Empire of Sand

by Tasha Suri

  They had to be prepared for the next storm. What Mehr didn’t want or need was Hema’s misplaced pity, or the pity of any of those other green girls, with their unshakable faith in the Maha and their sure, steady fear of Amun.

  But Hema was looking at her with sad eyes, knowing eyes—eyes that had read Mehr’s bruised face, her failing appetite, and had come to a conclusion that was almost, but not quite, the truth. Mehr had been hurt by a man, hurt over and over again, and she was holding on to her strength by a thread. Hema’s look said: I want to save you, and I’m not going to stop trying until you let me. Mehr didn’t have the energy to break herself against that look.

  “I’ll consider it,” Mehr said, and knew she’d lost.

  “I shouldn’t go,” Mehr said. “I know I shouldn’t go.”

  Sweating, sore, she was curled up on the floor with her head in her hands. Amun sat across from her, legs stretched out across the floor, looking equally exhausted.

  “You should know by now, Mehr. I have nothing to say.”

  “I’m asking you to say something.”

  Amun shrugged.

  “Go if you want to go,” he said.

  What did Mehr want?

  She wanted to practice the sigils. The sigils they’d strung together were almost coherent enough to be of use when the storm came. They were so very close to finding the secret to freedom. But she also knew that neither of them had anything left to give. Instead of practicing they were collapsed, exhausted, doing nothing.

  “I’ll achieve nothing by going to them now,” Mehr said. The sigils were far more important than anything the women could give to them.

  “It’s your choice.”

  “They think you hurt me,” Mehr said. “Do you realize that?”

  Amun shrugged again.

  “You don’t care?” she asked.

  “You know I don’t,” he said levelly.

  Mehr heaved out a sigh. “Well, I do.”

  They were both silent for a long moment. Then Amun spoke.

  “It’s better they believe I hurt you, instead of the Maha. They would just wonder how you’d failed him, and blame you for it.” He looked at Mehr, simple truth in his eyes. “You need people, Mehr. Go to them.”

  “And you?” she asked. “Do you need people?”

  She thought, for a moment, that Amun would react badly. He frowned at her, his brow furrowing—and then a yawn cracked his seriousness. He gave a soft laugh and leaned back against the wall.

  “I need to rest,” Amun said. “That’s all that I need right now.”

  The wine was a mistake.

  Mehr realized too late, of course. The girls had gambled, and Anni had triumphantly poured them all wine into cheap clay cups pilfered from the storeroom. The cups were small. They could only hold a mouthful or two of drink. It had been easy for Mehr to take the first cup of wine offered, then the second, then the third; by the fourth she was light-headed and dazed. She realized too late that the wine was far stronger than the watered-down, sweet stuff she had drunk in her father’s household. It didn’t help that she had barely eaten and that she was exhausted. She’d been weak and out of sorts before the first mouthful of drink had even touched her lips.

  I should go home, Mehr thought. But she couldn’t seem to make her arms and legs move. Instead she sat at the edge of the room, the chatter around her eddying in and out of focus. The girls were talking about the male mystics, their voices hushed and full of laughter.

  “Of course I don’t go near the men,” Rena said, more loudly than the rest. She sounded affronted.

  “We go near the men all the time,” another girl said in a joking voice. “They’re everywhere.”

  “Except when we eat, bathe, shit, pray, or sleep,” another voice said dryly. Mehr thought it was possibly Hema’s. But the room was soft and the voices blurred like ink and water. She didn’t really know.

  “We have a sacred duty to serve with our whole hearts. Men are a distraction.”

  “And you keep away from men, do you?”

  “It’s not as if we can get—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Well, you should. I’m no fool. Imagine what would happen if the Maha—”

  “… opposite of our calling. The poor girl …”

  Someone muttered a sharp word. Careful—the monster’s wife. Mehr heard the conversation stutter. Silence fell. She felt their eyes turn on her, one by one, and her face flushed hot.

  When Mehr said nothing, the conversation soon began again. They turned to other topics, and her tension eased. The flush on her skin remained, though. Perhaps it was the influence of the wine.

  She felt Hema come and settle down beside her.

