by Tasha Suri
It would be best, she told herself, to keep walking. It would be best not to look back. She did not want to be punished. She did not want Arwa to be punished.
“Don’t go,” Arwa said in a small voice. “Can’t you stay just one time?”
Mehr stopped. If she turned back—if she stayed—Maryam would ensure that she would not be allowed to visit Arwa again for a long, long time.
Mehr took a deep breath, turned, and walked back to her sister regardless. She closed her eyes and pressed one firm kiss to Arwa’s forehead. Her skin was soft; her hair smelled like rosewater.
“Get some sleep,” she said to her. “Everything will be better when you wake up.”
“Go,” Nahira said. “I’ll take care of her, my lady.” A pause, as Arwa struggled and Mehr hesitated, her feet frozen in place by a compulsion she couldn’t name. “Lady Maryam will be awake soon,” Nahira said, and that, at last, broke the spell. Mehr turned and walked swiftly back toward her room. She could hear Arwa crying behind her, but as she had told the maidservant Sara, children were often distressed. The hurt would pass. Soon Arwa would forget she had ever been sad at all.
In the privacy of her own chambers, Mehr bathed and dressed, one single yawning maid helping her to oil the wild mass of her hair and braid it back from her face. She could have gone back to sleep, but that seemed pointless now. Her stepmother would be calling for her soon enough.
As the maid wound thread through her braid to hold it in place, Mehr stared out of the lattice wall of her living room. Hollowed out in the shapes of leaves and flowers, it gave Mehr a clear view of the city of Jah Irinah and the desert beyond it. She looked at the sandstone of the city, the gold of the desert, and the clear sky above it and thought: There’s a storm coming.
There hadn’t been a true storm in Jah Irinah in years, but Mehr knew when one was on its way. There was Amrithi enough in her for that. The daiva had been the first sign of it. The city was no place for its kind, and yet the bird-spirit had come. Mehr was sure it had flown to Arwa’s window on the first sharp, invisible winds of the coming storm, dreamfire under its wings. Soon enough more daiva would arrive, followed by rising sand and a fall of dreamfire to cloak Jah Irinah in light.
The daiva’s scent still clung to Mehr’s senses like a warning, a portent of things to come. It was no surprise to her when a maid arrived, holding a message delivered by courier moments before. The message was brief, to the point.
I’m coming. Important news.
“Bring refreshments, please,” she said, folding the message up. “Something simple will do.”
The maid left with a hurried farewell. There were perks to being the daughter of the Governor of Irinah—even an illegitimate one. People obeyed you. Servants rushed to your bidding. Even the ones who loathed you—and there were many—were forced to veil their contempt and keep their loathing eyes lowered.
All people faced hatred. All people suffered. Few had the cushion of wealth and privilege to protect them as Mehr did. She reminded herself of this as she walked over to the bare floor in front of the lattice, pressing her feet against marble warmed by the morning sun. She was very, very lucky. The heartache she experienced every time she thought of her sister tearily reaching out to her was an agony she had no right to feel.
Better to put the agony away. Better not to think of Arwa at all.
Mehr took a deep breath, slowly filling her lungs. She straightened her spine and rolled back her shoulders, raising her hands above her head to greet the sky. When she pressed her feet flat to the ground, legs bent to a diamond angle, she felt a veil of peace settle over her. The old rites never failed to calm her.
Although the correct time for it had passed, Mehr moved through the Rite of Sunrise, hands shaping the sigils for night and sun and sky as her body moved fluidly from stance to stance. Subtle poses transitioned into the wider, florid movements as she mimed the sun rising. Her muscles warmed; her breath quickened. She let her heavy thoughts go.
The dance was ancient, and its age comforted her. Amrithi had greeted the dawn just like this for generations. There was an endless, unbroken history of men and women who had moved exactly as Mehr was moving now: arms upraised, then lowered, fingers interlocked, then spread in a constant rhythm that matched the rising beat of her heart. Mehr was merely a link in the chain. She didn’t have to think. She was elemental.
