“Fighting him would only hurt me,” she said, thinking of what her defiance to Maryam had always cost her. She thought, too, of what the Maha would do if he discovered the secret she shared with Amun. Her father had told her the Maha’s wrath had destroyed entire cities. What would he do to a servant who betrayed him? “You will have to teach me how you defy him.”
The longer she played the subservient role, as Amun did, the longer she would maintain her small measure of freedom—as small and as vital as the open shutters around her, the sight of the wide blue sky.
“I show the Maha obedience, always,” Amun said. He spoke softly, as if afraid his voice would carry. “I defy him only in the margins. Every line of every vow I wear, I obey.” His fingers brushed his sleeve, as if he could feel the shape of the vows marking his skin beneath the cloth. “But all vows have their limits. Words can be misinterpreted. To choose not to obey isn’t an option. ButhowI obey … that I can control. Do you understand, Mehr?”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
You don’t allow him to break you, she thought.You bend instead.
Could she mimic him? Could she learn to play subtle games to protect herself from the Maha’s grip? Amun believed she could. Mehr would have to believe the same. She had to believe she was strong enough to learn the truth and hold it safe inside herself, because the alternative was to allow her circumstances to drown her.
“Truth, then. Why does he need Amrithi?” Mehr asked. “Why does he need Amrithi like you and I—who the daiva recognize as their own? How does binding us serve the Emperor?”
Amun hesitated for a moment. Then he strode over to the door, pushing it wide.
“Come,” said Amun. “The best way is to show you.”
Mehr didn’t think she would ever make sense of the temple’s layout. The corridors were all winding, uniform darkness. To Mehr they were an undecipherable maze, but Amun led her through them confidently, moving through the gloom without the need for a lamp to guide him. She wondered, not for the first time, how many years he had been in the service of the Maha. He walked through the temple the way she had once walked through the women’s quarters. It was as if he’d been born to this place.
She walked behind him, matching his footsteps. Every few seconds he turned his head, listening and looking.
“Do you expect us to be found?”
“We will be,” he said.
He was soon proved correct. Two men came out of the shadows and began to follow them. Amun gave no reaction. Mehr watched them from the corner of her eye, head tilted down. In Amun’s presence her bared face no longer troubled her, but these men were strangers. Having no choice but to show them her uncovered face shamed her, and that shame wasn’t something she could easily shake. Her fingers twitched at her sides. She wished she had a shawl to reach for to draw around her head.
Amun stopped at a narrow door. He unbolted it. He and Mehr stepped out into the desert. Behind them, the two men followed.
The sand stretched out before them, a clear expanse all the way to the horizon. The men stayed near the entrance as Mehr and Amun made their way out into the open. The gentle wind, warm from the heat of the day, caught Amun’s dark curls. He brushed his sleeve over his hair, frowning.
“We can stop here,” he said. “They won’t be able to hear us.”
He positioned himself between her and the guards, his broad-shouldered frame concealing her almost entirely.
“Does the Maha expect me to run?” Mehr tilted her head at the men, knowing they wouldn’t catch the gesture with Amun standing in their line of sight.
“No,” he said. “He doesn’t think you will run. But a valuable item should always have a keeper, or so I’ve been told.” Amun took a step back. He folded his arms. “Do you know any rites?”
“Some,” Mehr said.
“Show me the Rite of Fruitful Earth. Are you familiar with it?”
Mehr hesitated. She had never danced in front of anyone outside the women’s quarters before. To do so in front of strangers felt alien to her, and wholly unfamiliar.
“This isn’t a test,” Amun said softly, misreading her. “I can choose another rite if you prefer.”
Mehr shook her head.
“No, this will do well enough.”
Doing her best to block out the world around her, she fell into the first stance.
The Rite of Fruitful Earth: It was a rite for the farmer with arid fields, a rite for people with no crops and only parched soil to sustain them. It was not one of Mehr’s favorite dances, but she knew it well enough to perform it now. She moved between stances, her footsteps a whisper against the sand, her arms rising and falling as she found her rhythm. She shaped the first sigils with her fingers. When she shapedlife—a flick of thumb to the fingertips, like the lighting of tinder—she felt something surge through her, from her feet up to her eyes. Her vision wavered, shadows flickering at the edges. She went abruptly still.
“Continue,” Amun said. He sounded so much like Lalita did when Mehr faltered during practice that she found herself obeying without question.
After a moment, he joined her. He moved fluidly from the first stance straight into her own, mirroring her movements without the same cautious deliberation Mehr gave to shaping the rite. Sigils flickered over his fingers. Mehr felt power surge through her again, but this time she didn’t stop dancing.
