Empire of Sand

by Tasha Suri

  “Her heart is leading her astray,” Mehr said. “Her heart is lying to her. She loves me. She can’t help her nature. But you understand. You know what needs to be done.” Mehr pressed on. “Just tell her not to come. That’s all I ask.”

  A moment passed. Another. Then finally, Kamal gave a small nod.

  As he walked away, Mehr crossed her own arms, holding herself as if the day were cold instead of sweltering.

  What am I doing?

  Some part of her had known it would come to this. When her mother had told her the cost of her freedom—when the storm had fallen, and the daiva had whirled in their fury around her—she’d known.

  Perhaps even before then. When she’d stood in the desert alone and told a distant Amun that she would come back for him, that she wouldn’t leave him bound alone and in pain to the Maha’s service. She’d rested long enough. It was time for her to finally face her reckoning.

  She had to go back. For his sake. For her own. For everyone’s.

  “My choice,” she whispered. “This is my choice.”

  Mehr waited until the desert had just begun to cool, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, then left the safety of her shelter. She walked away from the shelter, her boots sinking into the sand, which shivered and clung to her as if it didn’t quite know how best to behave. A heartbeat of time passed. She heard a voice call her name.

  “Mehr. Stop.”

  She turned, throat tight, and saw her mother. Ruhi rose from the ground where she’d been kneeling, waiting for Mehr, hidden by her dun-colored robe and her own careful stillness. Behind her stood Lalita, her own face tight with grief.

  “Where are you going?” Ruhi asked.

  “I’m sure you already know,” Mehr said.

  “Did you truly believe Kamal would lie to me, Mehr?”

  “I hoped he would do the right thing.”

  “He did.” Ruhi’s voice was a terrible, soft thing, full of love and pity. “He obeyed his Tara. He kept you safe.”

  Ruhi pushed her hood back from her face and walked toward Mehr. “Come with me,” she said. Her eyes were liquid dark, her face gentle. “Please, Mehr.”

  “I have to go back,” Mehr said, resisting the urge to step away from her mother. “You must see that.”

  “Your vows are misleading you,” her mother said. “You don’t truly want to return to the Maha.”

  Of course Mehr didn’t want to return to him. The thought of him turned her knees to water, made her blood run cold. But her wants and her fears changed nothing. “It won’t be long until the dreamfire falls,” Mehr said, struggling to keep calm in the face of her mother’s gentleness. “I need to go now. The price of me remaining here is far too high. You must see that.”

  “I told you he would find someone to replace you,” Ruhi said, with the sureness of hope. “Most likely he already has.” Ruhi took one of Mehr’s hands between her own, holding on to her gently, her expression earnest with love. “You would not have spoken to Kamal if you didn’t want to warn me. You want me to stop you.”

  “No, Mother,” Mehr said. “No. I’m leaving. I have to.”

  Ruhi’s grip tightened into a vise that made Mehr wince.

  “I can stop you, Mehr. I will if I must.” A beat. “Please, daughter. Don’t make me do this.”

  Mehr looked at her mother. The veil of gentleness had fallen away to reveal the iron that lay beneath it, a desperation so pure and fierce that it took Mehr’s breath away.

  “You don’t have the right,” Mehr said.

  “I’m the Tara. I protect the clan. I protect you.”

  Mehr swallowed. “The best thing you can do for the clan is let me go.”

  “I’m your mother.” Ruhi’s voice wavered. “I can’t sacrifice you. I won’t let you go. It’s too much.”

  “This is my choice,” Mehr said.

  “Mehr, I can’t allow you to do this.”

  “And what right do you have to decide for me?” Mehr demanded. Suddenly she was furious. Furious at her mother for loving her too much, far too late. Furious at herself for standing here, wasting time and courage when there was so much yet to be done. “You left me. You gave up your right to control me a long time ago, and you can’t have it back.” She wrenched her hand back, and this time her mother’s grip faltered and released her.

  The silence that fell was sudden and bitter. Her mother looked stricken.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” Mehr said, pained, as she rubbed her wrist. “I don’t want to be angry at you.”

  “But you are,” her mother whispered.