From dawn she moved to day, and from day to dusk. There was a whole cycle of rites simply for the passing of the hours. Mehr knew them all. Lost in her body, she didn’t even notice when Lalita finally entered, even though a maid had surely arrived to announce her. She only realized Lalita was there when she heard a voice humming with the rhythm of her steps, fingers tapping along with the smack of her feet against the floor. Mehr stopped immediately, falling into the finishing stance.
“Welcome back,” Lalita said wryly. Her Chand guard Usha, standing in the doorway, gave a shy wave. “Are you wholly with us now?”
Mehr’s legs were cramping. She must have been dancing for hours. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d lost herself in the rites. She stretched out the soreness in her muscles, her breath still a shade too fast. “Were you waiting long?”
“Oh no, not long,” Lalita said. “One of your maids offered me refreshments. Such a pleasant girl.” She raised a small glass of fruit nectar to illustrate. “Will you join me in a drink?”
Mehr joined her on the floor cushions, crossing her aching legs before they could resist her will.
It was hard not to look at Lalita without being reflexively astounded by her beauty. Although she was a woman old enough to be Mehr’s mother, she wore her age the way she wore her loveliness: proudly, like armor. She’d once been a courtesan in Jah Ambha, the Emperor’s city. Usha had told Mehr in awed, hushed tones that Lalita had danced once for the Emperor himself. But now she lived a quiet life in Jah Irinah, near the desert of her ancestors, holding small salons and entertaining only the most select of guests.
Lalita passed her a drink. Her mouth curved into a smile. Her hair was loose around her shoulders in glossy curls; her lips were painted red. But her eyes were tired, and she couldn’t quite hide the tremor in her fingers as she handed over the glass.
“Are you well?” Mehr asked cautiously.
Lalita dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “You need to practice matching your sigils with your stances,” she said. “Your timing is imperfect.”
“Blame my teacher.”
“Very funny,” Lalita said dryly. “I am well, dear one. But I have unfortunate news.”
“Tell me,” Mehr prompted.
Lalita’s gaze flickered over to the doorway, where Usha stood. They shared a glance. Then she returned her gaze to Mehr, her face now grave.
“I have to leave Jah Irinah. I may not be able to return for a long time, Mehr.”
“Ah,” Mehr said. She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I see.”
“I am sorry for it,” Lalita said softly. “But I have drawn some unwanted attention. One of the perils of my work, dear one. But I will write to you, and you must write back, you understand?”
As a courtesan, Lalita faced many risks. Mehr understood that well enough.
But Lalita was not simply a courtesan. She was also an Amrithi woman hiding in plain sight under a Chand name and a Chand identity. And that, more than her profession, placed her at risk of terrible danger. It was Lalita who had carefully, gently explained to Mehr the dangers their shared heritage posed.
Mehr looked at Lalita’s hands, which were still trembling faintly. Lalita’s calm, she realized, was as fragile and brittle as fine glass. It was not Mehr’s place to shatter it. Instead, she swallowed her questions away, and simply nodded.
“I hate writing letters,” she said, forcing herself to sound light. She saw Lalita’s face soften back into a smile as some of the tension left it, and was glad she had done so. “But for you, I’ll try.”
“I feel very spe
cial.”
“As you should,” Mehr said. “You dreadful abandoner. You know my stances will only grow worse without you, don’t you?”
“I dread to think,” Lalita said with a sigh. She gave Mehr a thoughtful look and said, “You will practice without me, won’t you?”
“Of course.” Mehr hesitated. “Lalita, do you …?”
“Yes?” she prompted.
“I thought your message was about something else entirely.” Mehr shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me,” said Lalita. “Has something happened? Your stepmother?”
“Last night there was a daiva in my sister’s room.”
Lalita’s gaze sharpened. She leaned forward.
“Was it strong? An ancient?”
“It was nothing but a bird-spirit. But I believe it was a herald, Lalita. I think a storm is coming.”
Lalita looked out through the lattice wall, considering.
“The last time I walked the edge of the desert, the daiva did seem restless,” she said finally. “For a benign spirit to move so far among mortals … yes, my dear. I think you may be right.” Her forehead creased into a frown. “I can’t quite believe I missed the signs. I’ve misplaced my head.” She looked at Mehr. “You’ve taken the proper precautions?”
