by Tasha Suri
“I’m sorry,” said Mehr. “I would have come, but I was …” She hesitated. “I was in trouble.”
“How?”
“I disobeyed Father and he told me to stay in my chambers.”
“You’re too old to be punished,” Arwa said stoutly.
“I’m not that old, Arwa.”
“Is that why you were crying?” Arwa asked. “Because you were punished?” She brushed her fingertips against Mehr’s cheeks.
Mehr shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. Her sudden lightness was fragile. She didn’t want to shatter it, and she certainly didn’t want to pour out her troubles to her little sister. “Tell me, Arwa, did you see the storm?”
It was an obvious attempt to change topic, but Arwa responded with an eager barrage of information.
“I shouldn’t have seen it,” Arwa confided. “I was supposed to be asleep, but it was so loud that I woke up.” She told Mehr about how she had peered out of the window at the dreamfire, watching it twist against the skyline. The maidservants had been in their own quarters. Nahira had been asleep. Arwa had stood all on her own for ages and ages, hours and hours, watching the storm color the sky and the daiva fly through it, until Nahira had finally woken up and dragged her back to bed.
Mehr listened to her silently, marveling at her sister’s quicksilver nature. Mehr had been a serious child, thoughtful and quiet, and slow to forget. Arwa was not that sort of girl. She was easily swayed by kind words or cruel, and the beauty of the dreamfire had smoothed away her fears by blinding her with pure wonder.
“You’re not afraid of the daiva anymore, then?” Mehr asked her, when Arwa finally seemed to run out of breath.
“I don’t know,” Arwa said. She frowned. “I don’t want one in my room again. Do you think there’s going to be another storm, Mehr? I’d like that. It was so beautiful.”
“It was,” Mehr agreed. “But no, I don’t think there will be another storm. Not for a long while.”
And whenever it came, Mehr wouldn’t be here to see it. But Arwa would be. Now that she had heard Arwa’s bright, burbling joy, now that she’d seen Arwa’s shining eyes and breathless smile, she could take comfort in that. Irinah was as much Arwa’s land as it was Mehr’s. Blood and bone, they belonged here.
She looked up and found Nahira watching her with hooded eyes. Waiting.
“Come,” Mehr said, urging Arwa off the divan. “I have something to show you.”
She led Arwa to the array of pots and dyes, bright colors and dark sticks of kohl on the dresser, and told Arwa she had free rein to play with them as she liked. Arwa dug into them with glee. Once she was suitably engrossed, Mehr went to Nahira’s side.
“Does Maryam know you’re here?” Mehr asked. She kept her voice low, so as not to attract Arwa’s attention.
“She doesn’t know, and she won’t be told,” said Nahira. “Don’t whisper, girl. Your sister isn’t listening.” When Mehr continued to look conflicted, Nahira sighed and led her out into the living room.
They sat down on the floor cushions. “The Governor has visitors. Important people, I’ve been told.”
Mehr nodded in understanding. That explained why Maryam would have no time to worry about Mehr. Important visitors—courtiers, perhaps, from Jah Ambha itself—required the attention of the entire household. If Mehr had not been grieving in isolation, she would no doubt have seen the preparations take place. “What do you know?” she asked.
“I know you created a scandal,” Nahira said. “Of course everyone knows that now.” She reached into the folds of her shawl. “I know that one of my girls brought me this, and that I would not expect you to part with it lightly.” She took out Mehr’s dagger. “I know you are in trouble,” Nahira said softly. “What do I not know, child?”
Mehr took the dagger. Her hand trembled.
When her Amrithi clothes were taken, her dagger must have been taken with them. But she hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t cared. How could she have forgotten something so vital, so precious?
When she’d gone out into the storm she’d lost a piece of her old self. That was the only explanation she could think of.
She placed the dagger on the cushion beside her and lifted her seal up, away from where it had been concealed under her clothes. She showed it to Nahira.
“I’m being sent away,” she said.
Nahira nodded. Her expression was unreadable. “Tell me the rest,” she said.
Mehr told her haltingly about everything that had passed over the last few weeks. She told her about Lalita, and Maryam, about the storm, and Sara’s debt to her, and holding Usha as she had died. She didn’t cry, and was grateful that, for once, the tears stayed at bay.
