The sand was reshaping beneath her footsteps. With every step, it was flaring out in circles, flattening to match the shape of her tread. Her breath caught. The way it moved, coiling out in spirals beneath her feet, reminded her of the way dreamfire had clung to her ankles on the night of the storm. The sand was quietly, vibrantlyalive. In the darkness it gleamed like embers, rich with storm and starlight. The awe filled Mehr up from head to toe. For a moment, one ridiculous moment, she felt like she could walk in this desert forever. This was what the Irin believed the Ambhans had driven out of Jah Irinah: beauty in the earth, ethereal and strange, born without even a storm of dreamfire to bring it into bloom.
As the night deepened and the temperature plummeted, Mehr began to see faint lights from villages on the edges of Jah Irinah in the distance. But the mystics steered clear of them and stopped to make camp deep into the desert, where the lights were fainter than starlight. Tents were erected and a fire was lit. One man paced the edges of the encampment, his dark robe melting into the black of the night. The rest waited in silence.
He trudged back to the fireside and kneeled down. “All’s quiet,” he said. Then he peeled the cloth back from his face.
It wasn’t long before the other mystics followed suit, baring their faces and sharing provisions between themselves as they talked in low voices. Without their faces covered, they were not as alien or as fierce as they had appeared to be in the city. Mehr watched them from the far edge of the fireside, the night cold against her back. They were men. Just men, some with fair skin and some with dark, their faces unmarked, their smiles easy. They were nothing like Amun, who stood at the far edge of the camp, his face still covered and his eyes fixed on some far point in the distance.
“You should come closer to the fire,” a voice said.
One of the mystics was looking back at her. He was young, his skin the color of parched earth, and his eyes were kind. He gestured at the ground beside him. “You must be cold.”
Mehr moved closer, taking the spot he had offered. The conversation went quiet as she joined the circle but picked up again when Mehr simply raised her hands to warm them against the heat of the flames. The mystic at her side snapped his flatbread in two and offered her a piece. Too hungry to refuse, Mehr took it from him. “Thank you,” she said.
“You can take that off, if you like.” He gestured at the cloth around her face. “It might be more comfortable.”
“I don’t think it would be right,” said Mehr. The mystic looked at her askance. “Ambhan noblewomen don’t show their faces to people who aren’t family.” It was strange enough to be talking to this man, who was no blood to her, no husband, no guard—nothing. “I mean no offense by it.”
“Just family?” he asked. Mehr nodded. The mystic appeared to consider this, chewing meditatively. “Well. Then there’s no problem at all. We’re all family here. Brothers and sisters in service to the Empire.”
I have a sister, Mehr thought.A true sister.But she said nothing.
“We were all orphans, or as good as that, before we came to service,” he went on earnestly. “My mother wasn’t married when I was born, and her family rejected her—and me. I was blessed to be given a home and a purpose by the Maha. He made me more than a bastard.”
Bastard.It was an ugly word, and one that Mehr had heard far too often in the past. It curdled in Mehr’s stomach. But she said nothing, only nodded in encouragement so that he would continue.
“Now we are one,” he said. “A whole.” He shaped a circle in the sand with one finger. The sand rustled at his touch, then settled with a shiver like an indrawn breath. “I’m sure you’ll grow to be happy with us,” he added gently.
Did he think she would be happy with them because she was like him—illegitimate, abastard? Or was he simply trying to comfort her? From the soft look in his eyes, she thought his motivation had probably been pity.
Mehr stiffened, suddenly angry with herself. She’d clearly done a poor job of playing the obedient new bride. She must have been exuding misery, trudging through the sand with her shoulders hunched and her hands in fists, not talking to a soul. She would have to make a conscious effort to hide her emotions in the future. There were so many ways, after all, that they could be used against her.
“If we’re family, I should know your name, shouldn’t I?” Mehr said.
“Edhir,” he replied.
“Edhir,” she repeated. “My name is Mehr.”
“I know,” he said, and instantly looked embarrassed.
One of the other mystics laughed. Kalini was talking to one of them now on the other side of the fire, a smile playing on her mouth. Her eyes met Mehr’s through the flames. Mehr looked down.
She didn’t know how to keep herself safe among these people. At least within the walls of the women’s quarters she had possessed a measure of power. She’d known the dangers she faced. Now only unknown dangers lay around her, ahead of her, and she had no idea how to protect herself. She tried to distract herself from dark thoughts by sifting the sand between her fingers. As it touched her skin, it almost seemed to brighten.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Edhir said. His voice was quieter now. The color on his face had deepened. He wanted earnestly to be kind to her, it seemed. But Mehr was not sure she could trust appearances.
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen,” she said.
On his other side, another mystic leaned forward to look at Mehr. He was older than the rest, with features weathered into permanent grimness that he tried to soften with a grin. He didn’t succeed.
“Our little family is named for the desert,” he said. “Has the boy told you that yet?”
Edhir made a sound of protest.
“The boy fancies himself a scholar,” said the older mystic. “Always reading. He’s barely talked to a woman.”
“I have barely ever talked to a man,” Mehr said, drawn into defending him against her will. “I can hardly judge him.”
The mystic barked out a laugh. “As you say,” he said. “My name is Bahren. Emperor’s grace on you, sister.”
