“Did they take your blood?”
Amun nodded. “It was good that you left,” he said.
“Show me.”
He gave her his arm. She rolled up his sleeve. There was a small nick on his forearm, but the cut was clean and no longer bleeding, which was a comfort.
“There were three couriers,” he said. “The boy, you saw. A daiva followed them for a full day. It shouldn’t have harmed them. They had old blood of mine, and the Empire’s good fortune to protect them. But the daiva attacked them suddenly. They’re badly wounded. It will take time for them to heal.” He looked at her. “Mystics aren’t usually easily hurt.”
Mehr knew the fresher the blood, the stronger its ability to defend its carrier from the daiva. She’d been taught by Lalita to mark the windows of her home once every turn of the moon. But for a long time the daiva had been weak, only strong enough to cause harm in the hallowed time surrounding the storms. No doubt the couriers had rarely required the protection of new blood.
“I know,” Mehr murmured. She could remember the way the ancient daiva they’d met in the desert had flinched away from the mystics. “Something must have changed.”
Amun looked at her. They both knew exactly what had changed.
“The daiva are stronger now,” he said.
Amun’s expression was as opaque as ever, but Mehr knew how to interpret his face. She took his hands in her own. Mehr had given the dreams of the Gods an outlet to dream without compulsion, natural dreams full of both good and ill fortune; daiva had injured mystics; and now Mehr and Amun were learning the sigils that would set them free.
He’d been unable to even contemplate the idea of escape once. Since then he had chosen to work with Mehr toward their goal of freedom, and poured all his efforts into the task. But he was only now starting to really, truly believe they stood a chance. He no longer needed her to have faith for both of them. He was beginning to hope all on his own.
Mehr knew she should feel some sort of sympathy for the mystics who had been hurt, but she couldn’t find it in her to care about their fate. All she cared about was the light in Amun’s eyes.
“I’m glad,” said Mehr. “I truly am.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After everything that had happened, Mehr had almost entirely forgotten Kalini’s warning to keep Hema at a distance. It was only when she left the bathing room one evening and found Hema waiting for her that the memory jolted back. Mehr froze in her tracks. Hema’s mouth ticked up into a solemn smile.
“Hello, Mehr.”
Mehr hesitated, still. She wasn’t afraid of defying Kalini, not exactly. But she could remember the look in Kalini’s eyes, hard and cold and furious. It was sensible to be wary of a look like that. Besides, her interest in utilizing Hema and her women to learn more about the temple had waned as her focus on learning the sigils of the Rite of the Bound had grown.
“What are you doing here?” Mehr asked.
“Waiting for you,” Hema said. “It’s hard to get you alone, you know.”
“I know.” Mehr took a step forward, conscious of her damp clothes, her even damper hair, the sharpness of her wrists where they protruded from her sleeves. She’d grown thin over the past weeks. In contrast to her, Hema looked pristine and healthy, her skin glowing, her hair neatly pinned away from her face. “But why do you want to talk to me alone? You could have approached me at meals, any time you liked …”
“You’ve been avoiding everyone,” Hema said bluntly. Her lips pursed. Then her voice softened. “I’ve been watching you, Mehr, and you seem … out of sorts. I know the failure of the storm was hard on you—it was hard on all of us—but you need to take care of yourself. The Empire relies on you.”
Hema took a step forward.
“I brought you this,” she said. She held a cloth parcel out. “You haven’t been eating.”
Mehr took the parcel. She peeled back the edge of the cloth. Inside were sweets, soft and dense, made from red dates and butter clarified to a golden sheen. The last time she saw food this rich was on the Maha’s table. The thought robbed Mehr of what little was left of her appetite. She covered the food back up. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Hema gave her a careful look, with none of her usual sly humor in it.
“Tomorrow night, do you think you could slip away from your husband?” Hema asked. “Rena and I, we’ve managed to get our hands on a good few bottles of spiced wine. The strong kind.” Her eyes twinkled. “We need something to make us all smile again, don’t you think?”
Mehr could hear the coaxing note in Hema’s voice. She didn’t want to agree with Hema. She wanted to stay with Amun and practice the rite, find the sigils they needed to demand that the Gods break their chains and set them free from their vows. She and Amun had spent the night before trying to refine their copy of the map Mehr had seen in the scholars’ tower. Mehr hoped it would help them when they escaped the temple, but the task of creating it had consumed time they could little afford to lose.
Theyhadto be prepared for the next storm. What Mehr didn’t want or need was Hema’s misplaced pity, or the pity of any of those other green girls, with their unshakable faith in the Maha and their sure, steady fear of Amun.
But Hema was looking at her with sad eyes, knowing eyes—eyes that had read Mehr’s bruised face, her failing appetite, and had come to a conclusion that was almost, but not quite, the truth. Mehr had been hurt by a man, hurt over and over again, and she was holding on to her strength by a thread. Hema’s look said:I want to save you, and I’m not going to stop trying until you let me.Mehr didn’t have the energy to break herself against that look.
“I’ll consider it,” Mehr said, and knew she’d lost.
