—Rena, even Anni (Mehr’s stomach dropped;Anni, that traitor, that wretch)—would already be up and dressed, the morning food cooked. But Hema would not be with them.
We both watched Hema die, she thought suddenly.We both saw her die, and it’s as if nothing happened at all.
“The Maha will want to see me, won’t he?” she asked.
“He’s asked for you,” Bahren said.
He’d asked for Mehr, and Mehr alone. She was grateful Amun was gone and wouldn’t know she was facing their master alone. She nodded and tried, desperately, to muster all the tatters of her courage around her like a screen, a veil, a wall. But it was hard to be brave. She had seen blood and betrayal and felt love even in the dark despair. She could feel Amun still, the echo of him in her sore flesh. She could feel the Maha too in the mark on her chest that burned and burned. She was a raw nerve with nothing to protect her from what she had chosen, and what had been done to her.
“I will see him whenever he wills it, of course,” she said. As if she had a choice.
Bahren led her down the corridors toward the Maha’s private chambers. Mehr had no fond memories of those rooms, but she followed obediently regardless. Bahren slowed until they were walking side by side. Although Mehr did not raise her head, she knew that other mystics, making their way to prayer, watched from the edges of the corridor. She wondered how many of them knew what happened. How Hema had died.
Bahren spoke.
“I don’t know how you tricked him,” Bahren said, his voice so low even she strained to hear it, walking close by his side. She doubted the other mystics could hear a word. “You and the boy did a foolish thing, a horribly foolish thing. I blame you less than him, because you are young and sheltered. He was wrong to lead you astray. Perhaps the Maha will show you a higher level of mercy accordingly.”
“I think,” Mehr said tightly, “that my husband has paid a high enough price for our foolishness.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. She was reminded of his age. Once, he must have been a lost child, like all the other mystics had been: orphaned or abandoned, or disgraced for illegitimacy, trapped in poverty by circumstances beyond his control, until the day the Maha had taken him into service and raised him up. How long had he served the Maha? How much had he seen? How much did he know?
Enough that he was trusted. Enough that his word was enough to convince the Maha that Mehr’s loyalty was finally, truly, embedded in her skin.
