“Where will you go?” Lalita asked him.
“As far from here as I can,” he said swiftly. “I’ve never been to Chand. Or perhaps I’ll find the coast, cross the sea.” A pause. Then: “You could come, Lalita. See the world with me.”
“Not with you,” Lalita said with a laugh, tossing her hair back. But Mehr could see the yearning in her eyes. Desert life wasn’t one Lalita had chosen. Irinah wouldn’t keep her forever.
They watched Kamal go. When he was no more than a dark speck on the horizon, Lalita let out a sigh.
“Do you think he’ll be safe, Mehr?” she asked.
“I think the world is very changed,” Mehr said. She shook her head. “I just don’t know. I only hope he finds Arwa safe and well.”
Lalita put an arm around Mehr for comfort. They stood like that for a long moment, watching Kamal vanish into the distance, the sunshine beating down on their heads. Then Lalita broke the silence.
“Your mother is looking for you, by the way,” she said. “I hear there’s a great deal to be done.”
There was indeed a great deal that needed to be done. More Amrithi kept arriving at the temple, beckoned by the daiva, the gifted and ungifted alike emerging from hiding and seeking the temple’s shelter. The oasis provided some sustenance, but work had to be done to ensure that the growing clan would be properly cared for. It was the kind of work Mehr knew nothing of and would never be able to assist with helpfully, but her mother seemed determined to involve her in it regardless.
Mehr listened semipatiently as her mother and the elders discussed how the growing conglomeration of clans would be governed, and shared what little fragments of news they’d managed to discover about what was occurring beyond the desert’s borders. The Amrithi who had arrived so far had been by and large normal people. None were wealthy or well connected or in a position to know the direction of the political tides in Jah Irinah or the Empire beyond it. As a result, the clan elders—and Mehr—knew frustratingly little. Scraps. All they had were scraps.
The nobility mourned ostentatiously. In villages and cities across the Empire, its citizens, noble and common alike, buried faceless statues of the Maha and Emperor as one in graves and wept, and wept, and wept. There were rumors that the Maha had not died at all—no matter what wild-eyed mystics claimed—and the Emperor had put a handful of the Maha’s own beloved Saltborn to death for reasons no one had yet been able to explain to Mehr or to the elders. Nightmares and daiva had begun to appear beyond Irinah’s borders. An Amrithi man who’d lived for a number of years in Jah Irinah told Mehr, once, that soldiers had been sent into the desert to retrieve the body of the Maha, but none had returned.
Mehr had thought of Abhiman’s death and asked him no more questions.
Even without scraps of news to guide her, Mehr would have known that the Empire was in tumult. The faith and law had been torn asunder. The strength the Maha had blessed the Empire with was fading. And yet, for all the Maha had done to her for the Empire’s sake, Mehr couldn’t be glad, not entirely, not when so many would suffer the consequences of the Maha’s choices. Not when her own family lived in the Empire. Not when she loved the Empire still, despite herself.
But the Empire’s fate—thank the Gods—was out of her hands now.
When the meeting ended, Mehr’s mother took her hand. “Come with me,” she said. “We should speak alone.”
They walked out onto one of the balconies facing the oasis. Mehr could see Amrithi below, trying to make sense of the irrigation surrounding it. She leaned forward to watch them and saw her mother’s eyes focus on the ribbon around Mehr’s throat, the lazy shift of her marriage seal against the faded cloth of her tunic.
“The man,” Ruhi began hesitantly. “Your fellow—servant …”
“Amun,” Mehr said. “His name is Amun.”
“Amun,” she agreed. “Amun has been helping the sick and the young settle. The elders like him. I’ve been told he’s a neat mender of clothes.”
“He is,” Mehr said, feeling a tug in her chest. It wasn’t the bond. It was just pure affection.
“He’s a gentle soul,” Ruhi said.
“I know,” Mehr said. “Mother, what are you trying to say to me?”
“If you don’t want to see him,” her mother said carefully, “you won’t need to. No more than that. There will be clans who choose to leave here when they feel safe to do so. He could be encouraged to go with one of them.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to see him?” Mehr asked. “You said it yourself, Amun is a good person.”
“Goodness doesn’t erase bad memories, and I know you shared a dark time together.” Mehr’s mother looked away. “I only mean, Mehr, that no one would blame you if you wanted to begin again. I believe he would understand.”
Mehr bit her lip. She and Amun hadn’t spoken properly since the day she’d told him she wanted him to leave. Amun had kept his distance—a task that had become easier when the Amrithi had begun arriving and filling the temple—and Mehr had done the same in return.
I will not be the Maha, she reminded herself.I will not keep him, if he wants to go.
“I just want him to do what he wants to,” Mehr said. “No more.”
Even without the maps and instruments of the mystics, the Amrithi elders were confident they could predict the arrival of the next storm. They mapped the stars from memory, discerned their patterns with their eyes. They smelled the storm on the wind and watched the daiva for signs of growing restlessness. They had assured Mehr the next storm was coming soon. The Gods remained unsettled, their dreams rising far too easily to the surface. They would need to be soothed.
It was Mehr’s duty to prepare for the next storm, so she went to do just that. No one stopped Mehr from walking out into the desert or offered to accompany her. They knew already that she preferred to practice alone. Even the daiva didn’t hover around her, although she knew they were there. One day she would bring otheramata-gifted Amrithi out here with her and teach them the rite, but the new peace was still far too raw and fragile to be disturbed by unwary students. For now, she would have to manage on her own.
