What could she do if he woke blank-eyed and broken, a shadow of himself? Nothing, absolutely nothing. She was powerless here. So she pushed her fear away, locking it into the dark place inside her where all her grief and horror lived, waiting to be let out. She focused on practicalities instead. She took off her bloodstained robe—oh, how she would have loved to burn it whole—and put on her plainest shawl and tunic. She left her legs bare, not bothering with pajami, even as she wrapped the shawl tight around her shoulders and drew the cloth up to her face, breathing its scent in. If she breathed deep enough, perhaps she’d be able to find the scent of the women’s quarters, that unique combination of rosewater and oil and perfume she’d once kept stoppered in a perfect glass vial on her dressing table. But there was no scent of home. The shawl smelled like everything in the temple smelled: of sand and sunlight and dust. It was as if her old life were a story she’d made up, an utterly perfect dream she’d conjured to comfort herself through the bitter reality of her slavery.
But her life before had been real, just as real as her life was now, and it hadn’t been perfect. She’d been an outsider in her own home, protected from the worst cruelties a legal wife could inflict on an illegitimate, mixed-blood stepdaughter only by the strength of her father’s guilt. Even then, she hadn’t been safe, and she hadn’t been free. But she’d had Arwa, and Lalita, and Nahira. She’d had love, she saw now, in abundance. That love had given her the strength to breathe.
Now all the people she’d once loved were gone from her life, and her chains had grown heavier and heavier. She didn’t know if she could survive without hope. Could she let the thought of freedom go, and live like Amun had lived for years on end, like an animal in a cage, quelled and silent, always watching warily for the next blow to fall? She didn’t know if she had his strength. It would be easier to simply splinter herself on hating the Maha. Her pride made her want to. It would be the Amrithi thing to do, after all, to annihilate herself rather than letting the Maha have her heart and soul.
It would be harder—far harder, and far braver—to find a way to survive. Harder even still, to find a way to trulylive.
Amun made a low, tortured sound as he tossed on the bed. She touched his hair, made a hushing noise, as a mother would for a child. He didn’t wake. There were hours still until daylight, and Mehr feared all over again that he would not wake up in time. She curled herself up on the bed beside him, tucking her legs beneath herself. She kept stroking his hair. He made another pained noise, eyelids fluttering, and she began to sing him the lullaby she’d once sung to Arwa, to comfort her little sister when she’d cried.
It was a ridiculous thing to do; she knew that. Amun was no child. She remembered, distantly, Arwa’s warm weight in her arms—her long braid of hair, her warm child scent. Amun was huge, all sinew and muscle, and smelled of blood. There was stubble on his cheeks. She touched her fingertips to his jaw. Her voice was thin and raw, but Amun still seemed to be soothed by it, his breathing softening as she cupped his face, as she sang.
She watched his eyes open.
“Mehr?” he said blearily. He reached a hand out. She took it. His large fingers enclosed hers.
“I’m here,” she said softly.
“Did I …?”
“No,” she said, seeing the fear dawning on his face. “No, you did nothing. You fought.”
He gave a pained laugh. “No wonder I hurt so mu—” He stopped, his voice choking. His grip on her hand tightened. “I can feel it. The vow.”
She waited. His grip didn’t weaken. He was so gray with pain. “The song you were singing,” he said finally, pain leaking into his voice. “It sounded familiar.”
“It was a song my mother used to sing to me,” she said. “An Amrithi song.”
Amun nodded. “My … my father. He used to sing me to sleep. He was better with me than my mother. Because she had the—theamatagift, she was harder. More afraid. But my father … he had a—good voice. He taught me.” Breath. “Everything I know. He taught me.”
Mehr listened. Just listened, as Amun struggled for words, as he closed his eyes and spoke, still holding on to her as tightly as a man in the sands holds his last flask of water.
“After my mother, he was afraid to … to leave me alone. Because I was like her—he knew. He’d seen the dreamfire. With me. He tried not to go to villages. Tried to keep me safe. But we were hungry, so we went. And someone told the mystics we were there.” Pained breath in. Out. “When the mystics found us … Mehr, if my mother had been with me, she would have slit my throat before the Maha could take me. But my father—he loved me too much. He hesitated and they—took him. Us.”
“You were a child,” Mehr whispered. “When you made your vows to the Maha … you were just a child?”
“The Maha told me if I made my vows he would spare my father pain. He said he would show him mercy. I learned from the Maha how to tell a lie with truth.” A pause. Another harsh breath. “He killed him fast. It was mercy of a kind. But not the one I wanted.”
All the stories he’d told her of his life before the Maha, all the careful absences in his stories, suddenly made sense. He’d told her he was young and foolish in his early days in the temple. She hadn’t thought he’d meant that he’d been nothing but a child, tricked into service by a Maha who had used his fear for his father’s life to bind him.
Amun had been compelled, just as she had, by the need to protect someone he loved.
Just a child.Oh, Amun, she thought.
His breathing had grown ragged. He was shaking. “Let me go, Mehr.Go.”
“I can’t,” Mehr said. “Bahren is waiting at the bottom of the stairs.”
“I expected him to be in this room.”
“I asked him to leave me some dignity,” Mehr said. “As an Ambhan noblewoman. But he will still be waiting.”
Amun shook his head. “Mehr,” he said despairingly. Then he fell silent.
“Amun,” she murmured, ever so soft. She wished, distantly, that she’d let the lanterns gutter. Maybe darkness would have made this easier. “Amun. It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he said. Deep breaths, sharp with pain. “Mehr, I … I’ve asked myself. So many times. When the vows hurt. When I was alone. Would I turn my blade on myself if I could? If I weren’t vowed …”
“Amun,” she whispered again.
