by Tasha Suri
A shudder ran through her. Her marriage should have been a sacred thing, but the mystics and their Maha had twisted it into a mockery of itself. The marriage bed—the consummation—was about becoming one flesh, one soul. Now Mehr lay next to her husband with her soul already marked by trickery, her skin and his burned with the perversion of their marriage vows. She didn’t want to become any more bound. She was terrified, and she was done.
Mehr folded her hands over her stomach. She was uncomfortable in her clothes, weighed down with hidden clasps digging into her spine, but she couldn’t do anything about that now. She squeezed her eyes shut. She could hear Amun breathing. Trying to sleep next to someone felt strange to her.
“You don’t need to call me lady any longer,” Mehr said. “I’m your wife now.”
Amun said nothing. She didn’t know if he had fallen asleep or if he was awake and had simply chosen not to respond. She thought the second option was more likely than the first. She closed her eyes tighter, pretending to sleep along with him, until pretense finally turned into reality.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was early morning when Mehr woke. Amun was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her. As she sat up, he turned. His tunic was loosened and the collar had fallen open. His neck, she noticed, was bare. She sat up straighter, the weight of his seal rubbing at the skin of her own throat.
“Where is it?” Mehr asked.
He held a hand out to her. The whole length of her seal, ribbon and all, was curled up in his palm. Mehr let out a shuddering breath.
“You shouldn’t have removed it,” she said. “You haven’t earned the right.”
Nahira’s unwanted talk of the marriage bed had at least done Mehr the favor of dispelling her ignorance in this one matter: Newly married men wore their wife’s seal until the marriage was consummated. Once husband and wife were bound in flesh as well as soul, a man no longer needed to carry the burden of his wife’s past around his neck. A wife was a newly born creature, after all: an extension of her husband’s flesh and his will, her old self no more than a ghost for the pyre.
“We’ll be disturbed soon,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her. He was moving the seal restlessly between his fingers. The ribbon was twined around his wrist. “The feast ended hours ago.”
“Husband,” she said.
“Your maids will come. Or Kalini. Either way, you should prepare.”
“Amun. Will you listen to me?”
He looked away from her.
She grabbed his wrist. His arm tensed, all wiry sinew and hard muscle, then relaxed abruptly. The seal slithered easily into Mehr’s grip. She took it from him and laid it on the bed.
“Do you understand what removing your seal means?” Mehr asked.
“I do.”
“You want to pretend we consummated the marriage,” Mehr said quietly. Under her palm, the seal was warm from his skin. “Why?”
For a long moment Amun said nothing.
“A marriage is a twofold binding,” he said finally. “Soul and flesh. Until we consummate the marriage …” He lowered his eyes. “It would be better,” he said, “if the Maha believes he has absolute power over you, Lady Mehr, as he does over me.”
Mehr hadn’t resigned herself to being bound. She hadn’t truly accepted that it was true, scarred skin or no. Now the ground was shifting under her feet. She wasn’t sure what this meant. What he was offering her. She swallowed.
“I have the vow on my skin. Are you telling me I’m not truly bound by it?”
“It’s not complete,” he said. “You would know if it were. You’d feel it like another heartbeat.” A ghost of a smile on his lips, no joy in it. “You’d feel it burrowing.”
She covered her mouth and looked away. When she had control of herself—or a semblance of it—she turned back.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked.
“Did you want to marry me?” His gaze was intent. “When Kalini asked if you chose this match—did you want to be my wife?”
“No.” Mehr couldn’t hide the truth. She would still recant her vow if she could in a heartbeat.
“Having your will stolen from you is a violence, Lady Mehr. I chose my vows, but you …” He paused. Jaw clenched. “I don’t appreciate being used as a weapon against another human. A tribeswoman.” There was an old, deep anger in his voice. “I don’t appreciate being ordered to force myself on a woman.”
“I had a choice,” Mehr said, head held high. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, take that away from her. “I chose to protect my family. I accept the consequences of that.”