  “Some of us serve in a different way,” Hema said. Her voice was kind. “Some of us have to be brave.”

  Hema touched her fingertips gently to Mehr’s arm. “I hoped showing you the glory of our purpose would help.”

  She should have stayed with Amun. Here, among all these people, she missed his steadiness, his solidity. She resented the pity in Hema’s eyes: resented it, and burned at how wrong it all was, how little they understood of her suffering, or his.

  “What has he ever done to deserve being so hated?” Mehr asked.

  A sharp silence. “He’s like an animal,” Hema said. She continued, a careful edge to her voice. “You know. All men are not like him.”

  Mehr tried not to laugh. “I was raised a noblewoman. I had no brothers. My father was the only man I knew before him.” But I know men aren’t all like him. They’re not as good. Or kind.

  “The way he acts …” Hema’s eyes lingered on Mehr’s face. The fading bruise on her cheek. “The way he treats you … we’ve all seen it. We …” She stopped. Thinned her lips, then said firmly, “We know you do your duty. And we feel for you.”

  “He doesn’t hurt me,” Mehr said.

  “Mehr—”

  “He doesn’t touch me. You don’t see, you understand. He doesn’t touch me, not like that, not at all, at all.” Vehement words. “He’s a good man.”

  Mehr stopped, sucking in a breath, trying to calm the heat of her brain, her flesh. She was so addled that it took a moment for the reality of what she’d said—what she’d done—to hit her. Cold gripped her heart.

  Oh, Gods.

  She hoped for a moment that Hema wouldn’t understand the full meaning of what she’d said. Hema was not in the Maha’s inner circle, after all. She should not have been privy to the workings of his control over his Amrithi, and the details of the vow that held Mehr to Amun and to the Maha in turn.

  But Hema was Kalini’s sister.

  Hema hadn’t misinterpreted Mehr’s words. Not this time. Her eyes were wide. Her face had grayed, drained of color. She’d understood Mehr perfectly.

  You shouldn’t have said it. The voice in Mehr’s head was dispassionate and clear. You shouldn’t have thought it.

  Now the Maha will rip you both apart.

  Rip them apart—and rip them away from each other.

  Mehr rose to her feet and stumbled outside. She made it as far as the edge of the oasis before she was violently sick.

  The wine. The wine had been a mistake, a terrible mistake. The wine and her own utter foolishness. Her weakness. After all the times Amun had protected her, after all the ways they’d both fought to hide their secret from the Maha—how could she betray him like this?

  She squeezed her eyes shut. They were wet, streaming with unwanted tears.

  She’d thought Amun had grown fragile after the storm. But she’d grown fragile too. If the storm hadn’t left her weak—and it surely had—then the sleepless nights, the nightmares, the Maha’s cruelties, had all done the storm’s work.

  And now she’d failed herself. Failed him.

  Mehr didn’t move when Hema kneeled down beside her.

  “Drink from the oasis,” Hema said quietly. “It’s safe.”

  Mehr cupped her hands in the water, raised them to her face,
and rinsed out the foul taste in her mouth. Then she cupped her hands again and drank one, two sweet mouthfuls of water. They did nothing to clear her head. She looked at Hema. Hema was staring down at the water, her face still gray, her mouth a solemn line.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “Why are you trying to be kind to me?” Mehr asked in return. “I’ve done nothing for you.” I am nothing.

  At first Hema was quiet. Then, carefully, she placed a hand on Mehr’s shoulder.

  “I wanted to have Amrithi blood when I first came here. I knew the Amrithi were heathens, weren’t right, but I wanted to be useful. I wanted to serve with more than my prayers and my adoration. Your husband has always seemed like an animal, but the lady he served with … she was better than her kind, she was beautiful, and I wanted to be her more than anything.” Hema’s voice was soft, contemplative. “I watched her sicken and die, and I—I pitied her. I didn’t want it anymore.” She shook her head. “What you do is hard enough, Mehr. But to have to serve with him …”

  “You’re kind because you pity me,” Mehr said. Hema looked at her, eyes flashing with unfamiliar fire.

