Mehr had always avoided prayer. The rites had always been her preferred form of worship. But this was an Ambhan temple, and Mehr had no guilt-stricken father to indulge her any longer. She was the Maha’s property, and she would have to play at praying the way the Ambhans prayed: with mortal words and mortal song.
Mehr began to murmur along with them. Harmonies cut sharply through the air. She clasped her fingers tight enough for her nails to press grooves into her skin. She was heavy, so heavy with hate. The voices rose together in song, higher and higher, echoing off the domed ceiling of the hall. The voices sang of love and beauty and wealth, of a throne wreathed in gold. The mystics prayed for the Empire. They prayed for Hara and Numriha and Irinah and Durevi, for the provinces of the Empire, for the provinces still to come: the unclaimed countries that would one day be subsumed by the Empire’s glory. They prayed for Ambha itself, the jewel of the known world.
They prayed for the Empire to grow, ever larger, ever more wealthy and powerful. They prayed for the immortality of the imperial line, for the Maha to continue strong and everlasting as their leader and their guiding light.
Every single thing they prayed for would come to pass.
Mehr fixed her eyes on the statue upon the altar. The effigy was faceless by necessity: It stood for all Emperors past, present, and future. Son followed father, life followed death, generation after generation sat upon the throne. But there would always be an Emperor. There would always be an Empire. There would always be the Maha, ancient and glorious, the source of all imperial power.
Mehr bowed her head when expected, clasped her hands when the mystics clasped their own, and thought not of the Maha, but of the Emperor.
For all that he was mortal, all her life he had been like a God to her—distant, powerful, untouchable. His displeasure was death; his favor was a promise of a life of contentment and luxury. Her father served him with unflinching loyalty and had been rewarded with Jah Irinah and all its arid, raw beauty.
Mehr had been told the Emperor hated her mother’s people. The Emperor’s hatred of the Amrithi for their old rebellion against the Empire and their heathen ways had been held over Mehr like a knife. She had been told to hide her customs, her beliefs, to forget her mother. To letArwaforget their mother. Because if she attracted the Emperor’s gaze …
She clenched her hands tighter. Well. Now she knew the consequences.
But she knew something else now too. He had never hated her mother’s people. He had just never considered them people at all. They were the kindling wood that fed the fire of the Empire’s strength.
The Amrithi were the Empire’s tools. They were there to be put into service, to harness the dreams of Gods to shape the Ambhan Empire’s golden immortality. Mehr had always been told that the Gods dreamed sweetly for the Empire. Now Mehr understood why they did so. Their dreams had been compelled. Their dreams had been stolen.
Bitterness welled up in her.
There was a lull in the prayers. As the song quieted and the Maha began to chant, silken ancient litanies to the sleeping Gods, Mehr raised her eyes again and stared at the statue of the faceless Emperor until her eyes burned.
The Empire was rotten to the core.
Finally, after years cloistered away in privilege, Mehr’s eyes were open.
Mehr could not help Lalita. Either she had escaped the Maha’s reach—and Mehr could only hope, dream, that she had—or she had turned her blade on herself. Whatever the case, she was firmly beyond Mehr’s reach.
The only person Mehr could help now was herself.
After prayers, the mystics moved as a group to a large canopied veranda open to the air. Mehr could smell cooking fires and was reminded suddenly, achingly of her old home. The kitchens in the Governor’s residence had smelled just the same, of oil and spices and burnt sweetness. But no place in her old home had been so full of strangers, or so open to the velvet darkness of the night. She wrapped her arms around herself and followed the flow of the crowd.
Even here, the mystics had divided themselves along gender lines. Mehr could not seek out Amun, and that was probably for the best. She was growing far too reliant on him for company. He was her bastion of safety, the only one she could trust in this forsaken place. But Mehr was not safe and couldn’t allow herself to fall into the trap of believing she was.
As the crowd kneeled in rows, younger mystics ran down the line, spooning out food onto plates at a lightning-fast pace. Mehr kneeled before a plate of lentils, still steaming with heat, and a flatbread crisp to the touch. She barely tasted any of it. She ate far too quickly for that. Her hunger was a furious thing.
Now that prayers were over, the noises that filled the temple were of clattering plates, quick footsteps, and chatter. None of the noise drew near Mehr. The mystics kept their distance, leaving her be. She was surrounded by her own small sea of silence.
On the journey, Edhir had always tried to engage Mehr in conversation, eager for company his own age. Bahren had made strained efforts to be kind to her. Now that she was at the temple, she wondered if she would start being treated the way Amun was. The thought of being invisible to all these people was oddly comforting.
Comforting, but short-lived. A woman thumped down on the ground across from her. She wore the same dark robes as all the mystics, but her curling hair was bound back with vibrant green thread. It took Mehr a moment to recognize her: She was the one who had interrupted Mehr when she’d been bathing. She gave Mehr a grin, a dimple etched in her cheek.
“Do you like that?” she asked. She pointed at one of the dishes on Mehr’s plate. “Anni and I made it.” She made a vague gesture over her shoulder at one slim, dark-skinned woman who was walking over to join them. Behind her were a handful of others.
The one called Anni smiled and gave Mehr a weak wave as she kneeled down. The other women sat down on the ground behind her, ducking their heads shyly.
Mehr nodded cautiously. “It’s lovely.”
“My name is Hema,” the woman said, showing no cautiousness whatsoever. Her gaze was direct and steady. “Anni and I work in the kitchens most of the time. So you have us to blame for the meal.”
Mehr swallowed, trying to find her bearings. She’d been so thoroughly wrapped up in her own misery that she hadn’t expected anyone to approach her. She should have. After all, she was a stranger among the mystics. She was a new commodity, a new tool in the Maha’s arsenal. That made her a curiosity.
Mehr could use that in her favor. She had nothing to barter or bribe with: nothing but her newness, and the novelty that provided. In order to survive here, she would need to learn about what it meant to live in this place. Hema’s interest in her was not an opportunity Mehr could allow herself to lose.
“Blameisn’t the word I would use,” she said. She forced herself to keep her voice light, welcoming. There was a trick to this. She’d grown rusty at friendly conversation, but she could remember if she tried hard enough. “I’d rather thank you. I haven’t had anything so pleasant to eat in a long while.”
