by Tasha Suri
There was a beat of silence. Speak, Mehr thought. Speak.
Tell them I walked barefaced in the streets. Tell them I’m a disgrace. Convince them.
Please, Father.
“My daughter’s consent would be required,” Suren said finally.
“We would never violate an Ambhan woman’s right to choose the path of her soul,” the mystic said. “A chaperoned meeting will be arranged.” The woman bowed again. The other mystics followed suit. “We pray, most sincerely, Governor, that your daughter will find the Emperor’s choice suitable.”
In the furor that followed, a guardswoman quickly ushered Mehr and Maryam from the Lotus Hall and guided them to the Governor’s Study. No doubt she acted on Suren’s orders.
Two guards stood on watch at the doors. As Maryam paced the room in silent, seething fury, Mehr lifted her veil away from her face. Her clothes were too heavy. The walls of the study were closing in on her. She wanted to go outdoors and let the night air cool her blood. She wanted Lalita, and her rites, and the rosewater smell of Arwa’s hair. She wanted comfort. She didn’t want to think. Not yet.
“I told you to be careful,” said Maryam. Her voice sounded like it was echoing across a long distance. Mehr’s ears were still too full of the crowd to hear her. “You brought this upon us. You drew attention to yourself, threw yourself headlong into disgrace and now you’ve brought those monsters to our doorstep—did you even consider what the Emperor’s displeasure could do to us?—listen to me, Mehr!”
She grabbed Mehr’s hand. Mehr resisted the sudden, bubbling urge for violence. She wanted to rake her nails over Maryam’s skin like claws. She wanted a daiva’s ferocity and a daiva’s taste for blood. The hunger was painful; the rage made her mouth water. But Mehr did nothing. She simply let her stepmother hold on to her.
After all, Maryam was right.
“If you refuse this match you’ll murder us all,” Maryam hissed. The hate and fear blazed on her face like dreamfire in flesh. “Do you understand? Your father, your sister, all the servants—they will all die because of you. So for once in your life, Mehr, make the right decision. For once, do as you’re told.”
The door opened. Maryam released Mehr hastily and retreated to the corner of the room, her back turned. Her shoulders were shaking.
“Maryam,” Suren said gently. “My love. My apologies. I need to speak to Mehr alone.”
Maryam swept out of the room wordlessly. The door slammed behind her.
CHAPTER FIVE
In her eighth year, on the Emperor’s birthday, Mehr had—for reasons she could no longer remember—decided she did not wish to pray. Nahira had scolded her. Her mother had made a lackluster effort to change Mehr’s mind, then thrown up her hands and sent Mehr to her father for punishment instead.
Mehr had kneeled on the floor of the Governor’s Study, hands clasped tight in front of her so that she wouldn’t be tempted to fidget with the hem of her skirt and give away how nervous she was. Her father had watched her silently for a long moment. Then he’d said, “Why won’t you pray?”
Mehr had looked down.
“Mehr,” he’d said. Just once.
“Mother doesn’t pray,” she’d whispered.
At that, her father had sighed.
“I see,” he said. “I should have known. Well, you are not your mother, and there are some things she cannot teach you, Emperor’s grace upon her.”
He’d kneeled down in front of her then, and taken her hands in his own. His hands had been so much bigger than hers. They’d swallowed hers whole. But they had been warm, and gentle, and Mehr had suddenly been less afraid of her father’s anger.
“Who rules Irinah?” he’d asked. “You must answer, Mehr.”
Mehr had relaxed a little. That one was easy. “You do, Father,” she’d said.
“No, Mehr,” he’d replied. “I govern Irinah. I act on the Emperor’s behalf. I have a great deal of power, but in the end, like all people, I am his servant.” He spoke gently, deliberately. His gaze on her, the cadence of his words, had made her feel shamed and small. “Who rules the Empire’s soul?”
“The Emperor,” she’d whispered.
“No. Try again.”
“The mystics?”
Her father had shuddered. He shook his head. “Not quite, daughter. The mystics, like me, are a tool. They serve the Empire through prayer, but they do so on behalf of their master. Whom do the mystics serve, Mehr? Has your mother told you?”