  “No, Mehr. I’m kind because it’s right. You have a hard service and you deserve the support of your sisters.” She leaned forward, gripping Mehr’s shoulder hard enough to hurt. “I’m kind because the kindness of the Maha saved me. He took me and mine from hunger and poverty and gave us hope. You may not have come from hunger, Governor’s daughter, but you have purpose now. Your life has meaning. You have meaning. Can’t you see how wonderful that is?”

  Mehr was silent. She wished Hema would let go of her. Her heart was hammering in her throat. There was no room for words. She felt Hema’s grip slacken, just a little. Saw her gaze soften. “I am going to try to forget what you told me,” Hema murmured. “I am going to decide I misunderstood you. Perhaps I did. But I will hold you in my prayers and hope you do what is right. Do what’s right, Mehr, and all will be well in the end. So the Maha wills.”

  Mehr nodded wordlessly. Hema smiled.

  “Good. Good.”

  Mehr heard a scuffling sound behind them. She looked up and saw Anni watching them. She didn’t know how long Anni had been standing there; she didn’t know how much Anni had heard. But Anni looked no different from usual, just a little cold, her arms wrapped around herself to keep warm.

  “Hema,” Anni said timidly. “Mehr. Are you coming back in?”

  Hema sighed. She released Mehr and kneeled back. “You can stay here tonight,” she said to Mehr.

  Mehr shook her head. “No,” she said. “No. My … my place is with my husband.”

  Hema gave her a faint, approving nod.

  “Drink some more water before you go,” she said. “Your head is going to feel foul in the morning.”

  Hema accompanied Mehr to the staircase of her room. Mehr made the journey up by herself. When she entered the bedroom, she found Amun asleep, curled up on his side. For all his bulk, he looked as innocent as a child. When she sat down on the bed beside him, he woke up with a snap, eyes sharp and alert. He took in her tearstained face and sat up.

  “Mehr. What—?”

  “I made a mistake, Amun.” She swallowed. “A very bad mistake.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  She told Amun everything. He listened in silence. It may have been her imagination, but as she talked, the sigils on his skin seemed to brighten, faded blue growing a deep and livid indigo. When she finished speaking, he was breathing hard. His jaw was clenched tight.

  “Amun,” she said finally, tentatively. “Amun, what—”

  “Get off the divan.” His hands were fists. “Please, Mehr.”

  She got up. She made her way slowly, warily away from the bed to the edge of the room.

  “You want to hurt me now, Amun?” A dark pit opened in her stomach. She felt cold. The water hadn’t been enough to clear her head, but Amun’s anger was a sharper shock than ice. She’d expected his anger, deserved it, but she could still hardly stand to see it. She remembered the Maha’s fists and flinched internally. “I can hardly blame you.”

  “No,” he snapped. “Hurt you? No.” He lowered his head, chin to chest, breathing deep and harsh through his nose. Then he looked up. “My vows are just growing hard to bear.”

  Mehr pressed her back against the wall. Amun gave her a thin, pained smile before lowering his head again.

  “Oh, Amun,” she said softly.

  “Don’t talk,” he managed to say. “Just for a moment. Please.”

  Mehr waited, and waited, barely daring to breathe.

  “So,” he said, once his breathing had grown more even. “One of the mystics knows.” He looked up. “I’m not angry, Mehr. I knew this was inevitable. Our chances were always slim.”

  “We don’t have to lose hope yet,” Mehr said. She couldn’t stand the bleakness of his eyes.

  “We have a little hope,” Amun observed, his voice flat. “If she doesn’t speak before the storm. If we manage to break our bonds during the storm, which is unlikely … Mehr, you must see, there are too many ifs.”

  Mehr swallowed. There was no question that Hema would speak, only a question of when she would. Mehr knew it just as well as Amun did. Hema was far too loyal, far too faithful to the Maha, to keep Mehr and Amun’s secret.

  “I’ll tell her I—I lay with you. I’ll tell her I did my duty.”

  “You think you can lie to her now?” His expression was far too knowing. She had the awful sense that he could see right through her.

  Lying to Hema would be nothing at all like lying to Maryam or maidservants or her father. In her father’s household, she’d lied to ensure her small freedoms. She’d lied to save herself from punishment, or for the sake of power. She’d understood that nobility valued many things more highly than truth: their status, their honor, their own pride.

