“You learn,” Amun said shortly.
Mehr gave Amun a doubtful look.
“Youmustperform this correctly, Mehr.” Amun sounded tense. “If you make a mistake the consequences will be unpleasant.”
“Tell me what could happen,” Mehr said.
“You know already.”
“I like things to be clear.” She gave Amun a pained smile, half grimace. Her fingers were cramping from practice. She shouldn’t have wasted energy goading him. But oh, she couldn’t help herself. She began massaging her hands together, working the stiffness from her knuckles. “Humor me.”
His gaze flickered down, fixing on her hands. She thought for a moment that he would take her hands in his, or ask if he could—
But no. Her mind was playing tricks on her.
“If you don’t control the dreamfire, channel it, direct it, then it will move like fire does, and consume everything in its path,” he said. “When we dance the rite the fire isinsideus, Mehr. To perform it wrongly is to risk immortal dreams burning your soul clean away, leaving nothing of your soul or self behind.” He paused. “Or the Maha could punish you.”
“I’m sure both things would be equally unpleasant.” Her hands dropped to her sides. “Fine. Let’s continue.”
“Are you—?”
“I’m fine. I’m ready.”
Amun’s mouth thinned.
“Let me show you again,” he said. He raised his hands.
“Watch my fingers now,” he said. “Don’t copy me just yet. Rest your hands. Just watch.”
Evening came, and with it more prayers. Mehr lowered her head and sang in honor of the Emperor along with all the mystics, but her mind was in another place entirely. Sigils flared in her mind’s eye. Her head was full of the sight of Amun’s hands making shape after shape. His wide, scarred hands, dark like earth after rainfall. His hands teaching her a new language.
Mehr could learn this. She could.
After evening prayers finished she began heading toward dinner with the others. An urgent tug on her sleeve stopped her. She stopped in her tracks and turned.
“Hema wants you to meet her,” Rena said. “It’s important you come now, before the others notice.”
Her voice was urgent, her jaw hard. So Mehr followed her.
Rena guided her through the winding corridors to a tower no different from any of the others they had passed. She urged Mehr up the steps, which were so narrow they could only make their way up one at a time. Stone skimmed Mehr’s arms. She could feel the darkness pressing on her.
Hema was waiting at the top, her hands on the edge of the only window carved into the curved wall.
“I have her,” said Rena.
Hema look back at them. She didn’t smile, but she gave Rena a wordless nod of thanks. Rena turned and left without another word.
“Come to the window,” Hema said. “You need to see it.” She gestured sharply, her fingers trembling. “Come to the window, please.”
There was enough room for Mehr to stand next to Hema and look outside. This window faced away from the oasis, to the stretch of endless sand visible beyond the temple’s walls. Mehr leaned out, the cool breeze meeting her bare face. She looked. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Gods,” Mehr breathed out.
“I know,” Hema whispered. “What a sight.”
It was dark outside, but not so dark that Mehr couldn’t see the shadows coiling on the horizon, their edges tinged with a blush of red-gold light. Daiva. So many daiva.
The storm was coming.