“I don’t know,” Mehr admitted softly.
“When I was your age, my own mother taught me an old adage. Give your sword to the Emperor and your soul to the Maha, she told me, and you shall walk in the reflected light of their glory. The Maha founded the Empire, Mehr, and therefore, all Emperors since have walked in his footsteps. One cannot exist without the other. The rule of law and rule of faith are tied together. We nobles serve the law and administer the state. The mystics serve the faith and ensure that our Empire remains blessed.” His grip had tightened, just a little, just enough to make Mehr meet his eyes. “Everything we have,” he’d said, “my governorship, this palace, your clothes and your toys, the food we eat—all of it relies upon the benevolence of our Emperor and our Maha, because we are Ambhan, and that is the way of our Empire. When you refuse to pray, you reject the reflection of their glory that blesses us. Do you reject who we are, daughter, and all we’ve been blessed with? Do you want to live in disgrace and darkness?”
No one would care, she had thought then, if one little girl did not pray. But her father clearly cared, so she had said nothing, and only sniffled a little, as frightened children are prone to, and shaken her head.
“There’s no need to be afraid,” he’d said softly, then, “Be an obedient daughter. Pray and serve, and all will be well.”
Now, Mehr looked at her father, Governor of Irinah, leader of men, and thought of how he’d looked when the guard had handed him the scroll marked with the two entwined seals; how helpless he had appeared in that moment, despite his raised throne, his armed guards, his glittering palace. Everything he had was a reflection of imperial benevolence. Everything he loved could be snatched away from him in a moment—with nothing but a few words and a simple piece of paper.
“They insisted on a chaperoned meeting as soon as possible,” said her father. “I could say nothing to dissuade them.”
“When?” Mehr asked.
“Tomorrow morning.”
Mehr leaned back against the wall. She felt dizzy. Her father stayed where he was, standing erect with his hands clasped behind him and his gaze fixed on the middle distance.
“They made a mistake, making such a grand gesture before so many courtiers,” he said, almost to himself. “The nobility will be displeased. No matter what pretty words they may use, the mystics are perilously close to defying our laws of faith. To risk the freedom of a noblewoman to choose her marriage, to risk her sacred choice …” He shook his head, unseeing. “The Emperor will not be happy when his nobles threaten to revolt.”
Perilously close to defying the laws of faith was not the same as breaking them in truth, and threatening to revolt was not the same as actually doing so. That much was clear to Mehr. If the mystics had openly demanded that Mehr give up her right to choose her own husband, she was sure her father would have defied them openly in return. The angry whispers of the nobles might have bloomed into rebellion. A noblewoman’s right to choose her husband was far too sacred to be stolen, and if the mystics had attempted to do so, it would have been an insult not only to her father’s honor, but to the honor of all the nobility who held their women precious.
But the mystics had framed the marriage as an honor, a blessing from both the Maha and the Emperor. Their pretty words had left Mehr with a mirage of choice, and left the nobles with their honor bruised but not broken. There would be no rebellion from them.
“I hope you know this is not what I wanted for you,” her father said.
Mehr said nothing.
Her father’s jaw clenched.
“I have arranged for a group of my most trusted men to accompany you across the border tonight,” he continued. “Maryam has family in Hara who will keep you safe. You will need to prepare swiftly—take only what you absolutely require.”
There was a beat of silence. “Do you have any questions for me, Mehr?”
Mehr looked at her father. He looked older, she thought. Just a short time in the company of the mystics had aged him. There were lines of tension etched into his forehead and around his eyes. His knuckles were white with tension. Desperation had stretched his strength thin. She wondered if it had thinned his good sense too. She was sure he hadn’t consulted Maryam. For all her faults, Maryam was no fool. She would never willingly defy the Emperor.
“Only one,” she said. “What will happen to you if you send me away?”
Her father finally looked at her. Mehr continued.
