“Your stances need work,” Amun told her. “We should begin again. Here.” He gestured at her left arm, held his own at an angle. “Follow my lead.”
Mehr had no interest in playing at the rites. Her mind was far too full. She didn’t understand how any Amrithi could allow themselves to be willingly bound to this task, tied to the Maha’s whims for a lifetime. She certainly didn’t know how Amun could allow it.
“Are other Amrithi used by the Empire this way?” she asked.
“No.” Amun’s voice was curt. “Not any longer. Once, there were many Amrithi pairs here, or so I’ve been told. Now we are the only ones the Maha owns, and it took him years to find you.”
“That can’t be,” Mehr protested. She knew the mystics had tried to take Lalita. She knew Amrithi tribes had been vanishing. Where could they have gone but straight into the Maha’s searching grasp?
Amun shot her a look through lowered lashes.
“You recognize that what I do is heresy,” he said flatly. “It horrifies you.”
Mehr said nothing. It was true.
Amun took her shoulder. Mehr stiffened. To all appearances he was correcting her stance again. But Mehr could feel his breath against her cheek, hear his voice, as soft as the beat of a daiva’s wings.
“Heresy is a crime against our blood. Binding our souls, forcing us to bend the fabric of the world …” His breath was soft, so soft against her skin. “Death is preferable. Or so the Amrithi of the clans believe.”
“No.” Mehr’s denial was reflexive.
“I’ve seen it, Mehr. Iknowit.” He raised her arm slightly, his touch light. His voice became even lower. “We carry knives for a reason.”
Mehr wrenched away from him. Amun flinched back.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” said Mehr. Deep breath. “I asked for the truth. I can’t blame you for sharing it.”
She thought of Usha bleeding and dying. She thought of Lalita. She thought of all the clans that had vanished. She thought of her mother.
The men were watching. The sand was shifting in the wind, golden-bright in the glare of the sun. And Amun was watching her, waiting for her, an apology shaped in every line of his body, his night-dark eyes.
“Be thankful you were raised without a tribe,” Amun said. “It will make this burden easier to bear.”
Mehr had never had a tribe. But she’d loved people, and now she had lost them all.
She wondered if the people she loved—Lalita, her long-exiled mother—had fallen to their own daggers. She thought of the way she’d pressed her blade into Arwa’s hands. How she had done it to keep Arwasafe.
She should have embraced ignorance. She should have been thankful for it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As the daylight began to wane, the two men finally interrupted Mehr and Amun’s lackluster training and gestured for them to return to the temple. Mehr was glad to stop. She had no heart for the rites now, not after everything Amun had revealed to her.
The men waited for Mehr and Amun to enter the temple before barring the door behind them. “We will need to practice again later,” Amun told her, as one of the men paused to light a lamp. “You still have a great deal to learn.” He hesitated. “I will speak to Edhir tomorrow. He may be able to tell me exactly when the dreamfire will fall.”
Mehr made a noise of agreement.
They made their way through the dark corridors, not speaking to one another. Mehr couldn’t bring herself to utter a single word. She had no desire to ask any more questions, and innocent conversation felt like it was beyond her reach. The truth was a heavy weight in her skull. She couldn’t think beyond it. She couldn’t even muster up surprise when they entered a large hall filled from end to end with people. Some looked at her curiously. She looked back.
Mystics, divided by gender, were kneeling on the floor. Lamps flickered along the walls. Before them all, wreathed in incense, stood an altar. Upon it was a carved statue, faceless, wearing a jewel turban, a world etched into one upraised palm.
“You need to sit with the women,” Amun said. He stood stubbornly next to her, even as mystics jostled past them. She knew he wouldn’t move until she responded.
Mehr nodded. That was all the response she felt able to offer. She joined the throng, kneeling down on cool stone on the women’s side of the hall. She wished she had a pillow or a low divan to perch on, but there was no such comfort here.
The Maha was standing before the altar. He didn’t kneel as the mystics did. He stood tall, as proud as the effigy of the Emperor. She watched as he clasped his hands, closed his eyes. She saw the women kneeling on either side of her bow their heads. Mehr stared at the Maha’s own head, blinking away the sting of incense from her eyes. She was heavy. Heart heavy, soul heavy. But there was rage building inside her, growing ever stronger as the voices rose around her and the prayers began.
