She could see the blue glow of his sigil-marked flesh through her fingers. She nodded. “I’m glad,” she said.
“He wanted to check my health. No more than that. He needs me strong.” There was a ghost of a smile on his lips. She felt the tug of muscles in his jaw. “He’s afraid to harm me. I’m too weak.”
Of course. Amun was the Maha’s most valuable asset. Mehr was no good on her own. Mehr was flawed. He wouldn’t risk Amun, when Mehr alone was not enough to ensure the rite’s success.
There was comfort in that.
“What did he say to you?” she asked.
“He asked me about the storm. He asked me about you. And I told him the truth. That I believe you tried to serve, with all the power you possessed. And that in time, you would learn to serve as he desired.”
The truth, but not the whole truth. He’d done well.
“Good,” Mehr said shakily. “Then you’ve bought us a little more time.” She lowered her hands; he turned his head away from her. “We need to reshape the language of the Rite of the Bound. I’ll need your help to do that, Amun. I don’t have your experience of it, or your knowledge.”
Amun’s expression shuttered.
“You want us to use the rite to set ourselves free,” he said carefully.
“You know I do.”
“Mehr …” Amun exhaled. “We can’t.Ican’t.”
“I can perform the altered rite,” Mehr said. “All I need is your help to do it. Your knowledge.”
“I can’t,” he repeated.
“We can use the rite to draw forward dreams that will break our bonds,” Mehr said, pushing doggedly on. “We can use it to stop the Maha. Amun, you don’t have to fear hope any longer. This isn’t a—a children’s tale, or foolish fantasy. This is real. I truly believe we can escape. We can shatter our vows.”
“Vows can’t be broken,” Amun said, and his voice was utterly devoid of feeling.
“Daivacan’t break vows,” Mehr stressed. “We can’t break vows. But Gods are—Gods. They created all things, and they can destroy them too. We’ve seen what their dreams can do, Amun.” For the Maha. For the Empire. “The rules of nature can be changed. Our vowscanbe broken, I’m sure of it.”
He looked down so she couldn’t see his eyes. The light from the windows threw shadow after shadow over him, and although she couldn’t read him at all, she knew his mind was moving at lightning speed, his sharp tumble of thoughts just beyond her reach. She wished she could see inside his head.
“Mehr,” he said. “I’m not sure … I’m not sure I believe I can be saved.”
“Then let me believe for you,” she told him softly. “Let me have faith for both of us.”
Silence. All Mehr could hear was the beat of her own heart.
“You know,” he said in a low voice, “we’re likely to fail. You must know that.”
Mehr sucked in a breath. The darkness rose in her again.
“I can’t think of it,” she told him.
“He’ll force you to lie with me.” His voice was utterly blank. “I will hurt you.”
Something raw and wounded welled up in her. It was a bleeding, bloody softness in her heart. She couldn’t stand it. “Don’t think of it, Amun.”
“I have to think of it. I think of it all the time.” The words sounded like they were torn out of him. “If we fail, this will happen. And we will most likely fail, Mehr. In fact, I am sure—almost sure—we will.” He took a step closer to her, and suddenly there was no distance between them, and not a shadow to hide the look on his face from her anymore. “Knowing that, knowing the truth, Mehr … do you still want to try?”
She met his eyes. She’d decided to risk herself for freedom. Asking him to risk his life for the same goal when he had fought so long against the possibility of hope … ah, it felt like a heavy burden.
She had to succeed: for his sake, even more than her own.
Mehr had promised to have faith for them both, and she would. She would.
