“No,” said Mehr. “No, it isn’t. Amun, we’re going to use the Rite of the Bound. We’re going to find freedom together.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
In the morning Amun went to the Maha. He dressed with laborious, painful slowness. In the pale dawn light creeping through the windows, his skin looked gray. Bahren waited for him by the door, his back turned. Mehr stayed on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, and watched them both.
Bahren doesn’t seem entirely happy with the Maha, she’d told Amun last night.
Bahren is old, Amun had responded.Old and trusted. He has seen more of what the Maha can do than most. But he’s loyal, Mehr. Do not doubt that.
Mehr had said nothing to that. She didn’t doubt Bahren’s loyalty. But she’d seen chink after chink in his shields: his grimness when he’d carried Mehr from the desert, eyes haunted; the way he’d sucked in a sharp breath when he’d seen her bruised face by the oasis; the night of mercy he’d given Amun to recover before facing the Maha. All those small cracks added together into a clear weakness, a wound that Mehr could potentially use to her advantage.
How, she didn’t know. But as she stared at Bahren’s back, noting his crossed arms and the tired lurch of his head, she knew she would find a use for it in time.
“The Maha will be growing impatient,” Bahren said in an even voice. He didn’t turn.
Amun tied his sash carefully at the waist of his tunic. She saw the faint tremor of his fingers and bit down on her own tongue just hard enough to remind herself that she couldn’t protect him. Not this time. Not yet.
“I’m ready,” said Amun. He gave her a look as he left.All will be well, that look said. She wasn’t sure if he was looking at her to reassure her or to reassure himself.
Mehr waited for a long moment, then stood up. If she left the room now and went to the bathing chamber, she would just have time to wash her face and comb a hand through her hair before facing the day. The bell for morning prayers hadn’t rung yet, but it would soon, and Mehr didn’t want to face the mystics looking both bruised and haggard. The bruises were beyond her control, but at least she had power over the rest of her appearance.
Although her feet felt frozen beneath her, Mehr willed herself to move. She would have to go to morning prayers whether she liked it or not. The routine of life in the temple was strict. It wouldn’t relent for Mehr just because she didn’t want to take part.
At least she had the comfort of knowing it wouldn’t be the Maha leading prayers today. Knowing his eyes wouldn’t be on her gave her the strength to make her way down the staircase to begin the day.
Once she’d made it to the bathing chamber, she focused on unraveling her knotted hair, which hadn’t seen a comb in what felt like a lifetime. It was easier to focus on mundane things than to think about what Amun was potentially suffering at the Maha’s hands.
It would be so easy for Amun to reveal their ruse. But she wasn’t afraid he would. Or at least, she was no more afraid than she always was. Amun was brave and clever, could twist the truth into knots, and he would protect them both if he could. She was far more afraid of what the Maha would do to him. The Maha had been so full of black, bloody rage. He hadn’t spent it all on her, she was sure of that.
And Amun had been shaking when he’d left her. Shaking and quiet and gray.
She feared more than anything that he’d return to her hurt. Her own bruises were bad enough. But his … his she couldn’t bear.
No. Stop thinking, she chided herself. The fear and shame that were gripping her were destructive and would do her no favors. She needed to be strong. She had to put her terror away. She needed to hold on to the iron of her will, the cold sureness of steel in her bones, and consider her options.
She tied back her hair in a vaguely respectable braid. Somewhere deep in the temple, the bell for prayers rang.
As Mehr walked, following the crowd toward prayers, she kept her mind resolutely cold and clear. She thought of the rites she had danced all her life. Ever since her early childhood, rites had shaped the rhythm of her life, had been her breath and blood. She knew that the bones of all rites were essentially the same: stances mingled with sigils, the movement of the body matched with the power of mortal feeling. It wasn’t enough to simply know the language of the rites. Her mother and Lalita had taught her early that the rites were nothing without an Amrithi’s reverence. An Amrithi couldn’t simply enact a rite. They had to feel it.
Rites were sigils for words and stances for emotion and will for fire and blood for oil to the flame. Rites were a mechanism and a magic that Mehr had always felt awed and privileged to have in her grasp. But the Rite of the Bound …
The Rite of the Bound was different.Other.It was a rite for slipping away from flesh, for harnessing the dreams of Gods. It was a rite for committing a terrible, anathema act, a heresy against nature at the Maha’s bidding. But Mehr knew the rite now, knew its stances and sigils, and her knowledge couldn’t be undone. She had swum in the nightmares of Gods. She had felt their fire run through her. All she could do now was use the rite for her own purposes.
Instead of letting the fury of the Gods pour through her, or the Maha and his mystics use her, Mehr was going to use the rite to draw forward dreams that could save her and Amun from their fate: dreams that weakened the Maha and his temple. Dreams that broke the chains of their vows, and let them both walk free. She wasn’t fully bound. Shecouldset them free.
Amun could teach her how to alter the sigils of the rite for their own purposes. Together they could reshape the rite. Together, they stood a chance of gaining their freedom.
If any force could give her and Amun freedom from their vows, it would be the dreams of the Gods.
She prayed. She ate a meager breakfast, spice-flecked bread so dry it parched her tongue. With nothing to do, she returned to the bedroom and waited for Amun.
When he returned hours later, he walked in, slow and careful, the weight of the world on his shoulders. She quickly stood.
“I’m not hurt,” he said immediately. But she couldn’t stop herself from walking over to him.
She took his face in her hands. It felt natural to do so, and any awkwardness she would normally have felt dissipated when she felt him relax into her touch. She’d slept in his arms last night, his heartbeat an ocean in her ear. He was her husband. She had a right to this, at least: his skin, his exhaled breath, his comfort.
“See,” he said finally. “I’m well enough.”
