by Tasha Suri
She listened to his heart beating and his shallow, pained breath. She listened for a long time before she finally moistened her lips with her tongue and spoke.
“Does the rite always affect you like this?”
“It’s always terrible,” Amun said. “But no. I’m young. Strong. It grows worse over time, as you get older. It wears the body out. This time it was much worse for me. Worse than it has ever been before. I don’t …” A shaky breath. She felt the rise and fall of his chest. “I am sorry, Mehr.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Mehr said. “Nothing at all.”
He huffed out another sharp breath. But he didn’t argue with her. “The rite is always fierce.” He went on. “Painful.” Hesitation. “But that anger—you felt it?”
“Of course I did.”
“I’ve never felt anything like it before, Mehr.”
“It felt like a nightmare,” Mehr whispered. “A true nightmare, a thing of rage and fear.”
She described then the creature she’d seen after the storm before she’d fallen unconscious. Its flat silver eyes, its brittle body. “I felt like it was born from those suppressed dreams,” she said. “It felt like all the things the Maha had kept from this world breathed life into it.”
Amun was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I felt it in my bones. My mind.”
Mehr shuddered. Nodded.
“As did I,” she admitted.
She took a deep breath. She felt the seal tied to her throat rise and fall with her.
“It was because of me,” Mehr said finally. “The nightmare you felt—it was there because of me.”
“No, Mehr,” Amun said instantly. She felt his hand shift on her cheek. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“You’re disagreeing because you want me to feel better,” Mehr cut in, calm now. She was sure of herself. “But don’t you see, Amun? I’m not truly bound. I danced the rite, I danced for the glory of the Maha, for the Empire, for the Emperor … but because of your mercy, all my will, all my blood, wasn’t tied to the Maha’s will and blood, as yours is.”
Amun shivered but said nothing. He let her continue to speak.
“I performed the correct stances,” she continued, “the correct sigils. But the rites are more than stances and sigils. They are will too. And in my heart I don’t want the Empire’s glory. I don’t want the Maha to flourish. I want everything the Maha and the Emperor love to burn.”
Her rage was undirected, amorphous. She didn’t really want the Empire to suffer. She loved her sister and her father. The Empire was her home. It was hard not to love the Empire, despite herself, hard not to love it because it had raised her, because it was her history and the source of so many of her life’s comforts. But her feelings had no respect for logic and couldn’t be easily dispelled.
“I don’t want what the Maha wants,” Amun said suddenly, his voice raw. “I don’t want to serve.”
“I know, Amun,” Mehr said softly. “I know. But you’re bound. You’ve told me yourself. I’ve felt it. The vows you’ve made are so powerful, so binding, that your desires have no power. Just as mine wouldn’t, if you hadn’t saved me.”
Mehr thought of Amrithi turning their blades on themselves. She thought of Amun’s grief, and his hate for the Maha. She thought of how hard he’d tried to save her, and how hard he still tried to keep her safe.
“What did he do,” she murmured, “to force you to make vows to him?”
“He did nothing to me,” Amun said. But his voice was empty, so empty. She didn’t believe him.
However the Maha had bound Amun—by trickery or by violence—he had tied Amun to him by chains that superseded his will and his heart. Amun, and all the vow-bound Amrithi before him, had bound the Gods in turn, turning all their sweet dreams to the service of the Maha.
But Mehr was not fully bound. Mehr’s will and desires weren’t yet completely superseded by the Maha’s will. And through her—through her fractured will, her imperfect service—the Gods could unleash their suppressed dreams and their hollow rage. Through her, they breathed life into their nightmares and set them free.
She took a deep breath. “The Gods are so furious, Amun. I know we both felt it. They are angry at our heresy, at the Maha. I feel …” Her heart beat like a fist in her chest. “I feel as if their nightmares are a terrible beast waiting to break free.”
“I know,” Amun said. He sounded old, and tired. “Of course the Gods rage. How could they not? But Mehr—the Gods will rage long after we’re gone. New Amrithi will take our place. It won’t end.”