  But Hema and the mystics valued nothing more highly than their honesty to the Maha. And Mehr had never lied to save a freedom as vast as the fate of her own soul.

  “I’ve lied before,” she said thinly. “I can lie again if I need to. Besides, this is my error. I can try to make it right.”

  “Not all mistakes can be made right, Mehr.” It would have been better if Amun had sounded angry. He didn’t. He sounded like he’d expected this all along.

  Frantic thoughts ran through Mehr’s head. She thought of suggesting that they ask Edhir when the next storm of dreamfire would fall. She thought of running out and seeking Hema, begging her for silence. But all of that was foolish. All of it was pointless. Mehr could not make her mistakes right. They were going to lose their freedom, and Mehr was responsible for it.

  She leaned more heavily back against the wall and closed her eyes. Her head was racing; she felt cold and sick in body and soul. She heard Amun get up from the bed and cross the floor.

  She stiffened when he touched her. She opened her eyes, ready to apologize—but for once, Amun had not flinched away. His jaw was hard, his sigils livid with pain, but the hand on her cheek was confident in its tenderness. She leaned into his touch, almost despite herself. He didn’t hate her. How could he not hate her?

  “You don’t need to comfort me,” she protested. “You’re hurting yourself.” But when he placed his other hand against her shoulder, drawing her against him, she didn’t protest. She stayed very still, feeling the warmth of him, the cadence of his breath. She’d move away in a second, offer him a respite from the pain of his vows. But not just yet.

  “Don’t tell me everything will be well,” she said.

  “I don’t lie. Not to you.” A pause. “But you’ll survive. And I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.”

  “Thank you,” she said. And then, because it bore repeating: “I’m sorry, Amun. So very sorry.”

  “I wanted to buy us a little time,” he said, his breath gentle against her forehead. “And I did. That’s enough.”

  It was painful to lose hope. But she knew, now, that Amun had never had
it. His hopes had always been smaller than hers. All he’d wanted was a modicum of kindness, a small sand grain of mercy. He’d won them that. Now all they could do was face the consequences of Mehr’s failure. Now all they could do was wait.

  Hema had been right. Mehr did feel foul in the morning. But she’d felt worse before. The journey through the desert, with its relentless heat and sunlight, had made her feel infinitely worse. So she put her pain to the back of her mind and went to prayers, sharing her breakfast with Amun as they went to their practice hall. They didn’t speak about the night before. Instead they went through the motions, performing the rite, praying with the mystics, adhering strictly to the monotonous routine expected of them. They made it through the day. And the next one.

  On the third day, Bahren and Abhiman came for them. Abhiman came armed. He wore a dagger at his waist. Mehr looked at the dagger and at the look in his eyes—deadly and flat and soft. She knew why they were there even before Bahren spoke.

  “The Maha wants you. Both of you.”

  Abhiman strode over and grabbed Mehr roughly by the wrist. Amun, fool that he was, stepped forward, his face thunderous. In a flash, Abhiman had his dagger out of its sheath, its tip a hairsbreadth from Mehr’s chin. She raised her head, gave Amun a sharp look. Please, please, don’t try to play the hero. Not now.

  Amun had already frozen. He held his palms upraised. “Brother, you don’t need swords to compel us,” he said.

  “Apparently we do,” Bahren said tiredly. “Come quietly, boy. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  They were marched through the corridors. Abhiman didn’t lead them to the Maha’s private chambers, as Mehr had expected and dreaded. Instead they were led to the Prayer Hall.

  Without the usual throng of mystics at prayer, the hall seemed somehow vaster. Beneath the statue of the Emperor stood the Maha. He watched as they approached. His fractured eyes glowed in the glare of the torchlight. In the emptiness of the hall there was nowhere to hide from him.

  Mehr reminded herself to remain calm. As Abhiman shoved her forward, she forced herself to look beyond the Maha. Kalini stood at the edge of the room, half her face cloaked in shadow. Two women kneeled at the Maha’s feet. Hema, with her face to the floor, identifiable only by her short, curling hair. And Anni.