Nahira listened silently. When Mehr trailed off she held open her arms.
“Come here,” said Nahira.
Mehr leaned forward, letting Nahira embrace her. She drew Mehr to her firmly but not roughly. Her old hands gripped Mehr like iron, but her fingers on her shoulders were so very gentle. Mehr had forgotten how well Nahira understood the complex needs of grieving children. It had been so long since anyone had treated her as a child. She let out a shuddering breath. The coil of tension wound up inside her loosened.
“Hush now,” Nahira said. “All is well.”
Mehr nodded. When Nahira released her, Mehr tucked her seal away, straightening. She didn’t want to be hunched over and miserable any longer. She wanted to be strong. Nahira watched, waiting until Mehr had regained her composure.
“You know you put Sara at great risk,” Nahira said finally. Her voice was disapproving.
“I know,” said Mehr. She had made a bad choice and dragged Sara along with her. The fault—and the guilt—were all on her shoulders. “Has she been found out? Is she—well?”
“Oh, she’s well,” said Nahira. “But only by pure luck. People are not tools to be used, Lady Mehr. Don’t start following the example of your elders now. You certainly never have before,” she added in a mutter.
There was a crash from Mehr’s room, then a guilty silence. When Mehr began to move, Nahira shook her head and motioned at Mehr to sit back down.
“She hasn’t hurt herself,” she said. “The girl’s hardier than that.” Sure enough, Mehr heard more guilty scuffles emanate from the bedroom.
“I’m never going to see Arwa again,” Mehr blurted out. Nahira said nothing, and Mehr clenched her hands into helpless fists. “I don’t want marriage. Not yet.”
“Well, you can’t wait forever,” Nahira said, ever practical. “You’re older than most girls are when they wed. Think of that.”
“Amrithi don’t wed at all,” Mehr said, somewhat churlishly. “Perhaps I should follow my mother’s example.”
“You’re Ambhan enough that marriage may suit you.”
“It doesn’t matter if it will suit me or not,” Mehr said bitterly. “I have my father’s orders.”
Nahira made a tutting noise. “You think you have no choice? My lady, marriage is the only choice your father’s people hold sacred for their women. Use that to your favor. Make a wise decision, and you’ll see so much of the child you’ll be sick of her.”
“What is a wise decision in marriage?” Mehr asked, even though she knew Nahira would laugh at her. And she did. Nahira’s laugh was a harsh bark, nearly a cough. She shook her head.
“No one knows, child, though they may claim they do. We Irin marry who we will, and end our marriages when needs be. We don’t make a fuss of such things. But an Ambhan marriage is a special beast.” Nahira leaned forward conspiratorially. Her Irin eyes were narrowed. “You belong to your father,” Nahira said. “And you will belong to any husband you choose. His duties will be your duties, his burdens your burdens. Your immortal soul will be bound to his.”
Mehr knew, of course, what an Ambhan marriage was meant to be, but it was strange to hear it spoken aloud. Stranger still to think of marriage when she wore her own seal around her throat. She thought of its weight, its ribbon, the feel
of it like a rope around her neck. A chill ran through her.
“Do you truly believe that?” Mehr asked.
“Ambhans do,” said Nahira. She gave an exaggerated shrug. “What does it matter, what I believe? I can only tell you this, child: A good choice for you would be a man who doesn’t enjoy wielding power over his people.”
A man who would give her a long leash.
She thought of her father. He was the only man she had ever truly known. No brothers, no uncles, no cousins. Her father had kept her well concealed for her own safety. Her world was so small. Her heart faltered.
“Are there any men like that?” Mehr asked.
Nahira patted her cheek firmly.
“Don’t be foolish,” she said. But she said it kindly. “Now, go and help your sister clean up. Try not to scold her if you can.”
“I was never very fond of my kohl anyway,” Mehr said.
She had barely gotten to her feet when she heard another crash. This time it wasn’t the sound of Arwa wreaking chaos, but the reverberation of the doors being slammed open by a guard. The guardswoman was breathing heavily, weighed down by her ceremonial attire. Beneath her golden helm her eyes were afraid.
