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?”