“A choice like a knife at your throat is an illusion,” Amun said bluntly. “Here is the choice I was given, Lady Mehr: to marry you and bed you, or face the consequence of breaking my vow. Unbearable pain, death, eternal suffering for what remains of my soul in the aftermath. Would you call that a fair choice?”
Mehr said nothing.
“I told you that I do as I’m bid. But I do only what I’m bid. No more than that. I was ordered to wed and bed you, but I wasn’t told when to complete the bond.” Amun lowered his head. “I can’t save you from the Maha’s will,” he went on. “But I can give you time. Enough so we can grow comfortable with one another, before we are forced on each other. You understand?”
She understood.
This was as much a violation of him as of her.
She felt sick. She remembered her fear when he had lain down beside her last night. If he had been a different man—if he had been under the weight of a stricter vow—
But no. She wouldn’t think of it.
“My clothes,” Mehr said suddenly. “My—my wedding silks. No one will expect me to still be dressed. They’ll know we’ve lied.”
“Remove them, then. I’ll look away.”
“I can’t remove them on my own,” she said.
He frowned. “How did you put them on?”
“I’m a rich man’s daughter,” Mehr said, trying to hide her embarrassment. “I have servants to dress me. But wedding silks are always—unusually complicated.”
She must have seemed utterly useless to him. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her, and decided she probably wouldn’t want to know.
“Tell me what to do.” His face was blank, but the unease practically rolled off him. It did nothing to put Mehr at ease.
She directed him to unclasp the loops of cloth that bound the back of her robe together. To be forced into even this small intimacy with a man seemed ridiculous to her. Torturous.
“I can do the rest on my own,” she said. He let go immediately and walked away from her, arms crossed. Mehr slid the first layer of silk off, leaving her arms and shoulders bare. She clutched the cloth to her chest.
Amun’s prediction turned out to be correct. The maids arrived not long after with a morning meal, and took in the sight of Mehr’s state of undress with obvious pity. Kalini arrived soon after, striding past the guards at the door and the maids, giving Mehr only a brief, sidelong glance before turning her attention on Amun.
“Show me,” she ordered.
Amun opened the front of his tunic without complaint. Kalini leaned forward, a crease forming between her eyebrows.
“It looks different from the others,” she announced.
“It’s a different kind of vow,” Amun said. Nothing disturbed the calm of his features. His voice was like glass.
Kalini looked at Mehr. “Now I need to see yours.”
No my lady this time, Mehr noted. She clutched the silks tighter to her chest.
Kalini raised an eyebrow. “Show me now or show me later,” she said. “But you will show me, I assure you. It is your duty.”
The maids were watching. Mehr wanted to refuse. But Kalini’s eyes were unblinking. There was something animal about her that made Mehr’s blood curdle.
Mehr lowered the silk, just enough to expose the mark. Then she lifted it again.
Kalini gave a satisfied nod, turning away. “The Mah
a will be pleased with you, Amun.” To Mehr she said, “You’d best prepare. We leave at sunset.”
Kalini left as swiftly as she had arrived, leaving deafening silence behind her. Mehr didn’t look at Amun, and didn’t look at the maids. Her face was burning.
“I’d like to bathe and dress now,” she said, with all the dignity she could muster. She stood, the maids surrounding her like a shield. “If you’ll excuse me, husband.”
She heard Amun’s soft footfalls as he left. She didn’t watch him go.
Once Mehr was dressed, Kalini began hovering over her like a constant, malevolent shadow. She directed the servants, ensuring that no finery was packed, just the bare essentials: tunics and trousers, one simple single-layered robe with a matching sash and shawl, and a few sturdy boots. Whatever Mehr’s new life would consist of, it clearly wouldn’t involve the need for jewels and silks and beaded slippers.
There was no opportunity to give anyone a proper farewell. Under Kalini’s watchful eye, her father embraced her, but there was no comfort in it.
