“A little part of you is,” Mehr told her. “You see, when the Gods first went to their long sleep, they left their children the daiva behind upon the earth. The daiva were much stronger then. They weren’t simply small animal-spirits. Instead they walked the world like men. They had children with humans, and those children were the first Amrithi, our mother’s people.” She recited the tale from memory, words that weren’t her own tripping off her tongue more smoothly than they had any right to. It had been many years since she’d last had Amrithi tales told to her. “Before the daiva weakened, when they were still truly the strong and terrifying sons and daughters of Gods, they made a vow to protect their descendants, and to never willingly harm them.” She showed Arwa the thin mark on her thumb, no longer bleeding. “When we give them a piece of our flesh, we’re reminding them of their vow. And, little sister, a daiva’s vow is unbreakable.”
Arwa took hold of her hand, holding it near the glow of the lantern so she could give it a thorough, grave inspection.
“That sounds like a children’s story,” she said finally, her tone faintly accusing, as if she were sure Mehr was telling her one of the soft lies people told their young.
“Itisa children’s story,” said Mehr. “Our mother told it to me when I was a child myself, and I’ve never forgotten it. But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
“I don’t know if my blood will work like yours,” Arwa said doubtfully. She pressed her thumb gently against Mehr’s. Where Mehr’s skin was dark like earth after rain, Arwa’s skin was a bare shade warmer than desert sand. “I don’t look like you, do I?”
“Our blood is just the same,” Mehr said quietly. “I promise.” She squeezed Arwa’s hand in hers, once, tightly. Then she stepped back.
“Tell Nahira it’s safe to return,” she said to the guardswoman. “I’m going back to my chambers.”
The guardswoman edged back in fear. She trembled slightly.
If Mehr had been in a more generous mood, she would, perhaps, have told the guardswoman that Irinah was not like the other provinces of the Empire. Perhaps she would have told the guardswoman that what she so derisively called Irin superstition was in truth Irin practicality. In Irinah, the daiva had not faded into myth and history, as they had elsewhere. Weakened though they were, the daiva were holy beings, and it was wise to treat them with both wariness and reverence when one came upon them on Irin soil.
But Mehr was not in a generous mood. She was tired, and the look on the guardswoman’s face had left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Never mind,” said Mehr. “I’ll go.”
“Daiva aren’t real,” the guardswoman said blankly, as Mehr swept past her. “They’re a barbarian superstition.”
Mehr didn’t even deign to answer her. She walked out into the hallway, Arwa scampering after her, the lamp swinging wildly in her grip. As they left the nursery, Nahira swept Arwa up into her arms and one of the maids plucked the lamp deftly away. Mehr kept on walking until Arwa called out her name, holding out her arms again in a way that made Mehr’s traitorous heart twist inside her chest and her legs go leaden beneath her.
It would be best, she told herself, to keep walking. It would be best not to look back. She did not want to be punished. She did not wantArwato be punished.
“Don’t go,” Arwa said in a small voice. “Can’t you stay just one time?”
Mehr stopped. If she turned back—if she stayed—Maryam would ensure that she would not be allowed to visit Arwa again for a long, long time.
Mehr took a deep breath, turned, and walked back to her sister regardless. She closed her eyes and pressed one firm kiss to Arwa’s forehead. Her skin was soft; her hair smelled like rosewater.
“Get some sleep,” she said to her. “Everything will be better when you wake up.”
“Go,” Nahira said. “I’ll take care of her, my lady.” A pause, as Arwa struggled and Mehr hesitated, her feet frozen in place by a compulsion she couldn’t name. “Lady Maryam will be awake soon,” Nahira said, and that, at last, broke the spell. Mehr turned and walked swiftly back toward her room. She could hear Arwa crying behind her, but as she had told the maidservant Sara, children were often distressed. The hurt would pass. Soon Arwa would forget she had ever been sad at all.
In the privacy of her own chambers, Mehr bathed and dressed, one single yawning maid helping her to oil the wild mass of her hair and braid it back from her face. She could have gone back to sleep, but that seemed pointless now. Her stepmother would be calling for her soon enough.
As the maid wound thread through her braid to hold it in place, Mehr stared out of the lattice wall of her living room. Hollowed out in the shapes of leaves and flowers, it gave Mehr a clear view of the city of Jah Irinah and the desert beyond it. She looked at the sandstone of the city, the gold of the desert, and the clear sky above it and thought:There’s a storm coming.
There hadn’t been a true storm in Jah Irinah in years, but Mehr knew when one was on its way. There was Amrithi enough in her for that. The daiva had been the first sign of it. The city was no place for its kind, and yet the bird-spirit had come. Mehr was sure it had flown to Arwa’s window on the first sharp, invisible winds of the coming storm, dreamfire under its wings. Soon enough more daiva would arrive, followed by rising sand and a fall of dreamfire to cloak Jah Irinah in light.
The daiva’s scent still clung to Mehr’s senses like a warning, a portent of things to come. It was no surprise to her when a maid arrived, holding a message delivered by courier moments before. The message was brief, to the point.
I’m coming. Important news.
“Bring refreshments, please,” she said, folding the message up. “Something simple will do.”
The maid left with a hurried farewell. There were perks to being the daughter of the Governor of Irinah—even an illegitimate one. People obeyed you. Servants rushed to your bidding. Even the ones who loathed you—and there were many—were forced to veil their contempt and keep their loathing eyes lowered.
All people faced hatred. All people suffered. Few had the cushion of wealth and privilege to protect them as Mehr did. She reminded herself of this as she walked over to the bare floor in front of the lattice, pressing her feet against marble warmed by the morning sun. She was very, very lucky. The heartache she experienced every time she thought of her sister tearily reaching out to her was an agony she had no right to feel.
Better to put the agony away. Better not to think of Arwa at all.
Mehr took a deep breath, slowly filling her lungs. She straightened her spine and rolled back her shoulders, raising her hands above her head to greet the sky. When she pressed her feet flat to the ground, legs bent to a diamond angle, she felt a veil of peace settle over her. The old rites never failed to calm her.
Although the correct time for it had passed, Mehr moved through the Rite of Sunrise, hands shaping the sigils fornightandsunandskyas her body moved fluidly from stance to stance. Subtle poses transitioned into the wider, florid movements as she mimed the sun rising. Her muscles warmed; her breath quickened. She let her heavy thoughts go.