“The woman called herself one of the Empire’s own mystics. A mystic, Father. A servant of the Maha himself. What will happen to you if you disobey the Emperor and the Maha? What will happen to Arwa and Maryam?”
“You are my daughter,” he said simply. “You’re under my protection. I won’t allow them to have you.”
Arwa is your daughter too, she thought. And for all that Mehr hated her, Maryam was his wife. If he sent Mehr away, they would face the Emperor’s justice.
And the Emperor, Mehr knew, was not known for his mercy.
“This is unwise, Father,” she said.
Her father turned his eyes on her. His expression was full of a terrible, blinding helplessness that made Mehr’s stomach lurch.
“I am your elder,” he said, his voice trembling with barely leashed feeling. “It is not up to you to decide when I am being unwise.”
Mehr lowered her head. The rage she’d felt when Maryam had grabbed her was still there, simmering under her skin. It rose in her now, burning away her fear and leaving her mind sharp as a keen blade.
She couldn’t compel him to be wise. Her father had never made wise decisions out of love. If he had been wise, he would never have fallen in love with her mother. He would never have had Mehr or Arwa. He would never have kept them, raised them, or allowed Mehr to keep her mother’s rites. He knew the place the Amrithi occupied in the Empire. By loving an Amrithi woman and raising half-Amrithi daughters, he’d risked losing everything.
He knew that the mystics, as representatives of the Maha, keepers of the soul of the Empire, were dangerous. He knew the Emperor was even more dangerous still. But he would risk everything to fight them, because right now he could see nothing beyond the haze of love and hatred and guilt clouding his mind. Perhaps later he’d feel regret. But his guilt would do his family no good.
The mystics hadn’t dressed like powerful people. But she had seen the way the courtiers flinched away from them and the proud assurance in the female mystic’s voice and bearing. Mehr knew deep in her bones that no matter where he sent her, if they wanted her, they would find her.
Mehr understood, too, the great cost of defiance. Maryam had educated her in that. But the stakes in a rebellion against the Maha and Emperor were infinitely higher than the ones in Mehr’s small, bloody wars with her stepmother. If her father defied the Emperor—if even a fraction of the nobility joined him—the numbers of people who would suffer for his choice would be unimaginable. She thought of those veiled wives, those women who shared their husbands’ burdens, who had listened to the female mystic speak in terrified silence. She thought of their children, and their servants, and the people who relied on their patronage. She thought of the fabric of the Empire; the way it was woven of ever so fragile human lives.
Mehr couldn’t allow her father to try to save her. Not when the cost was so high. Not when there was nothing to be won.
She straightened up. Still dizzy, she pressed her feet hard against the floor, grounding herself. She had to think of this as a rite, and give it all the due reverence she would give her dances.
“You gave me my seal,” Mehr said. Respectful, steady. “You gave me the choice of whom I will marry. Father, as an Ambhan woman, as your daughter, I say this with love and due honor: You cannot revoke my right to choose.”
Her father shook his head and muttered a curse under his breath.
“Sacred, Father,” she said. “This choice is sacred. And I choose to stay.”
“Those—creatures—aren’t a choice, Mehr. They’re an abomination.” His jaw clenched again, spasmodic, even as he tried to calm himself. “You are sheltered, daughter. I have kept you well protected, and that is as it should be. But you must accept that you know nothing about evil. You must trust me.”
Mehr had never heard anyone speak of the mystics in such a manner. After a lifetime of being told they served the Empire, to give them thanks for their prayers, her father’s words shook her. But she couldn’t allow herself to tremble. She had to remain strong.
“I choose to stay,” Mehr repeated.
She would not bend. She would not cower. Her father cursed again, clenching a hand over his face, and Mehr stood straight and tall and waited for him to look at her. Her rage was a clean blade. She held it close.
“You don’t know what choice you’re making,” her father said finally. “You know nothing.”
“Then tell me what I should know,” said Mehr. “Tell me the truth about the mystics, Father. Why do you fear them, when so many others give thanks to them?” Her father was silent. She pressed on. “Give me the knowledge to make a wise choice.”
