Together she and Hema stood in stunned silence, watching the shadows writhe, gleaming in the growing dark. The breeze carried the scent of the daiva with it: incense, sweet as the smoke of a prayer flame. Mehr had thought the coming of a storm was beautiful, when she had lived in Jah Irinah. Here in the heart of the desert the sight of it was almost overwhelming. The daiva were a wall, a rising wave of dark mingled with light, jeweled fire and shadow. When the dreamfire fell the daiva would sweep down with it, and the temple would surely drown in them.
“Before I came here I was nothing,” Hema said. Her voice was even, but its evenness was like a bandage on a bleeding wound. Her trembling fingers had tightened on the edge of the window and gone still. “All of us were nothing. Just fatherless children, hungry and alone. But here we have the power to change the world. Here we can ensure that the Empire remains ever glorious, spreading its prosperity and its goodness, preserving the immortality of our Emperors. Here,weare the heart of the Empire.”
Mehr listened without speaking.
“You’re not happy,” said Hema. “But there is glory in this life.”
“Why did you bring me here?” Mehr asked.
Hema did smile then, a wry, secret smile.
“When I was a little girl, my sister brought me here too and showed me just this sight,” she said. “She showed me and told me that I mattered. ThatIwas the heart of the Empire. My prayers. My service.” Hema touched a fist to her chest. “The Empire is the glory we have created.” She looked at Mehr. “This is your glory too now, Mehr. All that power you see out there? You can make it do somethinggood.”
Mehr squeezed her own hands into fists. She thought of Amun’s vow-marked skin. The scar on her chest. The weight of the Maha’s eyes. The chafe of the marriage seal at her throat.
“You believe I can make a difference?” she said, glad the shake in her voice could be ascribed to so many, many things other than anger.
“Of course I do,” Hema said simply.
Hema truly believed in the Maha. They all did.
If the Maha had been kind to Mehr, had raised her up from nothing and dazzled her with his power and benevolence, perhaps she would have grown to believe in him too. Perhaps she would have wanted to don his chains, hand him her beating, bloody heart on a platter. But he hadn’t raised her up. He had struck her down.
The love he wanted from her was different than the love he demanded from his mystics. His mystics were his followers and his chosen, and from them he demanded a love that was as simple as a child’s, adoring and fervent.
But his Amrithi were his tools. From them he wanted a love that sprouted from the dark blood of fear, and Mehr refused to give that to him.
Mehr uncurled one hand. Placed it on Hema’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” Mehr whispered. “Thank you for being kind.”
Perhaps the Maha had asked Hema to win Mehr’s loyalty. Perhaps Hema had some other ulterior motive, some unfathomable reason for trying so stubbornly to win Mehr’s trust. Mehr didn’t know. But she did know that any kindness in this place was to be treasured.
Hema returned the gesture, the clasp of her hand firm against Mehr’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Hema said in return. “You and I—we’re not just citizens of the Empire any longer. We’re so much more. We’re Saltborn. We’re family now.”
The sight of the approaching storm left a fire in Mehr’s blood. Mehr could feel the necessary stillness inside her that Amun had worked so hard to teach her, and the sigils flowed easily from her fingers. But she lacked the concentration to learn any of the new tasks Amun was trying to show her, and the knowledge slipped through her fingers like so much sand.
Amun showed no impatience. Instead he was quieter than ever, his hands feather-light on her wrists as he guided her through shape after shape, sigil after sigil. His eyes had a faraway look.
She wondered if he knew how close the storm stood. If he could smell its sweetness on the air. Now that Mehr had seen it, she certainly could. Every time she breathed in, the aftertaste of smoke filled her lungs.
It didn’t take long for the news of the approaching storm to spread. Amun was standing behind Mehr, directing her arms in carefully timed increments, when he went still, his grip tightening on her wrists. Mehr froze. They weren’t alone any longer.
“Kalini,” said Amun.
“Continue,” Kalini said from the doorway. “Don’t mind us now, Amun.”
Mehr craned her neck. She saw the edge of Kalini’s dark robe, melding with the shadows on the floor. Behind her stood Bahren, his arms crossed.
“Mehr,” Amun prompted quietly. Mehr looked away.
Their already shaken concentration had been ruined entirely, but they returned to their training regardless. Instead of moving on to new sigils, Amun returned to careful, familiar repetitions of movement that they had perfected earlier, putting on a show of competence for Kalini’s judgmental gaze. Mehr knew she could have done better—nervousness made her clumsy—but she hadn’t expected Kalini’s eyes to narrow with such clear displeasure in response.
“Is that all you’ve accomplished?” Kalini’s voice was full of disapproval.
“We’ve accomplished a great deal,” Amun said.