“Take care, daughter,” he said. He brushed his knuckles over her hair. Mehr nodded, squeezing her eyes shut to hold back unwanted tears.
“I will, Father.”
Kalini gave Mehr a robe like the one all the mystics wore.
“Put it on,” she said. “You’ll need it in the desert.”
Mehr slipped it over her head. The material was thick—no doubt good for blocking out both the sunlight and the cold. She drew a length of cloth around her head, trying to mimic the way Amun wore it. She didn’t succeed but her face, at least, was covered.
Kalini guided her out of the women’s quarters. They joined the other mystics and made their way out into the city toward the desert. No one spoke. The mystics surrounded Mehr in a ring, concealing her, simultaneously shielding and caging her. Amun stood to her left. He didn’t look at her.
It wasn’t until they reached the desert itself and began making their way across uneven, shifting ground that Mehr realized they had no transport. No palanquins, no horses, no howdahs on elephant back. Wherever they were going, they were traveling there on foot.
Hours passed. The sky darkened and the city receded behind them. Mehr was thankful for the cool nighttime air, if only because there was precious little else about this journey to be thankful for. The ground was growing even more uneven, the sand rising in thick waves of deceptive depth. Her dancing had made her stronger than the typical noblewoman, but it hadn’t prepared her for anything like this.
Without warning, her foot sank deep in the sand and stuck fast. As she stumbled forward, a hand caught her arm and steadied her.
“It will get easier,” Amun said in a low voice. As soon as she’d righted herself, he let go of her. “The desert has its own laws. Once we’re farther from the city, you’ll see.”
He was right. Long after Mehr had passed the point of exhaustion, when Jah Irinah had dwindled into nothing behind them, the desert … changed.
Mehr couldn’t pinpoint the difference at first. But slowly walking became easier, her footsteps consistently meeting solid ground instead of rolling sand. Mehr looked around her. As far as the eye could see, the sand was still thick and uneven, near impassable.
The desert has its own laws.
Mehr looked down.
The sand was reshaping beneath her footsteps. With every step, it was flaring out in circles, flattening to match the shape of her tread. Her breath caught. The way it moved, coiling out in spirals beneath her feet, reminded her of the way dreamfire had clung to her ankles on the night of the storm. The sand was quietly, vibrantly alive. In the darkness it gleamed like embers, rich with storm and starlight. The awe filled Mehr up from head to toe. For a moment, one ridiculous moment, she felt like she could walk in this desert forever. This was what the Irin believed the Ambhans had driven out of Jah Irinah: beauty in the earth, ethereal and strange, born without even a storm of dreamfire to bring it into bloom.
As the night deepened and the temperature plummeted, Mehr began to see faint lights from villages on the edges of Jah Irinah in the distance. But the mystics steered clear of them and stopped to make camp deep into the desert, where the lights were fainter than starlight. Tents were erected and a fire was lit. One man paced the edges of the encampment, his dark robe melting into the black of the night. The rest waited in silence.
He trudged back to the fireside and kneeled down. “All’s quiet,” he said. Then he peeled the cloth back from his face.
It wasn’t long before the other mystics followed suit, baring their faces and sharing provisions between themselves as they talked in low voices. Without their faces covered, they were not as alien or as fierce as they had appeared to be in the city. Mehr watched them from the far edge of the fireside, the night cold against her back. They were men. Just men, some with fair skin and some with dark, their faces unmarked, their smiles easy. They were nothing like Amun, who stood at the far edge of the camp, his face still covered and his eyes fixed on some far point in the distance.
“You should come closer to the fire,” a voice said.
One of the mystics was looking back at her. He was young, his skin the color of parched earth, and his eyes were kind. He gestured at the ground beside him. “You must be cold.”
Mehr moved closer, taking the spot he had offered. The conversation went quiet as she joined the circle but picked up again when Mehr simply raised her hands to warm them against the heat of the flames. The mystic at her side snapped his flatbread in two and offered her a piece. Too hungry to refuse, Mehr took it from him. “Thank you,” she said.
