Then she began speaking again. There was so much to tell, and the telling was an act like forcing poison from a wound: painful but utterly necessary. She told Lalita, haltingly, that she and Amun had made their own vows to each other. Vows of love and flesh and choice, more sacred than any other vows they’d ever had inflicted upon them. And Amun had known: Amun had risked everything to set Mehr free.
“I ran,” Mehr finished, when she had no more words. “In the end I ran, and you know the rest. You found me.”
She didn’t mention the daiva and her strange fever-dream of its veiled face, its humanness, its hunger for her tears. Somehow, despite the fact that she’d bared her soul to Lalita, the daiva felt like a secret. Even the thought of speaking of it made the words wither on her tongue.
“I want to believe you,” Lalita said.
“Do you think I’m lying?” Mehr demanded.
“I think you believe your own words. But trusting that the vows you made to the Maha are shattered—Mehr, it’s more than I dare hope for.”
Mehr nodded. She couldn’t argue with Lalita’s belief. She could feel that the vow holding her to the Maha had been cleaved through, just as she could feel the ache of the bond between her and Amun, but these things were invisible to Lalita—to anyone but Mehr herself.
Lalita’s gaze was soft with compassion. “I must leave you now,” she said. “But your mother will be here soon. Prepare yourself, if you can.”
“What is she like?” Mehr asked.
“A great deal like you,” Lalita said.
For some reason, Mehr didn’t find that particularly comforting.
It was Kamal who entered the tent first, carrying a lantern. He gave Mehr a level look as he settled the lantern on the ground in front of her and moved to sit to her left. His presence felt like a warning. Mehr wasn’t to be trusted, not yet, and certainly not with their clan’s Tara.
Tara.Mehr’s mother. She couldn’t quite believe it.
A moment later, a woman entered. The first thing Mehr noticed, as her mother ducked inside, her form half hidden by the shadows thrown by the lantern light, was how unassuming she was. She was average height, dressed in dun-colored robes, her face hidden by her hood. She wasn’t dressed in the finery Mehr had come to expect of a leader, and there was nothing proud or regal in her bearing or in the way she looked slowly around the tent, head moving from side to side, before carefully lowering back her hood. She could have been any of the Amrithi who had circled Mehr earlier.
Then she stepped into the lantern light, hood lowered, and Mehr’s heart nearly stopped. She was frozen between breaths, looking into the face before her.
Ruhi, her mother, Tara and Amrithi, was not exactly beautiful. Her face lacked the idealized Ambhan delicacy that beauty required. Instead she had the kind of bold looks that caught the eye and held it. Her cheekbones were high, her nose strong, her mouth full; her skin had the richness of soil after rain. There were hints of silver in her curling hair, and fine lines etched around her mouth, but that made the resemblance no less striking.
Mehr had seen her own reflection: in mirrors, in the oasis, in the dreamfire when she had seen through Amun’s eyes. But she had never seen herself as clearly as she did in that moment, looking into the face that had shaped her own.
The Tara smiled tentatively. Her eyes were sad.
“Hello, Mehr,” said her mother. Her voice was rich. It was exactly the voice Mehr remembered from her childhood. It was the voice that had sung her to sleep and told her stories she’d held dear all the long, long years since her mother had left her. Listening to her mother’s voice made Mehr feel like a child, small and hopeful and helpless, heart an ache in her chest.
“Mother,” she whispered.
Her mother’s dark eyes traced every inch of her face.
“Oh, Mehr,” she said. “You’ve grown so much. I knew you would, of course. But … you are a grown woman now, aren’t you?”
Mehr swallowed. “Yes,” she said.
“And Arwa? How is Arwa?”
“When I left Jah Irinah, she was—well.” She thought of Arwa’s warm weight in her arms. The smell of her hair, her curiosity, her solemnness and her playfulness. How could she possibly describe all of what Arwa was, to a woman who had not seen her since she was a baby? “She’s a bright girl. Very sweet. Good-hearted.”
“Good,” her mother said, nodding. “That’s good.”
A brief silence fell. After a moment of hesitation, Mehr’s mother kneeled down across from her. Mehr watched the way she clasped her hands tightly together on her lap.
“Lalita told me what became of you, among the Saltborn,” her mother said. “Mehr, I am so very sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault, what was done to me.”
“If I had known you had my gift …” Ruhi shook her head. “Ah, it’s too late now. I won’t force you to ease an old woman’s regret.”
