Mehr swallowed around the lump in her throat. Her anger left her abruptly, and left her small.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For everything.”
There was nothing more either of them could say. The door opened. A guardswoman stepped in.
Mehr had run out of time.
CHAPTER SIX
Mehr’s father was already present and seated at the corner of the meeting room. He gestured at Mehr to sit. She kneeled down on the floor cushions facing the entrance and took her time arranging the folds of her robe and her veil. She tried to rid herself of nerves.
The room was a good choice of venue. It was small, but its windows were wide enough for the morning sunlight to pour in. Even with her veil over her eyes, she would be able to see the mystics clearly when they arrived. She wondered if her father had chosen the room for exactly that reason, as a kindness, or if he was simply obeying convention. Perhaps this was the room every Governor’s daughter had met her suitors in. Mehr had no idea. Neither her mother nor Maryam had ever told her what to expect from courtship, and Nahira knew little about the intricacies of courtship among Ambhan nobility.
“Daughter,” said her father. She looked at him. His face was tired, his mouth thin. “Will you meet your suitor?”
“I will,” she said.
He signaled the guardswoman. Moments later she returned, ushering in the female mystic and a tall man dressed in dark robes. Mehr chose to focus on him rather than the woman. He was her suitor, after all. The man who—if a miracle didn’t take place—was going to be her husband.
Like so many of the other mystics Mehr had seen in the Lotus Hall, his face was swathed by cloth. Only his eyes and the bridge of his nose were revealed, but his head was lowered, hiding his gaze. The little of his skin she could see was dark. She couldn’t tell if he was young or old, ugly or handsome. He was simply male, broad-shouldered and intimidating with footsteps that were soft, too soft. He had a predator’s tread.
She watched him walk over to the floor cushions directly across from her. He kneeled down without making a sound. Seated he towered over her, big scarred hands pressed to his knees, his wide shoulders hunched. She found herself wishing for a partition screen between. Even with her veil in place she felt vulnerable and small.
The female mystic seated herself in a corner of the room in the position of a chaperone, just like Mehr’s father. The sight of her made laughter bubble in Mehr’s throat. She held it back. Mehr’s suitor patently required no chaperone. He was no young noble or merchant’s son. He needed no protection, no guidance in the rules of courtship. He was a beast and interloper and apparently he would have her, rules be damned.
But it seemed both the mystics and her father were determined to adhere to convention. The woman cleared her throat.
“I, Kalini, servant of the Maha and the Emperor, have brought the Maha’s favored, Amun, as suitor for Lady Mehr.” She spoke the words in a deep, sonorous voice. If there was one thing the mystic knew how to do, it was to give a ritual its deserved weight. “Does the lady consent to this meeting?”
If Mehr refused now, the mystics would be obliged to leave. If they refused to do so, her father would have every right to defend her honor. He would love the excuse to vent his rage, she was sure of that. The choice was in her hands.
Mehr possessed so very many choices. The choice to run, the choice to stay. The choice to say yes or no, the choice to place Arwa’s neck under the sword alongside hers, or face her fate alone. Layers upon layers of choice, and every single one felt like another cloth pressed over her mouth, slowly suffocating her.
“Daughter,” prompted her father.
“I consent,” Mehr said. Of course she did.
“The suitor may speak,” said her father.
The silence stretched, filling the room from end to end. Time moved in slow, unbearable increments. And then finally Amun spoke.
“Lady Mehr,” he said. “I am honored to meet you at last.”
He didn’t sound honored. His voice was like glass: colorless, smooth, entirely lacking in warmth. She wanted to recoil from it.
“I am the one who is honored,” Mehr said demurely, lying through her teeth. “I am unworthy of the attentions of such a favored servant of the Maha.”
“You have been misled by my holy sister’s kindness. I am a lowly servant in truth.”
“Not so lowly, I think, if the Maha and Emperor have chosen to bless you with the gift of marriage,” said Mehr. “Unless marriage is a common gift granted to your kind? I had thought mystics were celibate, and dedicated to service.”
“We are whatever the Maha bids us to be,” Amun said. “But marriage is a unique gift. I am blessed.”
He didn’t sound like a man who considered himself blessed. Mehr could read nothing in his voice, nor in his lowered, shrouded face. He was a negative space, a void.
The mystic woman, Kalini, was beginning to frown. Her displeasure was much easier to read.
“You must consider yourself blessed too,” she put in. “To gain the Maha’s attention is a beautiful thing, Lady Mehr, a wondrous thing.”