“Lady Mehr,” she said. “You need to come with me immediately. Your father has summoned you to the Lotus Hall.”
Despite the guardswoman’s urgency, Mehr refused to leave immediately. She dragged Nahira back into her bedroom and left the guardswoman pacing between the floor cushions like a caged tiger. Arwa watched quietly, wide-eyed, as Mehr undressed and Nahira rummaged through her clothes, cursing under her breath. Mehr was too tense to muster up a single word.
The Lotus Hall was the political heart of the Governor’s residence. It was in the Lotus Hall that the greats of the Emperor’s court were welcomed and lavished with Irinah’s treasures. It was in the Lotus Hall that all the political games of the Empire took place.
The politics of the Lotus Hall were the politics of the Empire, and thus it belonged to the realm of men. Married women often attended and watched events unfold, seated veiled in a screened area behind the Governor’s dais. The women shared their husbands’ duties and burdens, and therefore had good reason to observe politics at work. As an unmarried woman, and an illegitimate one at that, Mehr had only been to the Lotus Hall very rarely.
Why her father wanted her there now, Mehr couldn’t fathom. But she wouldn’t go unprepared.
The guardswoman had her ceremonial golden garb, symbolic of the wealth of the Empire and Irinah’s illustrious place within it. Mehr needed armor of her own.
With Nahira’s help, she put on an underskirt of pale rose and a long, layered robe of gossamer white silk. She had no time to apply cosmetics, but she was sure her veil would hide the tiredness in her eyes.
Mehr swept out of her room with her head held high. She drew her veil over her face. The veil was thin enough around the eyes for Mehr to see, but her surroundings were colored in shades of white and silver. The guardswoman started toward her.
“Ready, my lady?”
Mehr nodded.
“Take me to my father,” she said.
The guardswoman led Mehr out of the women’s quarters. The corridors were wider, grander. There were male guards lining the walls. They were careful not to look at her directly, but Mehr could still remember the weight of the commander’s eyes on her, the embarrassment thinning his mouth. She was glad for the anonymizing weight of her veil, the grandeur of her clothing. In her armor she was Suren’s daughter, and no eyes could touch her.
The guard led her to a side entrance to the Hall. She opened the door. Hesitated.
“This will lead you behind the Governor’s throne,” murmured the guardswoman. She hesitated again. “Emperor’s grace upon you, my lady.”
She stepped back, allowing Mehr to pass.
Mehr took a deep breath and went through the door. On her left were women—a dozen at least, wives of courtiers dressed in their finery with their faces carefully veiled. On her right was a long partition screen, thin enough for the color and noise of the Hall to pour through it. She took a step forward. Another. Through the screen she could see her father’s shadow. He was seated on the other side, on a raised dais facing the Hall. Above him, hung from the ceiling and visible through the screen, was an effigy of the Emperor, ornately gilded in facets of mirror glass in hues of bronze and silver. Its position above him was symbolic. Although the Governor ruled Irinah, he was merely the Emperor’s representative, appointed by the Emperor to act in the Emperor’s—and the Empire’s—best interests.
“Sit by me,” a voice said quietly. Mehr looked down. Maryam was kneeling on floor cushions at the Governor’s right-hand side, separated from her husband’s by the screen. Her face was veiled, but there was no missing the ferocity in her voice. “Sit.”
Mehr kneeled down deliberately to her father’s left instead. A ripple of unease ran through the women behind her. But Mehr could not, would not, flinch. She sat tall, her hands clasped before her.
“Daughter,” her father said. His voice carried across the Hall. His words weren’t meant just for her. “My firstborn. Our visitors requested your presence.”
Mehr could see clearly through the thin mesh of the screen to the Hall beyond.
The Lotus Hall lived up to its name, with alcoves shaped to mimic the open folds of a flower, its mirrored walls shimmering in the glow of the lanterns like rippling water. Above it all, the effigy of the Emperor glowed most brightly of all, haloed with light. She could see the courtiers crowded into those alcoves with their swords in their scabbards and their hands in fists. She could see the guardsmen in their ceremonial attire, golden and still, barring the doorways.