Mehr nodded. There was no chance of a daiva coming into Mehr’s chambers. Mehr had bled on the doors and windows often enough, after all, every turn of the moon since her tenth year, just as she’d been taught.
“And your sister?”
“Her window was freshly blooded. I used my dagger.”
“Then there’s nothing to fear, and everything to look forward to.” Lalita set down her drink. There was a faraway look in her eyes. “How old were you during the last storm?”
“Young,” said Mehr. “I can’t remember.”
“It’s been an age since I last saw a storm,” Lalita said, a wistful edge to her voice. “When I was a child I loved them. My clan would spend days preparing the Rite of Dreaming. And when the dreamfire fell—ah, Mehr, it was a beautiful thing. You can’t imagine it.” A sigh. “But of course storms were more frequent where I was raised. There’s just no soul in Jah Irinah.”
Storms of dreamfire only occurred within the confines of Irinah’s holy desert. But Irinah was vast, and Lalita had grown up deep in the heart of the desert, where storms fell frequently. Jah Irinah, built as it was on the outer edge of the blessed sand, was rarely graced with storms. Nonetheless, it was a common belief among the Irin that the presence of the Ambhan Empire in the city—in its buildings, its fountains, its culture, and its people—kept the storms at bay. Dreamfire, they would whisper, belonged to Irinah and Irinah’s people. It wouldn’t deign to fall before foreign eyes.
Mehr understood that belief. Built in the early years of the Empire, when the first Emperor ordered a loyal Governor to the conquered country to rule in his stead, Jah Irinah was and always would be a purely Ambhan city. The Empire was visible in every swooping arch, every mosaic-patterned wall, and every human-made fountain pumped with precious, wasted water. The city was built on Irinah’s back, but there was certainly none of the country’s harsh beauty in its bones.
Lalita was still lost in old memories, her face soft with sadness. “The Rite of Dreaming usually needs more dancers, but we’ll manage.” She looked at Mehr. “We’ll greet the storm together.”
“You want me to dance the rite with you?” Mehr said, not trying to hide the disbelief in her voice.
“That is how Amrithi greet storms, Mehr,” Lalita said, amused. She patted Mehr’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve taught you everything you need to know.”
“I thought you were leaving.”
“For this,” said Lalita gently, “I can delay my journey a little longer.”
How many times had Mehr looked out at the desert and imagined living on its sands in a clan of her own, dancing the Rite of Dreaming for the storms of dreamfire that so rarely crossed its boundaries? She’d always known it was an impossible thing to hope for.
“My mother …” Mehr stopped. There were so many feelings hurtling through her. She didn’t know how to put them into words. “The Rite of Dreaming is danced by clans,” she said finally, her voice brittle. “And I have no clan.” She swallowed. “This isn’t for me. But I thank you.”
The amusement faded completely from Lalita’s face. The expression that took its place was full of knowing compassion.
“Neither of us are good Amrithi, my dear,” Lalita said gently. “I have no clan anymore either. But we can be clan to each other.” She pressed her fingers to Mehr’s knuckles in fleeting comfort. “You’re a woman now. You’ve learned your rites and your sigils, and shown your ancestors the proper reverence. You are Amrithi, Mehr. The rite is your inheritance, just as it is mine. When the storm comes I’ll be here to dance with you. I promise this.”
Mehr felt an upswell in her heart. But she kept her expression calm.
“I appreciate it,” she said.
Lalita leaned back, took another delicate sip of her drink, and swiftly changed topic. She eased the conversation onto lighter ground, relating gossip from the racier circles she traveled within in Jah Irinah that Mehr had little access to. Lalita darted artfully from topic to topic, telling Mehr about scandals among the city’s merchants, and news of new fresh-faced courtesans rising in fame or infamy. She told Mehr about the restlessness among factions of the nobility, and the trouble they’d caused in response, or so she’d heard, to rumblings from the Emperor’s court.
“The young ones,” she said, “the ones who want to prove themselves and earn glory for their names, are causing no end of trouble in the city.”
“What are they doing?” Mehr asked.
