The look he gave her, as he turned back, was utterly incredulous.
“Don’t you sense the storm coming?”
“Of course I sense it,” Mehr said. “I’m merely wondering what my mother fears. What did she think could have happened to me?” She cocked her head to the side thoughtfully, looking at Kamal narrowly through the glare of the sun. “The Maha is unlikely to find me here.”
His lips thinned.
“There are dangers in the storm. Apparently she wants to protect you from them.”
“The nightmares,” she said. “You mean the nightmares.”
When he simply stared at her, uncomprehending, she touched her fingers to the nape of her neck. “The fury you feel at the back of your skull. The pale thing, the force that has flesh. You’ve felt it, haven’t you?”
Mehr hadn’t thought it possible, but somehow the look of dislike on Kamal’s face seemed to intensify. No matter. Mehr didn’t need him to like her. She simply needed him to listen to her.
“Go inside,” he said in response. “Don’t come out until you’re told to.”
“I could make them go away,” Mehr told him. “You know that.”
“I know that I’ve done what my Tara has bid me,” he snapped. “And now I want to return to my clan. Are you finished?”
“My mother believes the Maha will find another gifted Amrithi to replace me,” Mehr continued calmly, refusing to let him sway her. “But he hasn’t, and he won’t. I know my mother fears I’ll try to return to him because of my vows, but that isn’t what you fear, is it?” She met his eyes, unwavering. “You fear what the nightmares of the Gods will do, without someone to control them. You fear mestaying.”
“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” Kamal said, which was as good as ayes. “I do what my Tara bids. That’s all.”
“It does matter,” Mehr insisted. “You’re not wrong to be afraid. But I can make things better. All I ask is that you convince your Tara not to come here tonight. Tell her your clan needs her this storm. Please.”
“So you can sneak back to your master? No.” His voice was flint. But he didn’t walk away.
Mehr crossed the sand toward him. She gazed at him steadily, thinking of Amun, of the deep red of his pain as he suffered far beyond her reach. She thought of the nightmares, their flat eyes, their malevolence. She knew what had to be done.
“Kamal,” she said softly. “It’s in all our best interests that I go back to him.”
She stepped even closer, until she was looking up at him, raising her head to meet wary eyes. “The one who shared the burden of service with me is as good as dead, and if you fear the nightmares now, you have no grasp of how much worse they’re going to become.” Mehr didn’t blink. Didn’t allow herself to waver. “I know. I’ve felt them.”
Kamal still looked wary, but some of the brittleness was gone from his voice when he spoke again. “I don’t lie to the Tara.”
“Her heart is leading her astray,” Mehr said. “Her heart is lying to her. She loves me. She can’t help her nature. But you understand.Youknow what needs to be done.” Mehr pressed on. “Just tell her not to come. That’s all I ask.”
A moment passed. Another. Then finally, Kamal gave a small nod.
As he walked away, Mehr crossed her own arms, holding herself as if the day were cold instead of sweltering.
What am I doing?
Some part of her had known it would come to this. When her mother had told her the cost of her freedom—when the storm had fallen, and the daiva had whirled in their fury around her—she’d known.
Perhaps even before then. When she’d stood in the desert alone and told a distant Amun that she would come back for him, that she wouldn’t leave him bound alone and in pain to the Maha’s service. She’d rested long enough. It was time for her to finally face her reckoning.
She had to go back. For his sake. For her own. For everyone’s.
“My choice,” she whispered. “This is my choice.”
Mehr waited until the desert had just begun to cool, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, then left the safety of her shelter. She walked away from the shelter, her boots sinking into the sand, which shivered and clung to her as if it didn’t quite know how best to behave. A heartbeat of time passed. She heard a voice call her name.
“Mehr. Stop.”
She turned, throat tight, and saw her mother. Ruhi rose from the ground where she’d been kneeling, waiting for Mehr, hidden by her dun-colored robe and her own careful stillness. Behind her stood Lalita, her own face tight with grief.
