In. Out. Despite her efforts, her body was all she could think of. The cool floor, the darkness pressing against her eyelids; the sound of Amun breathing along with her, matching each inhalation and exhalation until it sounded like they were no more than one creature.
Her breath stuttered. She opened her eyes.
“I can’t feel it.” She didn’t sayI’m never going to feel itbecause she wasn’t a petulant child, but the words were still there tucked away in her voice, frustration simmering under the surface.
“You will.” Amun’s own eyes remained closed. “I feel it in myself. You’ll feel it in you eventually too.”
“We’re not the same, Amun.”
“In the ways that matter to the Maha, we are.”
That was true. Mehr touched her fingertips to the seal around her neck, reminding herself what was at stake. Then she closed her eyes once again and tried to breathe her flesh away.
She tried to wind deeper into herself. To forget the cool air, the night darkness around her. After a moment, she heard Amun begin to speak.
“The Gods created the daiva, the daiva birthed our ancestors, and our ancestors birthed us. So it goes.” There was a low, singsong quality to his voice that reminded her of the way she had spoken to Arwa, once upon a time, about the daiva.Here is a story, his voice seemed to say.An old story. A true story.“And here we are, mortal men and women, with immortality in our blood. Seek out the immortality inside you, and you will find the place where the Gods sleep. You are an Amrithi; it is your right.”
“A speck of immortality,” Mehr muttered. “It can’t be more than that.”
“A speck is enough,” Amun said.
Mehr breathed. Breathed. Curled her hands into helpless fists. “I don’t know where to look,” she said.
“Look to the part of you that dreams,” Amun said.
Mehr shivered. Snatches of last night’s dream flickered through her head, as blurred as candle flame. Golden eyes. Arwa crumbling to ashes. She was glad she could remember no more than that.
Dreams were a strange place. Often dark and terrible, but at least the pain they inflicted was easily lost. Easily forgotten.
Mehr sucked in another deep breath. Tried again.
Once more. Once more.
Kamal
It was an unfortunate day for bartering. The heat was blistering, the sun fat and unforgiving in the sky. As a result, the village was full of Irin who were by turns irritable and listless. Kamal—who’d volunteered for this job, curse it—was struggling to exchange his blood for anything useful.
“It’s worth more than that,” he protested unwisely to one villager, who promptly narrowed her eyes and cursed him colorfully.
“You take what we offer,” the villager said finally, “or I tell the tax collector your kind are near here. See how long your clan lasts then.”
The threat kept on irritating him like a sore tooth, long after he’d accepted the villager’s paltry trade and started making his way back out to the desert proper. As he reached the outskirts of the village, a child threw a rock at him and ran away shrieking with laughter, which only served to sour his mood further. Gods curse the lot of them.
He wished one of his clan had come with him. Sohaila, maybe, who always knew how to make him laugh even when he was in the blackest moods. But Kamal was alone, and wouldn’t see his clan for days yet.
He’d learned young—as all Amrithi learned—to keep clan and Empire at a safe distance from one another. Once, that had meant avoiding larger towns and the city of Jah Irinah, where Ambhan officials and merchants from other provinces were likely to reside. Now it meant avoiding every small village scattered across the desert’s back. Even the Irin, who understood the worth of Amrithi blood and the danger the daiva could bring in a way outsiders never could, were not trustworthy any longer. His clan were camped two days’ walk away, but he’d take a long route, just in case he’d been followed by a villager in search of glory or coin.
In three days then, if all went well, he’d be home.
He walked for a time, under the weight of a burning, cloudless sky. Then he stopped and swore into the air until he felt mildly better. He took out his water container, drank three swigs in succession, and kept on walking. There was shelter ahead—an outcropping of rock that would provide him shade until the hottest part of the day had passed. He could remain there until the air had cooled a little, then continue his journey in peace.
When he reached the shelter, he found it occupied.
A woman was sitting in the shade, her legs neatly crossed, her face swathed by the hood of her robe. Both of them were frozen for a long moment. Then Kamal took a step back and began to reach for his dagger.
“Calm yourself,” the woman said. She lowered her hood, then raised her hands to show him they were empty. “There’s no need to be afraid of me. I’m a fellow tribeswoman.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