It was the first time he’d spoken it so openly: the despair that lay at the heart of him. The truth that they were enslaved, bound—that one day Mehr would become vow-bound too. That they would die here.
“No.” Mehr shook her head. “We’re not going to die here, Amun. No more of this. I told you before the storm, and I meant it: We’re going to escape. Both of us.”
Amun had tried to give her time. A little bit of freedom, a little bit of mercy before the Maha gained control of her. But time was running short. The Maha had bound the dreams of the Gods for too long, had manipulated their dreams so the world favored the Empire above all else. Now the natural order was perverted. The world was imbalanced.
As long as Mehr was free, her imperfect service provided an outlet where the dreams could manifest freely, a place where all the dreams the Maha had suppressed over his long years could be unleashed. Dreams that would have brought the Empire plague or natural disaster, rebellions or death or betrayal.
Ruin.
The Maha had been willing to believe that Mehr had erred in the rite. But by the next storm, he would know something greater was amiss. He would know Mehr was flawed, and he’d seek out the source of the flaw—the incomplete mark on her chest. Her unconsummated marriage.
Facing the Maha had already hardened her resolve to stop hesitantly searching for escape, and to pour all her energy into the task of setting her and Amun free, no matter the costs or the risks. But now, thinking of the rite and the terrible fury it had created and now barely held at bay—looking into Amun’s eyes, as he murmured her name, as he shook his head—Mehr had an idea.
They could use the Rite of the Bound.
Bending the dreams of the Gods was a heresy, a terrible, forbidden thing. But it was a heresy she and Amun had already committed under the Maha’s orders. What more harm could it possibly do to the both of them to turn the rite to their own ends, to bend the dreams of the Gods to their will, instead of his?
As the idea formed in Mehr’s mind—as it grew, stretching its wings, soaring in her heart—she felt a hope growing within her that no shame could possibly quench.
“It’s impossible,” Amun said lowly.
“No,” said Mehr. “No, it isn’t. Amun, we’re going to use the Rite of the Bound. We’re going to find freedom together.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
In the morning Amun went to the Maha. He dressed with laborious, painful slowness. In the pale dawn light creeping through the windows, his skin looked gray. Bahren waited for him by the door, his back turned. Mehr stayed on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, and watched them both.
Bahren doesn’t seem entirely happy with the Maha, she’d told Amun last night.
Bahren is old, Amun had responded. Old and trusted. He has seen more of what the Maha can do than most. But he’s loyal, Mehr. Do not doubt that.
Mehr had said nothing to that. She didn’t doubt Bahren’s loyalty. But she’d seen chink after chink in his shields: his grimness when he’d carried Mehr from the desert, eyes haunted; the way he’d sucked in a sharp breath when he’d seen her bruised face by the oasis; the night of mercy he’d given Amun to recover before facing the Maha. All those small cracks added together into a clear weakness, a wound that Mehr could potentially use to her advantage.
How, she didn’t know. But as she stared at Bahren’s back, noting his crossed arms and the tired lurch of his head, she kn
ew she would find a use for it in time.
“The Maha will be growing impatient,” Bahren said in an even voice. He didn’t turn.
Amun tied his sash carefully at the waist of his tunic. She saw the faint tremor of his fingers and bit down on her own tongue just hard enough to remind herself that she couldn’t protect him. Not this time. Not yet.
“I’m ready,” said Amun. He gave her a look as he left. All will be well, that look said. She wasn’t sure if he was looking at her to reassure her or to reassure himself.
Mehr waited for a long moment, then stood up. If she left the room now and went to the bathing chamber, she would just have time to wash her face and comb a hand through her hair before facing the day. The bell for morning prayers hadn’t rung yet, but it would soon, and Mehr didn’t want to face the mystics looking both bruised and haggard. The bruises were beyond her control, but at least she had power over the rest of her appearance.
Although her feet felt frozen beneath her, Mehr willed herself to move. She would have to go to morning prayers whether she liked it or not. The routine of life in the temple was strict. It wouldn’t relent for Mehr just because she didn’t want to take part.