He shook his head. For a moment she was sure he would refuse, and that she had lost. But then he began to speak.
“We nobles speak our fears to one another in secret, Mehr,” he began slowly. “They are not for our women, or for the common folk. But we serve the Empire, and we know what the mystics are. They pray for the Empire’s continued growth and glory. Their prayers have power, Mehr. They bless us with good fortune and ensure that ill fortune never touches us. They ensure that our armies are never defeated and our crops grow without blight. For that, we give them thanks.” He paused. “But when they are angered, when the Maha demands they inflict justice on his behalf … Ah, Mehr! I have seen cities put to death at their word. I have seen plague and famine and slaughter fall on men at their whim. I have seen things you cannot imagine.”
There was awe in her father’s voice, mingled in with the hatred. A chill ran through Mehr. She thought of Usha lying dead, of missing Amrithi clans, of the mystics who could sweep away cities at a whim, who had come for Mehr, just Mehr, with her tainted Amrithi blood.
“The Emperor hates my mother’s kind. Why would his mystics want me, if he hates what I am?”
“I don’t know,” her father said curtly.
Your daughter’s name reached the Maha’s ears on the wings of a storm, the female mystic had said. Her words echoed in Mehr’s ears.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Mehr said quietly. “I know you never wanted this for me. And you’re not at fault.” Mehr was the one at fault—Mehr was the one who had brought the mystics down on them. Maryam had warned her. Lalita had told her to be careful. Her father had tried to send her away. If she had listened to Maryam, if she had changed herself, made different choices …
But it was too late. The mystics were here.
“You should send Arwa away in my place,” Mehr said. Her voice came out of her brittle as glass. “Let Maryam accompany her. Please, Father. She has Amrithi blood. She isn’t safe in Irinah anymore.” She paused, and swallowed. “Send her away so she can begin again.”
Beyond Irinah, Arwa would never cross paths with daiva or storms or Amrithi again. She would lose her inheritance from their mother swiftly, painlessly. She would never know how much she had lost.
If that was the price of Arwa surviving, thriving—well. So be it.
Her father barely seemed to be listening.
“I can’t allow it, Mehr,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t.”
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br /> “I told you,” Mehr said. Her voice shook. But she didn’t look away. “It’s my choice. My sacred choice. And I choose to stay.”
Mehr had no idea what her father said to his wife, but Maryam was ready to leave before dawn. Although her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, she sat on her dais in the hub of the Receiving Hall and ordered her servants around with deadly calm, arranging for clothes and jewels to be packed and for a suitable palanquin to be prepared for the long journey to the borders of Hara. Maryam herself was dressed in the simplest clothing Mehr had ever seen her wear, nothing but a plain tunic and trousers, a heavy shawl wrapped loosely around her head and shoulders. She had two guardswomen in attendance, ready to accompany her. Everything was in order.
The only problem was Arwa.
Arwa did not want to go. She was in floods of furious tears, and nothing—not Nahira’s firm words, not Maryam’s gentle cajoling, not bribery in the form of sweets and gifts—could calm her. Mehr watched from the edge of the bustle in the Hall, still in the glittering weight of her Lotus Hall finery, as Maryam stroked Arwa’s hair and murmured gently against her ear. Arwa didn’t calm. She clung to Maryam. She screamed.
When Mehr couldn’t stand it any longer she crossed the Hall, slipping between hurrying servants. She stopped before the dais and gave her stepmother a perfunctory bow. Maryam glared daggers at her.
“Let me talk to her,” Mehr said. “I can calm her, Mother.”
“Leave us be,” Maryam ordered, her hand still on Arwa’s hair, still and proprietary. “You’re only upsetting her.”
“I can help,” Mehr said. “And—I would like to say good-bye.”
“You aren’t needed here,” she said. “And you should be in your chambers. You’re still in disgrace, Mehr, like it or not.” Arwa had quieted a little. She was trying to lift her head. Maryam’s grip tightened, then softened again, as she stroked Arwa’s hair in a motion meant to soothe her. “Would you like one of my guards to show you the way out?”
