She knew her father loved her. But Mehr knew, too, that love would not be enough to sway him from his decision.
Mehr would have to marry.
A daughter belonged to her father’s household until the day she reached adulthood and her seal was placed in her hands. Ambhan noblewomen did not make contracts; they did not own property or offer their loyalty or their service. They were treasured and sheltered, protected by their men. But their right to choose their own husband was sacred, and the choice could not be taken from them.
When her fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth years had passed with no mention of marriage or her seal, Mehr had been grateful for her father’s kindness. Amrithi did not make contracts, but as a noblewoman, Mehr had always known she would eventually be required to wed, but she had hoped to find a husband in Irinah. She’d hoped to stay close to Arwa and to the desert she loved. At the very least, she’d hoped for time. Time to watch Arwa grow. Time to come to terms with the business of tying her soul to another man’s soul, and leaving the life she had so carefully carved for herself in her father’s household.
All that had changed now.
In finally giving Mehr her seal, her father had placed a bitter message squarely in her hands:Marry whom you choose. You’re not mine to keep any longer.
It’s time for you to be gone.He had ensured that she would never have the husband and home in Irinah she’d hoped for.
She knew what was coming: carefully chaperoned meetings with lowly courtiers and wealthy merchants, first in Hara and then Numriha. Mehr wouldn’t choose any of them. Not at first. And then, inevitably, Mehr would relent. Give in. No Ambhan woman could be forced to marry, but there were many ways in the world to make a person bend. Time would wear her down. She would choose one of the men and give him her seal. Once he placed his own seal around her neck, once their lineages and their bodies were joined, she would be bound for life to an alien land. Exiled for good.
The thought of leaving Irinah left her hollow and full of unanswerable fears. She would not be able to keep her Amrithi traditions, she knew that now. She would be forced to discard her mother’s culture to keep herself—and her family—safe from the Emperor’s displeasure. But what kind of marriage would she have, built as it would be on deceits large and small? What kind of man would she find herself wedded to?
What if she never returned to Irinah—never saw its desert and its storms? What if she never sawArwaagain?
It was a painful thought, sharpened to a knife edge by the knowledge that she had been losing Arwa slowly for years. Maryam had made sure of that.
Grief welled up hot in her blood again. She bit down on her lower lip, holding it in. Maryam had been right after all. Her father had finally stopped letting his guilt control him. Fear had taken its place. Mehr understood his fear. She had felt it in her own bones. The Amrithi were not safe in Irinah. Clans had vanished; Lalita was gone; Usha was dead. Mehr was simply not Ambhan enough to be safe in this household, this land, any longer.
But she was Ambhan enough to be sent away. Ambhan enough to marry and leave Irinah, and pretend to be the good noblewoman she was not.
When Mehr lay back down on the divan, when she curled up like a creature inside its own shell, the edges of the seal pressed into her skin. Mehr breathed against its weight, slow and steady, and tried not to feel like a chained animal, tried not to feel like she was drowning. She tried to feel nothing at all.
A week passed before anyone disturbed her grieving, full of nothing but sleep and tears and the slow wait for her heart to knit back together. She had half expected Maryam to come and gloat, but it was Nahira who hobbled into her bedroom one dull evening without so much as a greeting.
“Oh, no need to stop your wailing for my sake,” she said, when Mehr scrambled off the divan and onto her feet. “But now you’re up, you’d best make yourself presentable. I’ve brought you a visitor.”
Mehr hastily wiped her face clean. She heard a sound from beyond the door, and then a delighted cry.
“Mehr!”
Arwa rushed toward her and leaped up into her arms. She knocked Mehr off balance instantly. They both fell back on the divan, but Arwa held on tight, muttering joyful nonsense against Mehr’s ear. She was warm and smelled of rosewater and her knees were sharp where they dug into Mehr’s sides. Mehr pressed a palm to the back of Arwa’s head, like she had when Arwa was a baby and needed the support of firm hands to hold her steady.
“Hello, little sister,” she murmured. Her heart was light, so light. “What are you doing here?”
“She insisted on coming to see you,” Nahira said. “Complain, complain, that’s all the girl does. Right now for a moment of peace I’d have taken her to the Emperor himself.”
“Where have youbeen?” Arwa cried out, oblivious to her nurse’s grumbling. Her eyes shined. “It’s been ages and ages, and I kept waiting for you to come see me, and you didn’t.” Her grip tightened.
“I’m sorry,” said Mehr. “I would have come, but I was …” She hesitated. “I was in trouble.”
“How?”
“I disobeyed Father and he told me to stay in my chambers.”
“You’re too old to be punished,” Arwa said stoutly.
“I’m notthatold, Arwa.”
“Is that why you were crying?” Arwa asked. “Because you were punished?” She brushed her fingertips against Mehr’s cheeks.
Mehr shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. Her sudden lightness was fragile. She didn’t want to shatter it, and she certainly didn’t want to pour out her troubles to her little sister. “Tell me, Arwa, did you see the storm?”
It was an obvious attempt to change topic, but Arwa responded with an eager barrage of information.