She could see the visitors.
There were five of them. They were dressed in identical heavy robes, suitable for the desert but certainly not for the finery of court. They wore thick cloth wound around their heads and shoulders. Some had the cloth drawn up over their faces, concealing everything but their eyes. Others were barefaced. It was one of the barefaced visitors, a slight figure in a dark robe, who looked up at the sound of Suren’s voice and fixed their eyes unerringly on Mehr’s shadowy figure through the screen. The visitor’s eyes were light, their skin Irin dark. Mehr realized with a jolt that the visitor was a woman.
“We’re glad you’re finally with us, my lady,” the woman said, speaking to Mehr as if the screen and Mehr’s veil and the sudden disapproving muttering rolling through the crowd were no barrier at all. “Please, allow me to make proper introductions on behalf of my brothers and me.” She swept a bow. Her eyes never left Mehr’s figure.
“We are the Empire’s mystics, my lady, come from the desert to speak to you on behalf of our master, the Great One, the Maha, who bids us to pray for the Empire’s glory.” She smiled. Her teeth were so very white. “We have heard a great deal about you, Lady Mehr.”
“You do not speak directly to her,” Suren said. His voice was hard as iron. “My daughter is a noblewoman under my protection, and as such you will not stain her honor by breaching the veil. You speak to me.”
“Your desire to protect your women is a great virtue, Governor,” the mystic said. She looked away from Mehr. “I meant no offense.” When Mehr’s father made no response, as the mutterings from the watching courtiers grew more pronounced, the woman gestured at one of her companions to come forward. “Perhaps it will ease your mind to know we come at the bidding of the highest power,” she said.
The other mystic stepped toward the dais, only to find his way barred by a guardsman. He turned to look back at the woman. When she nodded, he reached into the folds of his robe and took out a sealed scroll. The noise of the crowd grew. They could all see what Mehr could see. The scroll was marked with the two entwined seals: the Emperor’s and the Maha’s. Law and faith. Even Mehr, raised in seclusion, knew their marks. Her breath caught. She felt the roar of the crowd fill her ears like water.
The guard accepted the scroll with sh
aking fingers and took it up to the Governor’s dais. Suren did not try to quiet the courtiers. His focus was on the paper in his hands.
The woman’s voice cut through the mutters of the courtiers. She seemed to take no notice of the displeasure of the crowd. She stood straight and tall, a faint smile still lifting the corners of her mouth. “Among our order is one son highly favored by the Gods. He has served faithfully, with all his soul. Our Maha told the Emperor how wisely this son has served him, and they both wish to reward his loyalty with a suitable marriage.”
“A marriage,” Suren repeated. His voice was colorless. “I did not know your kind married.”
“The Maha decides what we are and what we do, Governor, for we are his tools and his devotees,” the woman said. “Like all people of the Empire, noble to beggar, everything we have and everything we are has been granted to us by the faith and law of the Empire. We do not question. We merely serve. Just as you serve upon your throne, Governor, at the Emperor’s decree, we come to you seeking a specific marriage for our brother because the Maha and our Emperor have said it must be so.”
Mehr felt, more than saw, the way the nobles quailed back from the woman as she spoke. Around her the women were deathly silent. They all heard what the woman had not said:
Whatever the Emperor and the Maha gave, they could also take away.
The woman held out her hands, palms open. “Your daughter’s name reached the Maha’s ears on the wings of a storm, Governor. So here we are, my brothers and I, to offer her a great honor.”
Mehr felt a thud in her lungs, her bones. She felt like the ground had collapsed beneath her. She was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. She watched her father through the screen. He carefully rolled up the scroll. He placed it on his lap.
“I am afraid my daughter is unsuitable,” Suren said. “She is illegitimate. Her blood is impure. She is by no means worthy of a favored mystic of the Empire.”
“We know of your daughter’s blood,” said the woman. “It is no impediment. The Empire is vast, Governor, and the Emperor loves all his subjects. Even those with barbarian blood have their part to play.” The woman gestured at her own face, a smile still playing on her mouth. “I am not pure myself, Governor. But I serve, nonetheless.”