Lalita gestured vaguely with one hand, a line of irritation forming between her brows. “What do men do, when they want to cause trouble? Harassing traders and merchants, barging their way into pleasure houses. They claim to be the Emperor’s eyes. They say it gives them the right to do as they please.” Lalita’s gaze sharpened. “They may have the right. But your father will know far more about the Emperor’s business than I do.”
Hungry, ambitious young nobles trying to curry the Emperor’s favor by striving to fulfill his perceived desires were a nuisance, but a nuisance her father could quash. Nobles acting on the Emperor’s orders—as the nobles that Lalita had so carefully chosen to warn Mehr about claimed to be—would be infinitely more dangerous. Governor though he was, her father could not stand in the way of the Emperor’s direct commands.
“My father doesn’t speak to me about such things,” Mehr said finally.
“I know, dear one,” Lalita said. Her voice was soft. “But ah, enough of serious business. Let me tell you what I learned from a patron last week …”
After one inspiring story about a hapless merchant and two business-minded dancing girls, Mehr was almost relaxed. She was laughing when a guardswoman entered, a grim expression on her face.
“Lady Maryam has asked for you to attend her, my lady,” she said.
That put a complete stop to Mehr’s laughter. She straightened up, offering the guardswoman a cool look that was returned in kind. Her stepmother’s servants had no particular love for Mehr.
“Give me a moment,” Mehr said. Knowing Maryam would have demanded Mehr be brought to her immediately, she added, “I must say good-bye to my guest. I’m sure Mother would agree.”
As Mehr stood, Lalita stood with her.
“Mehr,” Lalita said, a hint of hesitation in her voice. “We will talk more when I return for the storm, but do try to be … careful. Your father will keep you safe, my dear, but these are difficult times.”
Mehr nodded. She was very conscious of the guardswoman waiting for her, listening to Lalita’s every word.
“When you return for the storm we’ll speak properly,” Mehr agreed. “I’ll make sure we’re not disturbed, if I can.”
“Thank you.”
Usha
came over and placed Lalita’s hooded robe around her shoulders.
“I’ll see myself out,” Lalita said lightly. She touched her fingers to Mehr’s cheek. “Be brave,” she said. “Nothing harms like family. I know.”
“I’m always brave,” Mehr said.
“So you are,” Lalita said, ever so softly. “My dear, I hope you never change.”
CHAPTER TWO
The guardswoman led Mehr down increasingly elegant marble-floored corridors to the Receiving Hall. Used solely for entertaining the wives of visiting courtiers, the Hall was no place for a private conversation between family members. No doubt Maryam had chosen the Hall for exactly that reason. She wanted to remind Mehr of her place. This was Maryam’s household. Mehr was just an unwanted interloper: an illegitimate child, a heathen, a visitor.
Mehr hardly needed the reminder. She knew what she was.
The guardswoman crossed the threshold of the Hall and bowed low as she announced Mehr’s arrival. After a short pause, the guard gestured at her to enter. Mehr steeled herself and stepped into the room with her head held high.
The room was sumptuously decorated with silk tapestries unfurled on the walls and rubies inlaid into the domed ceiling. Mehr swept across the Hall, ignoring the watchful, judgmental eyes of her stepmother’s many attendants. She kept her own gaze fixed on the raised dais in front of her where Maryam waited.
Lady Maryam, wife of the Governor of Irinah and scion of one of the great Ambhan families, looked down at her stepdaughter from her raised seat and offered her a cool smile. Mehr gave her a small bow in return.
“Mother,” she said. “How may I serve?”
“Sit down, Mehr,” said Maryam. “We need to talk.”
Maryam was a true bloom of Ambhan womanhood. Her hair was sleek and dark, wound into a gold-laced braid that fell to the small of her back. Her skin was light brown, her eyes hazel, her face fine-boned and delicate. She looked exactly as fresh and maidenly as she had on the day Mehr’s father had brought her to their home, dressed in wedding silks with his seal hung around her neck. Even the hate in her eyes when she looked at Mehr, kneeling on the cushions before her, hadn’t altered one jot in the last eight years.