“You can take that off, if you like.” He gestured at the cloth around her face. “It might be more comfortable.”
“I don’t think it would be right,” said Mehr. The mystic looked at her askance. “Ambhan noblewomen don’t show their faces to people who aren’t family.” It was strange enough to be talking to this man, who was no blood to her, no husband, no guard—nothing. “I mean no offense by it.”
“Just family?” he asked. Mehr nodded. The mystic appeared to consider this, chewing meditatively. “Well. Then there’s no problem at all. We’re all family here. Brothers and sisters in service to the Empire.”
I have a sister, Mehr thought. A true sister. But she said nothing.
“We were all orphans, or as good as that, before we came to service,” he went on earnestly. “My mother wasn’t married when I was born, and her family rejected her—and me. I was blessed to be given a home and a purpose by the Maha. He made me more than a bastard.”
Bastard. It was an ugly word, and one that Mehr had heard far too often in the past. It curdled in Mehr’s stomach. But she said nothing, only nodded in encouragement so that he would continue.
“Now we are one,” he said. “A whole.” He shaped a circle in the sand with one finger. The sand rustled at his touch, then settled with a shiver like an indrawn breath. “I’m sure you’ll grow to be happy with us,” he added gently.
Did he think she would be happy with them because she was like him—illegitimate, a bastard? Or was he simply trying to comfort her? From the soft look in his eyes, she thought his motivation had probably been pity.
Mehr stiffened, suddenly angry with herself. She’d clearly done a poor job of playing the obedient new bride. She must have been exuding misery, trudging through the sand with her shoulders hunched and her hands in fists, not talking to a soul. She would have to make a conscious effort to hide her emotions in the future. There were so many ways, after all, that they could be used against her.
“If we’re family, I should know your name, shouldn’t I?” Mehr said.
“Edhir,” he replied.
“Edhir,” she repeated. “My name is Mehr.”
“I know,” he said, and instantly looked embarrassed.
One of the other mystics laughed. Kalini was talking to one of them now on the other side of the fire, a smile playing on her mouth. Her eyes met Mehr’s through th
e flames. Mehr looked down.
She didn’t know how to keep herself safe among these people. At least within the walls of the women’s quarters she had possessed a measure of power. She’d known the dangers she faced. Now only unknown dangers lay around her, ahead of her, and she had no idea how to protect herself. She tried to distract herself from dark thoughts by sifting the sand between her fingers. As it touched her skin, it almost seemed to brighten.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Edhir said. His voice was quieter now. The color on his face had deepened. He wanted earnestly to be kind to her, it seemed. But Mehr was not sure she could trust appearances.
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen,” she said.
On his other side, another mystic leaned forward to look at Mehr. He was older than the rest, with features weathered into permanent grimness that he tried to soften with a grin. He didn’t succeed.
“Our little family is named for the desert,” he said. “Has the boy told you that yet?”
Edhir made a sound of protest.
“The boy fancies himself a scholar,” said the older mystic. “Always reading. He’s barely talked to a woman.”
“I have barely ever talked to a man,” Mehr said, drawn into defending him against her will. “I can hardly judge him.”
The mystic barked out a laugh. “As you say,” he said. “My name is Bahren. Emperor’s grace on you, sister.”
Mehr nodded stiffly. She could hardly offer her name again, when they knew everything there was possible to know about her already.
“Tell me about your family’s name, Edhir,” Mehr said.
“Our family’s name,” Kalini called out. Mehr didn’t react.
“Please,” she said instead, looking at Edhir.
He was hesitant, now that the attention of his brethren was focused on him. He began in a halting voice.
“In the old mantras, they say the desert existed long before the Gods went to their long sleep. In the early age of the world, it was created by an old, grieving Goddess who mourned her children, who had died and left her.” He was warming to his topic, his voice growing stronger. “Mother’s tears, some called it, because the sand was born from her sorrow. Others named it—”
