“So,” he said, once his breathing had grown more even. “One of the mystics knows.” He looked up. “I’m not angry, Mehr. I knew this was inevitable. Our chances were always slim.”
“We don’t have to lose hope yet,” Mehr said. She couldn’t stand the bleakness of his eyes.
“We have a little hope,” Amun observed, his voice flat. “If she doesn’t speak before the storm. If we manage to break our bonds during the storm, which is unlikely … Mehr, you must see, there are too manyifs.”
Mehr swallowed. There was no question that Hema would speak, only a question ofwhenshe would. Mehr knew it just as well as Amun did. Hema was far too loyal, far too faithful to the Maha, to keep Mehr and Amun’s secret.
“I’ll tell her I—I lay with you. I’ll tell her I did my duty.”
“You think you can lie to her now?” His expression was far too knowing. She had the awful sense that he could see right through her.
Lying to Hema would be nothing at all like lying to Maryam or maidservants or her father. In her father’s household, she’d lied to ensure her small freedoms. She’d lied to save herself from punishment, or for the sake of power. She’d understood that nobility valued many things more highly than truth: their status, their honor, their own pride.
But Hema and the mystics valued nothing more highly than their honesty to the Maha. And Mehr had never lied to save a freedom as vast as the fate of her own soul.
“I’ve lied before,” she said thinly. “I can lie again if I need to. Besides, this is my error. I can try to make it right.”
“Not all mistakes can be made right, Mehr.” It would have been better if Amun had sounded angry. He didn’t. He sounded like he’d expected this all along.
Frantic thoughts ran through Mehr’s head. She thought of suggesting that they ask Edhir when the next storm of dreamfire would fall. She thought of running out and seeking Hema, begging her for silence. But all of that was foolish. All of it was pointless. Mehr could not make her mistakes right. They were going to lose their freedom, and Mehr was responsible for it.
She leaned more heavily back against the wall and closed her eyes. Her head was racing; she felt cold and sick in body and soul. She heard Amun get up from the bed and cross the floor.
She stiffened when he touched her. She opened her eyes, ready to apologize—but for once, Amun had not flinched away. His jaw was hard, his sigils livid with pain, but the hand on her cheek was confident in its tenderness. She leaned into his touch, almost despite herself. He didn’t hate her. How could he not hate her?
“You don’t need to comfort me,” she protested. “You’re hurting yourself.” But when he placed his other hand against her shoulder, drawing her against him, she didn’t protest. She stayed very still, feeling the warmth of him, the cadence of his breath. She’d move away in a second, offer him a respite from the pain of his vows. But not just yet.
“Don’t tell me everything will be well,” she said.
“I don’t lie. Not to you.” A pause. “But you’ll survive. And I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.”
“Thank you,” she said. And then, because it bore repeating: “I’m sorry, Amun. So very sorry.”
“I wanted to buy us a little time,” he said, his breath gentle against her forehead. “And I did. That’s enough.”
It was painful to lose hope. But she knew, now, that Amun had never had it. His hopes had always been smaller than hers. All he’d wanted was a modicum of kindness, a small sand grain of mercy. He’d won them that. Now all they could do was face the consequences of Mehr’s failure. Now all they could do was wait.
Hema had been right. Mehr did feel foul in the morning. But she’d felt worse before. The journey through the desert, with its relentless heat and sunlight, had made her feel infinitely worse. So she put her pain to the back of her mind and went to prayers, sharing her breakfast with Amun as they went to their practice hall. They didn’t speak about the night before. Instead they went through the motions, performing the rite, praying with the mystics, adhering strictly to the monotonous routine expected of them. They made it through the day. And the next one.
On the third day, Bahren and Abhiman came for them. Abhiman came armed. He wore a dagger at his waist. Mehr looked at the dagger and at the look in his eyes—deadly and flat and soft. She knew why they were there even before Bahren spoke.
“The Maha wants you. Both of you.”
Abhiman strode over and grabbed Mehr roughly by the wrist. Amun, fool that he was, stepped forward, his face thunderous. In a flash, Abhiman had his dagger out of its sheath, its tip a hairsbreadth from Mehr’s chin. She raised her head, gave Amun a sharp look.Please, please, don’t try to play the hero. Not now.
Amun had already frozen. He held his palms upraised. “Brother, you don’t need swords to compel us,” he said.
“Apparently we do,” Bahren said tiredly. “Come quietly, boy. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
They were marched through the corridors. Abhiman didn’t lead them to the Maha’s private chambers, as Mehr had expected and dreaded. Instead they were led to the Prayer Hall.
Without the usual throng of mystics at prayer, the hall seemed somehow vaster. Beneath the statue of the Emperor stood the Maha. He watched as they approached. His fractured eyes glowed in the glare of the torchlight. In the emptiness of the hall there was nowhere to hide from him.
Mehr reminded herself to remain calm. As Abhiman shoved her forward, she forced herself to look beyond the Maha. Kalini stood at the edge of the room, half her face cloaked in shadow. Two women kneeled at the Maha’s feet. Hema, with her face to the floor, identifiable only by her short, curling hair. And Anni.
Abhiman forced her to a stop, his hand a vise on her wrist. Mehr stumbled over her feet.
“Show some respect,” Abhiman said. His voice was full of disgust. “Kneel.”
