A thought eventually occurred to her. “How did you learn the Rite of the Bound?” If learning the rite required being held, required weightlessness—who had held him? Whom had he trusted for the task?
“There was another Amrithi here for many years,” he said. “She taught me.”
“What happened to her?” Mehr asked. The lightness in her went leaden. She could guess, but she wanted to hear it.
“The rite was hard on her. The rite is always hard, but she was growing old, and eventually the strain was too much. She died,” he said frankly. “After that, the Maha went in search of a replacement.”
And here I am, thought Mehr.
Amun had seen so much darkness in his life. His parents were gone; the woman who had trained him had died; the vows written on his soul had left him feeling monstrous and alone. She couldn’t fathom how he could still look so steady and so whole, after all he had suffered. She couldn’t understand how he could remain so gentle when he had never sought or received gentleness from others.
“You have so much history,” she said helplessly. “So much.”
The look he gave her was soft, so soft.
“We all do, Mehr.”
She heard footsteps from the corridor beyond the hall. Laughter. She wondered if any of those laughing voices belonged to Hema’s women. She watched the softness leave his eyes. He’d forgotten for a moment that they were constantly watched, eyes and ears always on them. Mehr had forgotten too. But she remembered now. She watched him lean back against the wall, brushing a hand self-consciously through his curling hair.
“I’ll be glad when the storm has passed,” Amun said.
“As will I,” said Mehr.
But she feared the storm too. It was awful, that fear. She’d always considered storms holy. She’d been awed by dreamfire, humbled and joyful. But the beauty had been stripped away, and all Mehr had left was her dread that acted as the bones of awe.
“The Maha will want to meet you again soon,” Amun told her. Mehr’s stomach lurched. “He’ll want to ask after your progress.”
Anyone could have been listening. So instead of asking AmunHow do I lie to him?she said simply, “What do I do?”
He gestured with the flick of his wrist.Come here.So she did. She leaned against the wall next to him, their shoulders brushing.
His voice was a murmur, so quiet she had to strain to hear it.
“Surviving with the Maha is just like surviving the Rite of the Bound. The skill will serve you for both. You let his power wash over you. You let it take you. And then you bend it. You give it the shape you need it to have. Decide how to obey him. That’s all.”
Amun spoke as if the task were simple. Mehr wasn’t convinced. She let out a choked laugh and pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Mehr.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “Don’t you worry.”
“I have faith in you,” Amun said in a low voice. Mehr didn’t look at him. On the ground, their shadows were tangled together by lantern light.
She knew he had faith in her. She knew.
It was a shame she couldn’t share that faith.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Amun began teaching Mehr the sigils necessary for the Rite of the Bound the next day. Mehr was familiar with the language of the daiva, but the sigils of this rite were a new tongue—a cryptic, clever thing that twisted her fingers into knots. These sigils, Amun told her, were the language of the Gods. Amun demanded utter precision from her. Every movement had to be perfect. The angle of her wrist, the flick of her fingers, the height of her hands, all had to match Amun’s demonstrations exactly.
“Together the sigils have a specific power,” Amun explained. “They are what allow us to act as a conduit. They make the dreams of the Gods vulnerable to the influence of the mystics’ prayers.”
The mystics’ prayers: prayers for the Emperor, for the Maha, for the Ambhan Empire’s strength and its glory. It was because of this rite, Mehr reminded herself, that the Empire possessed unnatural good fortune. It was because of this rite that the Empire could expand ever larger, that the generations of Emperors had lived long and fruitful lives, the Empire’s cities untouched by plague, its borders secure.
Good health, safe borders—these things sounded like blessings. But the thought of all the blessings of an Ambhan life—of the life Mehr had lived for so many years—now left a bitter taste in Mehr’s mouth. Ambhan wealth had been won with Amrithi blood. No more, no less.
“How am I supposed to lose my fleshandremember all of this?” Mehr demanded, wriggling her fingers pointedly.