At least she had the comfort of knowing it wouldn’t be the Maha leading prayers today. Knowing his eyes wouldn’t be on her gave her the strength to make her way down the staircase to begin the day.
Once she’d made it to the bathing chamber, she focused on unraveling her knotted hair, which hadn’t seen a comb in what felt like a lifetime. It was easier to focus on mundane things than to think about what Amun was potentially suffering at the Maha’s hands.
It would be so easy for Amun to reveal their ruse. But she wasn’t afraid he would. Or at least, she was no more afraid than she always was. Amun was brave and clever, could twist the truth into knots, and he would protect them both if he could. She was far more afraid of what the Maha would do to him. The Maha had been so full of black, bloody rage. He hadn’t spent it all on her, she was sure of that.
And Amun had been shaking when he’d left her. Shaking and quiet and gray.
She feared more than anything that he’d return to her hurt. Her own bruises were bad enough. But his … his she couldn’t bear.
No. Stop thinking, she chided herself. The fear and shame that were gripping her were destructive and would do her no favors. She needed to be strong. She had to put her terror away. She needed to hold on to the iron of her will, the cold sureness of steel in her bones, and consider her options.
She tied back her hair in a vaguely respectable braid. Somewhere deep in the temple, the bell for prayers rang.
As Mehr walked, following the crowd toward prayers, she kept her mind resolutely cold and clear. She thought of the rites she had danced all her life. Ever since her early childhood, rites had shaped the rhythm of her life, had been her breath and blood. She knew that the bones of all rites were essentially the same: stances mingled with sigils, the movement of the body matched with the power of mortal feeling. It wasn’t enough to simply know the language of the rites. Her mother and Lalita had taught her early that the rites were nothing without an Amrithi’s reverence. An Amrithi couldn’t simply enact a rite. They had to feel it.
Rites were sigils for words and stances for emotion and will for fire and blood for oil to the flame. Rites were a mechanism and a magic that Mehr had always felt awed and privileged to have in her grasp. But the Rite of the Bound …
The Rite of the Bound was different. Other. It was a rite for slipping away from flesh, for harnessing the dreams of Gods. It was a rite for committing a terrible, anathema act, a heresy against nature at the Maha’s bidding. But Mehr knew the rite now, knew its stances and sigils, and her knowledge couldn’t be undone. She had swum in the nightmares of Gods. She had felt their fire run through her. All she could do now was use the rite for her own purposes.
Instead of letting the fury of the Gods pour through her, or the Maha and his mystics use her, Mehr was going to use the rite to draw forward dreams that could save her and Amun from their fate: dreams that weakened the Maha and his temple. Dreams that broke the chains of their vows, and let them both walk free. She wasn’t fully bound. She could set them free.
Amun could teach her how to alter the sigils of the rite for their own purposes. Together they could reshape the rite. Together, they stood a chance of gaining their freedom.
If any force could give her and Amun freedom from their vows, it would be the dreams of the Gods.
She prayed. She ate a meager breakfast, spice-flecked bread so dry it parched her tongue. With nothing to do, she returned to the bedroom and waited for Amun.
When he returned hours later, he walked in, slow and careful, the weight of the world on his shoulders. She quickly stood.
“I’m not hurt,” he said immediately. But she couldn’t stop herself from walking over to him.
She took his face in her hands. It felt natural to do so, and any awkwardness she would normally have felt dissipated when she felt him relax into her touch. She’d slept in his arms last night, his heartbeat an ocean in her ear. He was her husband. She had a right to this, at least: his skin, his exhaled breath, his comfort.
“See,” he said finally. “I’m well enough.”
She could see the blue glow of his sigil-marked flesh through her fingers. She nodded. “I’m glad,” she said.
“He wanted to check my health. No more than that. He needs me strong.” There was a ghost of a smile on his lips. She felt the tug of muscles in his jaw. “He’s afraid to harm me. I’m too weak.”
