“Yes,” Mehr said, looking straight back at him. “I do.”
The second day after they had returned to practicing the rite, the Maha came to observe them. Mehr felt it when he walked into the hall. The scar of her marriage seal throbbed sharply. Her insides froze. Clumsy as a child, she stumbled between stances, her feet refusing to obey her. She felt the warmth of Amun’s hand on her arm then, holding her steady.
“Calm,” he whispered. “Calm, Mehr. I’m here.”
He could not protect her. But she wasn’t alone with the Maha, and there was comfort in that. Mehr placed her hand over his, briefly, in silent thanks. Then they released one another, and bowed low to the ground as the Maha swept into the room.
“Begin,” the Maha said shortly. He moved to stand in the shadows as they raised their heads, stood, and obeyed.
As she and Amun moved through the sigils of the rite, the Maha instructed them. He told Mehr how to arc her wrist, how to shape the movement of her fingers and her arms. It was difficult for Mehr to follow his guidance through the white haze of her fear. Harder still, because he guided them by words alone, never raising a hand to illustrate.
When the glow of the lantern shifted the shadows from his form, she saw his skin in brief slants of light: his flesh, riven and thin, bright with light; his eyes, black in the darkness. She didn’t think his body was capable of demonstrating the delicate movements he described. When she thought too hard on what had become of his flesh, her own skin itched with revulsion.
“Enough,” he said eventually.
The Maha walked toward them. Mehr tried not to look at him or at Amun. She fixed her gaze on the wall beyond his shoulder, as the Maha stepped between them and placed a hand gently on Mehr’s hair.
“You’ve improved,” said the Maha. His voice in her ear. His voice beneath her skin. “Good.”
His hand stroked her hair, once, gently. She hated the relief that poured through her when the touch didn’t hurt.
“Thank you, Maha,” Mehr whispered. “I am trying. As I promised, with all my heart.”
“We’ll see,” he said. But he sounded pleased. He stroked her hair once more, then let her go.
Mehr’s eyes met Amun’s then. His expression was shuttered, but his gaze was unwavering. He was here. Thank the Gods that he was here.
“I will return tomorrow,” said the Maha. “Prove your worth to me. Show me you have learned to obey, and I assure you, you will not suffer.”
Mehr understood the threat. She shivered a little, ducking her head as Amun said, “We will, Maha.”
With that, the Maha left. But he returned again the next morning, and four more times after that before he was satisfied that Mehr was teachable and would not fail him when the next storm came.
Mehr was painfully grateful when his visits stopped altogether. Without the Maha’s eyes on her, without the threat of punishment looming over her for every error, she could breathe again, and turn her attention back to the most important task at hand:
Escape.
It was disturbing how quickly they returned to a familiar daily routine: hours upon hours of punishing practice of the rites, broken up only by morning and evening prayers, and breaks for food. The only marked difference in their days was that a mystic now remained to watch them during their practice sessions, standing by the door for hours on end.
Mehr knew the presence of a watcher was a message. The Maha didn’t need to set a guard upon them. But he wanted them both to know that his eyes were on them, and that if they faltered in their practice, if they gave him any less than perfect obedience, he would know about it. And they would face the consequences. Under those eyes, they practiced all the harder, until exhaustion set in and beyond. They couldn’t rouse the Maha’s suspicion. They had to be fearful. They had to begood.
The days were terrible, and therefore the same as always, but the nights …
The nights were different.
“The sigils of this rite are so different because they speak a different language from the traditional Amrithi rites,” Amun said. “This is a darker language. Not the language of daiva, but the language of Gods.” He stopped for a moment, considering. “The woman who taught me believed it was a rite taught long ago to the first clans by the daiva, and lost over the generations.”
As Amun spoke, Mehr lit the oil lanterns hung on the walls, using the light of the one held in her hand. The light banished the darkness to the corners of their bedroom, leaving everything illuminated in a warm, flickering glow. “But the Maha found it,” she prompted.
“I suppose he must have,” Amun said.
When the Maha had conquered his provinces and created his Empire, he had come to the desert to establish himself as the ruler of the faith and soul of the Empire and—Mehr understood now—to take control of the dreams of the Gods and establish the immortality of his legacy.
They would never know how the Maha had learned of the Rite of the Bound, or how he had forced or cajoled Amrithi into his service. Some things were lost to time.
“Just our luck.” She shrugged, a fluid movement she felt down to her toes. She winced. After practicing all day, her body was bone-tired, her muscles sore. But the nights were the only time they had to themselves, to try to untangle the rite and use it for their own purposes.
Amun stood in the circle of light, feet bare, his body straight and tall. “Are you sure you’re able?”
