When she felt him move, she thought she was dreaming.
Then his hand curled tight around her own.
She shot upright. Heart in her throat, she looked down at his face. His eyes were unfocused, pained by the light. Blinking hard, he slowly began to focus.
“Mehr,” he rasped. “Mehr.”
“Amun.” She clasped his hand tighter in return. She was trembling. “I’m here.”
“Mehr. The Maha. Can’t—feel. Him.”
“I know, Amun.” Now that she was looking at him in the clear light of day, she could see that the scars of his vows had lost their color, had faded to thin white traceries on his skin. Their master was gone, and the power of the vows scarred onto his skin had gone with him.
“The Maha …”
“He’s gone,” Mehr said, her heart so full, so very full. “He’s dead, Amun. We’re free.”
There would be time enough to tell him everything later. For now it was enough to see the smile that dawned on his face and the light that grew in his eyes. For now it was enough to have his hand reach up to touch her tangled hair and feel his mouth against hers, the vow between them humming with life, golden and strong.
They rested and ate first. Then, much later, Mehr told Amun all she could. Amun listened silently, asking no questions until Mehr’s voice faded, until she shook her head and told him that she had explained everything she knew.
“The daiva protect you now?” he asked. “They won’t allow anyone to harm you?”
“I made no vows to them,” Mehr said. “But they made vows to me, and I think they’ve decided to keep them, bargain or no bargain.”
Amun looked unbearably relieved.
“You could go home,” he told her. “You could see your family. Your sister.”
Mehr felt a pang in her chest. “No. I can’t. I have to stay. I have to perform the rite again,” she explained. “Every storm. The Gods’ fury won’t be so easily quelled, and the balance will take a long time to be restored. I need to maintain the peace. I’m the only one who can.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“Perhaps one day I’ll teach other Amrithi with the gift,” she said, shrugging, looking carefully down at her hands so she wouldn’t need to meet his eyes. She would need to. One day. “But who would learn now? There are so few of us left, and it’s an anathema act. Still, there will be time enough, I expect. I’m young yet.”
“Mehr.” Amun’s voice was sharp. Mehr looked at him. “Don’t pretend you misunderstand me. I can take up the burden. I’ve performed the rite all my life.”
“No, Amun,” Mehr said softly. “I would never ask that of you.”
“I’m a free man now,” Amun said. “It would be my choice.”
His gaze was so steady, so clear. Mehr forced herself not to look away.
“You’ve sacrificed enough for me, Amun.”
“My choice,” he repeated. “Don’t you consider choices sacred, Mehr?”
“Ah, Gods.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Opened them. “You’ve been trapped in the heart of a nightmare since you were nothing but a child. And now you’refree. Don’t you see, Amun? The thought of you staying in this place, forcing yourself to perform the rite for my sake …” She paused, struggling to speak through her feelings. “Amun,” she whispered finally. “It would shatter me.”
Mehr stood abruptly. She didn’t want to hear his protests. “You need more water,” she said, “and more food.”
She searched through the supplies they’d scavenged earlier. The mystics had taken almost everything when they’d fled, but there had been water and a little food left. Enough to last them a few weeks. She poured some water into their cups, then carefully peeled spiked fruit and carried it over to him. By the time she returned to him, she’d found some of the words she needed.
“If you had a choice, if it weren’t for me,” she said, “would you perform the rites—any of them—ever again? Would you set foot in this temple? Or would you go somewhere else, far away from here, and begin again?”
When he was silent, she said, “I thought so.”
“Mehr,” he said sharply. “We’re vowed to each other. Does that mean nothing?”
