Empire of Sand

by Tasha Suri

  She sat up. She was still wearing her Amrithi costume. There were fine grains of sand under her fingernails. She touched her grainy fingertips to her chest. Through all the other aches and pains, she had barely noticed the way her scar was burning softly beneath the weight of her seal. She knew suddenly where she was.

  The Maha’s room.

  Where else? She had seen the rest of the temple, with its high walls and honeycomb corridors. Nowhere else had been so luxurious. And the Maha loved surrounding himself in finery. She knew that. Cold dread unfurled in her stomach. Where was Amun? Why was Mehr here alone, without him at her side?

  She clambered to her feet. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, but after a moment of uncertainty, where she trembled on the spot, she knew they would support her weight. She took a few tentative steps forward, skirting the edge of the divan.

  Through the doorway beyond she could see a man’s silhouette, his back turned. The scar flared hotter. Mehr swallowed. She thought of turning back.

  “I’m waiting,” the Maha said.

  Mehr kept walking. The Maha was standing by a window, one of Edhir’s strange contraptions on the table beside him. Its dials gleamed.

  “I know you are weak, Mehr,” the Maha said. He turned to face her. “But I expect to receive my proper respect.”

  It took her a moment to understand him. Then, cheeks burning with a rush of humiliation, she got down onto her knees. She bowed to him, her head pressed to the floor, her hands flat. She felt dizzy. She could hear the beat of her own pulse in her ears. He made her wait far longer than he usually did, but finally she heard him speak again.

  “You may stand.”

  She stood, her legs trembling with her own weight. The Maha looked at her, his expression unreadable.

  “How do you feel, Mehr?” he asked. “The storm appeared to be brutal.”

  “I feel well, Maha.”

  “The truth.”

  “I am weaker than I usually am,” Mehr admitted, because how could she hide it? “But I am still well.”

  She certainly felt better than Amun had looked. She remembered Amun’s gray face, his closed eyes. She held back all the questions clamoring inside her. The Maha wouldn’t appreciate her asking how her husband fared. He wanted her obedience, her soul, her silence.

  “If you are well, you’ll be prepared to speak. So tell me, Mehr,” he continued, his voice silken. “What did you do, out in the storm?”

  “I performed the rite Amun taught me, so the prayers of the mystics would be heard by the Gods.”

  The Maha shook his head. “No, child,” he said. “I want to know how you erred.”

  A blackness opened up in her chest. Fear without edges.

  This will not end well, a voice inside her whispered.

  The Maha’s voice grew softer, sharper. “The dreams did not obey as they should have. I should have felt their strength pour through me.” The blandness of his expression was shattering to reveal something terrible beneath: a monster Mehr had always known was there beneath his flesh, waiting for the chance to crawl out.

  “Instead I felt the power try to slip through my fingers.” He held one elegant hand before him. “I felt darkness arise in its place.”

  The nightmare. So the Maha had felt it too. Bahren had felt it when he’d held her. She’d seen his unease as he carried her, the tension in the mystics who had stood in the desert and watched the dreamfire fall.

  “Amun has never failed me before,” the Maha told her. “So tell me, Mehr: What did you do?”

  “I did everything I was taught to,” she said unsteadily. “I did as I was bid. I promise, Maha. I obeyed.”

  He took a step forward and struck her.

  She felt the blow all the way through her skull. There was no pain at first. Just shock. She stumbled, raising a hand up as if to ward him off.

  “What did you do?” he repeated.

  He hit her again before she could respond. She fell to the floor this time, the weight of the blow sending her down with a crash. Her shoulder skidded against cold marble. She felt the cold through her hips, her knees, her elbows. Her head was ringing like a call to prayer.

  “Nothing, nothing,” she gasped out. “Nothing, Maha. It was a nightmare. A nightmare tried to hurt us both. I did nothing. I obeyed you. I’m bound by my vow. Maha!”

  He had a hand in her hair. Her curling hair, tangled and stained with sand. His grip was unyielding. He kneeled down beside her, his shadow consuming hers.