Of course. Amun was the Maha’s most valuable asset. Mehr was no good on her own. Mehr was flawed. He wouldn’t risk Amun, when Mehr alone was not enough to ensure the rite’s success.
There was comfort in that.
“What did he say to you?” she asked.
“He asked me about the storm. He asked me about you. And I told him the truth. That I believe you tried to serve, with all the power you possessed. And that in time, you would learn to serve as he desired.”
The truth, but not the whole truth. He’d done well.
“Good,” Mehr said shakily. “Then you’ve bought us a little more time.” She lowered her hands; he turned his head away from her. “We need to reshape the language of the Rite of the Bound. I’ll need your help to do that, Amun. I don’t have your experience of it, or your knowledge.”
Amun’s expression shuttered.
“You want us to use the rite to set ourselves free,” he said carefully.
“You know I do.”
“Mehr …” Amun exhaled. “We can’t. I can’t.”
“I can perform the altered rite,” Mehr said. “All I need is your help to do it. Your knowledge.”
“I can’t,” he repeated.
“We can use the rite to draw forward dreams that will break our bonds,” Mehr said, pushing doggedly on. “We can use it to stop the Maha. Amun, you don’t have to fear hope any longer. This isn’t a—a children’s tale, or foolish fantasy. This is real. I truly believe we can escape. We can shatter our vows.”
“Vows can’t be broken,” Amun said, and his voice was utterly devoid of feeling.
“Daiva can’t break vows,” Mehr stressed. “We can’t break vows. But Gods are—Gods. They created all things, and they can destroy them too. We’ve seen what their dreams can do, Amun.” For the Maha. For the Empire. “The rules of nature can be changed. Our vows can be broken, I’m sure of it.”
He looked down so she couldn’t see his eyes. The light from the windows threw shadow after shadow over him, and although she couldn’t read him at all, she knew his mind was moving at lightning speed, his sharp tumble of thoughts just beyond her reach. She wished she could see inside his head.
“Mehr,” he said. “I’m not sure … I’m not sure I believe I can be saved.”
“Then let me believe for you,” she told him softly. “Let me have faith for both of us.”
Silence. All Mehr could hear
was the beat of her own heart.
“You know,” he said in a low voice, “we’re likely to fail. You must know that.”
Mehr sucked in a breath. The darkness rose in her again.
“I can’t think of it,” she told him.
“He’ll force you to lie with me.” His voice was utterly blank. “I will hurt you.”
Something raw and wounded welled up in her. It was a bleeding, bloody softness in her heart. She couldn’t stand it. “Don’t think of it, Amun.”
“I have to think of it. I think of it all the time.” The words sounded like they were torn out of him. “If we fail, this will happen. And we will most likely fail, Mehr. In fact, I am sure—almost sure—we will.” He took a step closer to her, and suddenly there was no distance between them, and not a shadow to hide the look on his face from her anymore. “Knowing that, knowing the truth, Mehr … do you still want to try?”
She met his eyes. She’d decided to risk herself for freedom. Asking him to risk his life for the same goal when he had fought so long against the possibility of hope … ah, it felt like a heavy burden.
She had to succeed: for his sake, even more than her own.
Mehr had promised to have faith for them both, and she would. She would.
“Yes,” Mehr said, looking straight back at him. “I do.”
The second day after they had returned to practicing the rite, the Maha came to observe them. Mehr felt it when he walked into the hall. The scar of her marriage seal throbbed sharply. Her insides froze. Clumsy as a child, she stumbled between stances, her feet refusing to obey her. She felt the warmth of Amun’s hand on her arm then, holding her steady.
“Calm,” he whispered. “Calm, Mehr. I’m here.”
He could not protect her. But she wasn’t alone with the Maha, and there was comfort in that. Mehr placed her hand over his, briefly, in silent thanks. Then they released one another, and bowed low to the ground as the Maha swept into the room.
“Begin,” the Maha said shortly. He moved to stand in the shadows as they raised their heads, stood, and obeyed.
