“I am thankful, beyond thankful, that you have risked your own soul in order to save us all.” Her eyes shone with barely contained emotion. She looked up at Mehr with a face that was all feeling, fierce and broken with love. “We owe you a debt of gratitude, daughter. We can never hope to repay it.”
The Amrithi behind her touched their hands to their foreheads, their chests, in a gesture of respect. Mehr almost wept again at the sight of them.
Her mother stood. “I am so glad you’re safe, Mehr,” she said softly. “I was so afraid you were lost to me.”
“I’m here,” said Mehr. “I’m whole.”
She felt it when Amun’s hand released her own. Her mother embraced her, held her tight, and Amun walked toward the other Amrithi. She saw him murmur something about food and shelter to the silver-haired woman, and then he was gone. Just another robed figure in the crowd.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Dear Arwa, Mehr wrote.
It’s been so long, little sister. I hope you are happy. I miss you. Do you miss me?
I have a good life now, better than I once hoped for. One day I’ll tell you all about it, but I’m sure you’re having adventures of your own now …
Mehr sat in the library. Its shelves were half-ransacked, all the clever silver-dialed instruments long gone. She was sure Edhir had been the one to raid the library. The other mystics had taken useful things, food and fuel and clothing. But Edhir had loved his maps more than all of those things. He would never have left them behind.
She tried not to think too often of what had become of all those mystics: the young and the old, the ones who’d truly believed the Maha was their God and had loved him better than anything in the world. Their world had been shattered, their safe universe of prayer and service and glory utterly destroyed. Mehr did not want to have any sympathy for them, but despite herself, she did.
Hema had been one of them, once.
She sat by the window on a table, legs crossed, writing so hurriedly that the ink kept smearing. There was a daiva on the edge of the window, fluttering lazily, occasionally chirruping. She ignored it.
She told Arwa about her life. Only the good things, for now. Arwa was so young. Perhaps later Mehr would tell her the whole truth. For now she only wrote about the sand, and how it shimmered and spun itself into shapes, for the sheer joy of it. She described the daiva, and the way they were growing stronger, their shadowy forms growing more solid day by day, their numbers growing. She told Arwa that she hoped she would see her very soon. She was still writing when she heard footsteps on the stairs.
Lalita peered in. “He’s ready to leave,” she said. “Come quickly now.”
Mehr picked up the letter carefully, trying not to smudge the ink any more than she already had. She followed Lalita down the stairs toward an exit that led to the desert. Kamal was waiting for them, a pack slung over his shoulder. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Mehr flapping the letter as she walked.
“Is it dry?” he asked.
“It will have to do,” said Mehr, handing it to him. He rolled it up neatly, placing it in his pack beside the letter she’d written for her father.
“If your sister is in Irinah, I’ll deliver it to her. If she isn’t …” Kamal shrugged. “Well, I’ll do my best.” He looked at her narrowly. “You could come as far as Jah Irinah with me, if you like. See if you can find her.”
“I can’t risk leaving,” she said. “Besides, I doubt it would do any good. No doubt they’re far away from Irinah now.”
“No doubt,” he agreed.
Mehr had learned some days ago from the Amrithi that her father was no longer the Governor of Irinah. He had left the province entirely. The news had hit her like a physical blow. Generations of her family had governed Irinah. Now their governance—the blessing they had earned through loyal service to the Emperor and his line—had ended.
She didn’t know if her father had chosen to relinquish his position willingly or if politics had forced him from the role. All her knowledge was fragmented and secondhand; the brief gossip the Amrithi had imparted to her told her nothing of the games of power that must have been played in her father’s court after her departure, or how well her father had fared. She desperately wanted the truth, but she had chosen to dedicate her life to a service that ensured the survival of the world. She couldn’t step beyond Irinah’s borders and seek out her family herself. Secondhand knowledge, then, was all she would ever have.
But ah—her heart ached for him, her father, who had governed Irinah loyally, who had loved her and Arwa so unwisely, who had promised to keep Arwa safe, no matter the cost.
So much was unknown to her now. She had little hope that Kamal would find her father or Arwa. But little hope was stillhope, and Mehr had learned that even the smallest kernel of it, preserved in the darkness, could bloom into a miracle.
“Thank you,” she said to him. “It was a kind offer regardless.”
Kamal’s smile was thin. She knew he still didn’t care much for her.
“You’ll be missed,” Lalita told him gently.
“More Amrithi arrived this morning,” Kamal said to her, his expression warming. It was hard to dislike Lalita. “You won’t be short of company for long. And I’ll send messages, of course.”
Amrithi had been making their way to the temple for the last few days, following the guidance of the daiva, the whispers on the wind. Many seemed determined to stay, hungry for the security and promise the temple now offered them. But some—Kamal included—had decided to leave.We’ll need to know what’s happening in the Empire, if we’re to protect ourselves, he’d told Mehr’s mother, and she and the elders had agreed. But really, Mehr thought he simply wanted to see the world beyond Irinah’s borders. The Empire was still far from a safe place for the Amrithi, but Kamal could travel through it now without fearing for the clan he’d left behind. The Amrithi had a home again: a safe haven, cradled on the backs of the Gods.
