Mehr felt nothing for him. Not even pity.
“Some men believe there is no greater immortality than blood,” the daiva observed. “Even when they die, as they must, they hope their blood will survive.”
The images faded. The daiva drew its shaded flesh back, coiling it back into a simulacrum of fingers. It watched her with its prayer-flame eyes, still and silent, as if a storm weren’t raging in a great circle around. It watched her as if they had all the time in the world.
“Men,” the daiva said, “are so often fools.”
“Do you want to punish me for the heresy I have committed?” Mehr asked. She held her head high, trembling a little, the eyes of all those daiva and pale nightmares following her every movement. “I know that binding the dreams of your forefathers is wrong. Daiva, I am sorry for it, but I can’t relent. I must try to perform the Maha’s rite. I must try to keep this world whole. Please don’t stop me. I beg you.”
“We do not care about heresy,” the daiva said. “That is a mortal concept.”
“Why have you come for me, then?” Mehr asked.
“Because we care about balance,” the veiled daiva told her. “We who are the sunrise and sunset, life and death, good and evil. We desire order. The man called Maha shattered the balance. He weakened us. He fed on the good dreams of our mothers and fathers and left their dark dreams caged, feral and alone. That was wrong of him.”
“He did many things that were wrong,” Mehr said in a small voice.
“The nightmares must be free,” the daiva said. Its voice held the compassion of Hema’s, the implacableness of Nahira’s. “You should not stop that.”
No. Mehr would not accept it, would not let the world burn.
“Should not or cannot?” Mehr demanded.
The daiva tilted its head again. It didn’t appear angry.
“Do you respect the will of your ancestors?” it asked.
“I can’t let the world die,” Mehr said.
“All things want to live,” the veiled daiva agreed. “So do we.” A susurration ran through the watching circle. “So we ask you for a trade. Daiva to mortal.”
The daiva was suddenly very close to Mehr, close enough that Mehr could discern the sunburst of its bright eyes and the ever-shifting contours of its face beneath the veil.
“Use the rite the Maha turned to his own purposes. Use it to return the world to balance, as it was always intended to be used.”
“Can I do that? Return the balance with the rite?” Mehr asked, full of wonder. “The Maha told us the Rite of the Bound was for two people. That it was an act of creation, not an act of balance.”
“You can,” said the daiva. “You, the Amrithi withamata. Or you, alone, here and now, because there is no one else.”
Mehr saw a great set of scales in her mind’s eye, heavy with dreams. Good dreams. Ill dreams. A world balanced by unknowable forces, by waves of stars that sped beneath the closed eyes of sleeping immortals. Her breath caught.
“The rite was a gift once,” the daiva said. Its voice was a woman’s voice, soft with regret. “From an immortal mother to a mortal daughter. It was a promise that all darkness would pass, and all suns would set. It was a gift of hope. It can be a gift again.”
The daiva opened its fist. An obsidian blade, Amrithi in design, sat upon its palm. A gem, pale as tears, lay embedded in its hilt. The daiva took the blade in one hand and carved open its palm. The shadows of its skin peeled back to reveal stars whirling under the surface, galaxies bursting into miniature life. Mehr’s breath caught.
“My blood,” the daiva said. “I make this vow on my blood. Make the Gods sleep, little daughter. Lull them back into slumber. Ask them for nothing but this. Do not cage their nightmares or demand their gifts. Teach them peace. Dedicate your life to this service. Maintain your vigil whenever the dreamfire falls, and when you are prepared, teach others withamatato share your burden. It will be a long vigil, but if you choose to serve, we will do more than forbid harming you. In return for your service we will protect you, and as the keeper of balance, we will enthrone you. You will be the first among Taras, the first in your own dynasty. We will give you the glory an Ambhan man once reshaped the world for.” The daiva’s blood dripped to the ground, shattering like glass. “Will you take my vow, small one? Will you take it to give you the strength to do what must be done?”
Mehr looked at the daiva’s star-strewn blood. She looked into its eyes.
“What are you?” Mehr whispered. “You’re no small bird-daiva. Nothing I’ve ever known.”
“When we were worshipped, I was called Elder Mother,” the veiled daiva told her. “I wept for my children, who were mortal and soon lost to me. Now I have no children, no tears, no name. But you may call me Elder, if you wish, because that at least is still true.”
“Elder,” Mehr said. “Forgive me. I can’t bargain with you.”
The daiva chimed around her. The nightmares howled. Mehr winced, closing her eyes, holding her strength close. She opened them again.
“I’ll do as you ask,” she continued. “I’ll dance the rite. I’ll beg the Gods for peace. I’ll dedicate my life to the task, if I must. But I will not make a vow again. I will not bind my soul, not for anything. Certainly not for the hope of human glory.” She thought of Amun: his blue-limned sigils, the deep darkness of his eyes. “My last vows … I hold them sacred. I will never hold any above them. That was a promise I made to myself, and I will not break it.”