  “Tell me what you did,” he demanded again. His voice was savage. Gone was his gentle malevolence, his elegant cruelty. He was no longer full of clean, pure light, the dreams that had so long fed his immortality. The dreamfire, full of the brittle and bone-like dreams he’d so long suppressed, was inside him. The nightmare shuddered behind his eyes.

  She couldn’t help but think of her unformed vow, in that moment. She tried to force it from her mind, as panic bubbled up inside her. And yet the truth was there, on the tip of her tongue, like a bird with its wings stretched for flight.

  “Nothing,” Mehr said again, instead. She was not above pleading; no, she was not. She wanted to hide the truth, and she wanted to live. “Maha, please.”

  He raised his free hand and she flinched from him. For some reason this seemed to calm him. She watched his hand go still, then lower. When he spoke, a tinge of reason had crept back into his voice.

  “Perhaps your Ambhan blood has flawed you after all,” he said. “And yet, at first, you seemed so perfect.”

  He took her chin in his hand. His other hand was still tangled in her hair.

  “I must remember to be gentler with you,” he said. “You’re willful, but a little careful correction will guide you. And if it does not …” He sighed. But his expression was cold. “You must understand, Mehr: I have no use for flawed tools.”

  She could taste blood in her mouth. The urge to spit in his face was overwhelming, but some deep-seated, primal instinct made her swallow instead.

  “Look at me,” he commanded.

  She looked obediently into his nightmare-flecked eyes, which were terribly, inhumanly wrong—shattered within, like broken glass. His face was no longer smooth and timeless. Instead, his skin was like a fissured painting, cracked and faded. When she blinked it almost seemed to shift, ever more human, ever more fragile. Decay and mortality had come for him, reached for him out of the darkness of chained dreams. They’d left their mark.

  Monster, her mind whispered. I see you. I know what you are.

  “Speak, Mehr.”

  “I understand, Maha,” she said. She swallowed again. Her mouth tasted hot, tasted of metal and salt. She realized her cheeks were wet with tears. “Please spare me, Maha. I serve you with all my heart.”

  She watched as his mouth widened into a smile. Her face hurt. Her stomach hurt. Oh, how he loved to hurt her. How he loved to see her small.

  “Now,” he said softly. “Now you begin to fear and worship as you should. I am finally as a God to you.”

  “Yes, Maha,” she whispered.

  He was not as a God to her. In his smile—even in his eyes—she saw his humanity like a blazing light, a harsh desert sun that illuminated all and left all secrets bared. So he fed on the power of Gods—so his mystics fell at his feet, worshipped him. He was still nothing but flesh. He hungered for power as a human hungered. He enjoyed hurting her as a mortal man enjoyed crushing another mortal underfoot. He was a man who took pleasure in hurting a woman. His evil was born from his humanity.

  She remembered Maryam’s cruelties large and small. Maryam had been so petty, so utterly bitter at heart. She had punished Mehr for—what? Being another woman’s daughter, with another woman’s skin? Her hatred had made her small.

  The Maha was no less small. He had shamed her, disgraced her, but through her fear and her pain she saw him finally with clear sight. The storm had made him angry, and his anger made him err. She had seen his true face now. He could not play at being the o
mnipotent master. She had his measure.

  She knew exactly what he was.

  His nails were digging harshly into her scalp.

  “You will serve me better next time, won’t you, Mehr?” he asked. His pleasure had softened the edges of his rage. The next time he was angry—and she knew, already, that there would be a next time—she would have to remember how much he liked tears.

  “I will, Maha. With all my heart.” She had bent her soul to the fire of the Gods. She could bend her words now, bend them to a bone-deep lie. He was nothing compared to them, after all, no matter what he believed. Nothing.

  “See that you do,” he said. Finally, he released her.

