Finally, she fell into the last stance and felt the power release her.
“Look,” said Amun. Following his gaze, she lowered her head.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Between their feet, the sand had transformed into soil. In amazement, Mehr kneeled down and touched the earth. It was cool and soft, heavy with its own richness. Between the clods of soil were the first pale green shoots of new vegetation. She touched the edge of a leaf. Real. It was all real.
“How?” she whispered.
Amun kneeled down too, his body still concealing hers. He touched the soil too, soft and reverent.
“The daiva draw their strength from the dreams of their mothers and fathers,” he said. “This temple lies at the heart of the desert, the place where the Gods sleep and dream most strongly, which makes the daiva infinitely stronger also. Here they can truly answer our prayers.”
“So,” she breathed out. “We Amrithi. We can make the daiva shape our world. To our will.”
“In small ways, yes.” The green was withering beneath them, soil desiccating back into gold-hued sand. “The daiva only have so much strength. For a price, some of us can do more.”
Amun’s expression was grave. Whatever the price was, she knew it had to be high. Before Mehr could ask him anything more, Amun rose to his feet, brushing the sand from his robe.
“Stand,” said Amun. “As long as we practice, they won’t approach us.”
Mehr stood, giving her new guards a sidelong glance as she did so. The men had edged farther back. Clearly like many of the servants in her old home, they distrusted Amrithi customs. Amun caught the direction of her gaze.
“The Maha expects you to be taught before the storm comes,” he murmured. “They won’t risk his displeasure by disturbing our lesson.”
“Tell me about the storm,” said Mehr. “Why must I be prepared for it? What does the Maha want you to teach me?”
“A very specific rite,” said Amun. He fell into the first stance. Mehr followed. “Adjust your posture to match mine,” he told her. He looked over her stance with a critical eye, then proceeded to offer her criticism after criticism. Her shoulders were too high—then too low. Her feet were not properly placed. The angle of her knees was not quite right. Mehr felt like a child in the schoolroom again.
“The storm, Amun,” she said impatiently.
He was all reluctance. But Mehr waited, her eyes fixed on him. She would not relent.
“Reshaping the world takes a greater power than the daiva possess,” he said finally. “The Maha desires for the Empire to defy the natural order of the world and continue in everlasting glory. He desires the same for himself. For that, he must harness the one force in the world that shapes the natural order. A power only present during storms.”
A force that shaped the natural order. A force that came only with the storms.
Dreamfire. He was talking about dreamfire.
“No rite can compel the dreams of Gods,” Mehr whispered. “That is impossible.”
“Raise your hands.” Mehr did so, numbly playacting at the lesson along with him. “Show me your next stance.”
“Amun.”
“The Maha’s spies saw the dreamfire respond to you, Mehr,” he said. “Dreamfire is the power of the Gods shaping the world. Don’t you understand what you did in that storm?”
“I was praying, not compelling,” she said tightly. “Gods are not daiva, to be compelled by vows. Gods areGods.”
“But you can compel them,” Amun said, “whether you choose to or not. Theamatagift gives us the very rare ability to compel the dreams of the Gods. That decides your value to the Maha.”
She couldn’t. Surely she couldn’t. But Amun had promised to tell her the truth, and although she wanted to believe he was lying to her, she knew he was being honest. The Maha had taken Mehr, tricked her into vowing away her life, because of the gift of her Amrithi blood. No wonder he had called her a gem. She had the power to place the world in his hands.
The truth was awful. It revolted her, deep in her gut, her bones. She had always known the daiva were holy beings and worthy of reverence, that the Gods were as permanent and powerful as the earth or the sun or the night. To bend the dreams of the Gods was to destroy the very order of the universe. She couldn’t imagine a greater heresy.
Mehr had always been taught to show the daiva reverence.Respect your blood, she’d been told—by her mother and by Lalita after that.Respect the daiva, because when you pass on, they will remember your actions, and your soul will pay the price.
She had thought the way Amun banished the daiva in the desert, without respect, without cajoling, had been anathema. What he told her the Maha expected of her—of them both—was far, far worse. What price would her soul pay for such an act?