  She managed to catch herself on her hands before her skull met the floor. Then she bowed to the floor, her forehead to the cool marble. She allowed herself to tremble, feigned being a thing bent and broken by his cruelty. She did not have her jewels or her fine clothes, but she had this power, at least: She could give him a simulacrum of what he desired from her, and hold her crumbling strength tight.

  Let him think he had broken her. As long as he believed he already had, as long as she fooled him, he would not succeed in truly doing so.

  The Maha watched her.

  “The next time a nightmare frightens you, my dear, remember how much worse I am. Remember the wrath of your God.”

  “Maha,” Mehr said, allowing herself to cry, allowing her hands to tremble, so that he wouldn’t see the iron blooming in her blood, her spine, in her heart. “On my vow, Maha, I will. I will.”

  Mehr thought, for one brief moment, of seeking out Hema and showing her exactly what the Maha was capable of. She thought of showing Hema her swollen lip, her bruised cheek, the nail grooves cut into her scalp. Then she discarded the idea. As tempting as it was, she knew she wouldn’t be able to shatter Hema’s belief in the Maha. Mehr had seen the strength of that faith shining in Hema’s eyes. Not even Mehr’s blood would have the strength to tarnish it. No doubt Hema would simply look at her bruises and ask Mehr what she had done to deserve them.

  So she didn’t approach Hema. She avoided all the mystics entirely, unable to stand the thought of having their eyes on her. She missed the comfort of her old chambers. She missed Arwa and Lalita and Nahira, her veils and her walls, the certainty she’d once had in her own worth. But she didn’t try to seek out pity. Like an animal looking for somewhere quiet to lick its wounds clean, she drifted along shadowed corridors until she found an exit that led to the inner courtyard of the temple. There was a guard, but he did nothing to stop her. She felt his eyes follow her as she made her way across the sand to the edge of the oasis.

  The sky was clear, unmarked by the storm. The air smelled sweet. There were crops growing. Precious little, but there was something about the fresh, tentative life that gave Mehr comfort.

  She kneeled down by the oasis and breathed in and out. In and out. She could dance the Rite of Fruitful Earth and make those precious few crops grow lushly, if only for a fleeting moment. She was a descendant of the daiva, and through them, a descendant of the Gods who slept beneath the sand, whose fire had lit the skies and burned inside her. But the power she possessed was useless. It couldn’t set her free. It didn’t give her the strength to stop the Maha from hurting her. It was no good at all.

  She looked down at her own face in the water. The oasis was perfectly still, reflective as glass. The face staring back at her was nothing like the one she’d seen through Amun’s eyes. She wasn’t fierce or beautiful. She was only bruised, and gaunt, and solemn. A shadow of a woman.

  She dipped her hands into the oasis and splashed water over her face. The cold was shocking. She blinked water away and dabbed the blood from her lip, her cheek. Her skin was hot and swollen, but her bones weren’t broken. She marveled at that—the strength of her bones.

  The Maha hadn’t broken her yet. Not yet.

  She splashed her face again. The water’s chill was fresh and crisp, like green things, like life. She cupped a hand into the water and raised it to her lips. Drank. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. The water was sweet.

  An old grieving Goddess, that was who had built the desert. So Edhir had told her. An old grieving Goddess had built the desert, and the desert had been named for her tears. Irinah. Salt.

  But here was the oasis, old and bursting with life. Here was the oasis, and there was no salt in its water. Just sweetness, cold and pure. In the water Mehr tasted the promise of something more than bitterness. She tasted hope.

  She heard footsteps. She turned, her face still dripping, the water in her lashes blurring her vision. She heard a soft intake of breath, the murmur of a curse. Her vision cleared. Bahren stood before her. He was looking at her face with pure revulsion.

  She looked back at him. Was he judging her, or judging the Maha? His gaze made her skin prickle with unwanted shame.

  Let him look, she thought. What does it matter, in the end, what he thinks?

  “You were looking for me?” she asked, when Bahren simply continued to stare at her in silence. She didn’t ask him how he had found her. She knew there were always eyes on her.

  “Your husband has woken up,” Bahren said finally.

  She stood. She held her head high, unflinching. She was bare-faced and bruised, yes. But she was a woman who had faced a monster in mortal flesh, and the bruises were a badge of the Maha’s shame, not her own. She was a woman who had felt the nightmare of Gods pour through her soul. She was not fragile any longer. She had moved past her own fragility into an animal stillness, a deep place inside herself where one piece of knowledge alone sustained her, and held her strong: She was going to ensure that she and Amun escaped from here. She was going to make sure they survived.

  “Take me to him,” she said.

  Amun was lying on his own bed, two mystics speaking over him in low, serious voices. From the stoppered bottles in their hands, Mehr guessed they were the Saltborn’s physicians. But they held little of her interest. Amun was the focus of her attention. He was awake, but only barely, his breath loud and unsteady, his skin bleached gray with exhaustion.

  She couldn’t hold the sound of shock that escaped her lips at the sight of him. Amun flinched, his eyes snapping wide. He propped himself up onto his elbows, her name dying into silence on his lips.

  She watched his jaw tighten, watched his dark eyes become somehow even blacker as he stared at her, mapping every one of her wounds with his gaze. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Me?” He looked at her, his expression smoothing out into unreadable calm. “I’m well.”

  She crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside him. She took his hands in her own and heard the mystics fall silent above them. Amun’s hands felt warm in her own. Warm and comforting. It was suddenly very hard to keep her voice steady.

  “Our brothers and sisters have prayers to attend to. I’m here to take care of you now, husband.” She looked up at the mystics. “Thank you,” she said.

  She had not ordered them to go. They would not have gone, if she’d ordered them to. But simply sitting quiet and tall, looking at them with her bruised face, gave her more power than any sharp words would have been capable of. They looked away from her, uncomfortable, and turned to leave.

  Bahren stood by the doorway as the other mystics filed out. “The Maha will want to speak with you, Amun,” he said.

  “Now?” Amun asked. His hand tightened on Mehr’s.

  A short pause. “He knows you’re unwell,” Bahren said after a beat. “Tomorrow morning will do well enough.”

  “Thank you,” Mehr said, when it was clear Amun was going to remain silent.

  For a long moment, Bahren did not move from the edge of the doorway, where he’d stood since guiding her into the room. There was a look on his face she couldn’t understand—something grim and quiet and thoughtful. Then he too turned away and vanished down the staircase back to the temple proper.
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  Once they were alone Mehr realized Amun’s hands were trembling. She released her grip on him. She was sure he would pull away but instead he reached up and cupped her face in his palms. His fingers were still dusted with sand. His skin smelled like incense, like the smoke of a storm and a daiva’s flesh.

  “Who did this to you?” he asked.

  “The Maha.”

  Amun closed his eyes. Opened them again. His expression was shattered.

  “Mehr,” he said quietly. “I am so very sorry.”

  “I’m safe now,” Mehr said. She closed her own eyes. With his hands on her, she could almost believe it.

  “You aren’t safe,” he said, despair and self-hatred welling up in his voice like poison. “He has hurt you, he could hurt you again, and I can’t protect you.”

  “You’re protecting me right now,” Mehr said. That, at least, was true. He couldn’t stop the Maha from hurting her, but his touch was a balm to her wounds. His goodness was a shield for her hurting heart. She felt his touch falter. She grabbed his wrist. “Please, Amun.”

  He hesitated. Then his fingers uncurled against her cheek again, feather-soft on her bruises.

  “Whatever you want,” he said softly.

  She wanted him to keep holding her head in his hands. She wanted this moment to last forever, so she wouldn’t have to face the mystics and the Maha and the wounds that had been inflicted on her skin and her soul. She pressed into his hands and eventually found her way onto the bed by his side. She curled up against him, her head on his chest, his heart beating under her ear. He kept one hand on her cheek, his body entirely still, as if he were afraid a sudden movement would shatter her. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, shatter her. There was no violence in him. Not even a little. He was her only safe harbor in the storm.