  “How could I not be?” The words—all the words she had held back so carefully, for the sake of building the fragile peace growing between them—began to pour out of her. “Father used me and Arwa as a weapon against you, and instead of fighting him you left us behind. You chose to leave us. Arwa was a baby. She doesn’t even remember you. I missed you more than I can say. I still miss you. I miss the mother I had, the mother I dreamed would come home to me.” Mehr’s voice cracked. “Of course I’m angry. I’m angry that I have been caged and sold and failed by the people who were supposed to protect me. I’m angry because I love you still, despite everything, and I want you to let me go.”

  She wouldn’t fail Amun, as she’d been failed. She would save him. She couldn’t allow anyone to stop her.

  “I don’t want to be angry at you, Mother,” Mehr said, chin held high. “But I don’t regret it.”

  She saw the moment the blow struck. Saw her mother straighten.

  “You have a right to your anger,” her mother said. Her voice was wooden, heavy with hurt. “But it changes nothing. I only want you to be safe. I always have. If you can’t resist your vow, I’ll resist for you. I’ll do what’s needful to protect you from yourself.”

  Mehr’s stomach fell.

  “No,” said Mehr. She took a step back, and her mother followed her.

  “I don’t want to have to restrain you,” Ruhi said, her jaw firming. “But I will if you don’t come with me now.”

  Mehr’s own hands curled into fists. Her blood was pounding in her ears.

  Even now, her mother didn’t trust her. She thought Mehr was a puppet on long strings.

  “Ruhi,” Lalita said. “Please.”

  “Quiet, Lalita,” Ruhi said sharply. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t remain silent. I must speak for the clan.”

  Lalita stepped forward into the fading light. “The price of keeping Mehr safe is too high,” she said to Ruhi. “The clan, the desert—even this forsaken Empire—must come first. She must return to the Maha.”

  Lalita looked at Mehr with a face wet with tears. “You’re a good girl, Mehr,” Lalita said softly. “Brave and good, as I’ve always known you were.”

  Mehr’s mother stood still and silent, looking at Mehr with a face so full of raw feeling that it hurt to gaze upon it. Ruhi stood strong for a long moment, ever the survivor and soldier—and then Lalita placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and she crumpled into tears, her resolve shattered.

  “Go, Mehr,” Lalita said. “Go now.”

  Mehr hesitated for a moment. Her mother had her hands over her own eyes, as if she couldn’t bear to look at Mehr, as if Mehr were already lost to her. Mehr forced herself to turn and walk away.

  “I love you,” she said. She didn’t know if either woman had heard her.

  She walked for a long, long time, until the sky was black and pricked with fractured stars. She walked into the pain of her bond with Amun, listening to the discordant song of his agony.

  When she finally turned back, she saw nothing but empty desert behind her. She was alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It wasn’t long before the storm began to brew in earnest, faster and fiercer than ever before. Dreamfire bled across the sky, swift as spilled ink on paper, its jeweled edges tinged with darkness. The daiva were everywhere, their black shadows flitting wildly across the sky an
d beneath the cover of sand, their howls filling the air. They no longer seemed interested in keeping their distance. More than once she felt them brush against her body, more solid than they’d ever been before, or shift the ground incautiously beneath her feet. She did her best to ignore them. When she stumbled, she simply straightened and kept on walking.

  She couldn’t allow herself to think too deeply on the dangers surrounding her. She didn’t want her resolve to waver. Instead she focused all her energy on the fierce tug of agony inside her chest, using it to guide her forward, closer and closer to the source of her pain, the wound in her heart. When she closed her eyes, she could almost see the thread binding her and Amun together, drawing her inexorably toward the Maha’s temple. She clutched her marriage seal with one hand, tracing the marks he’d carved there. Thinking of him gave her the strength to go on.

  I’m coming, Amun. I’m coming. Please, survive.

  It didn’t take long for the mystics to find her. She saw the glint of their weapons long before she saw them running toward her, dark robes billowing around them from the force of the storm. The only thing that kept their weapons from being put to use was the roar of Bahren’s voice.

  “Careful! Hurt her and the Maha will have your heads!”

  It was Bahren who pinned her wrists behind her. Judging by the hatred in the eyes of the other mystics, he did so far more gently than any of the others would have. Mehr didn’t try to fight him. I want to be here, she reminded herself, as he steered her toward the temple by his grip on her hands, barking orders at the mystics around him, ordering one to run ahead to the temple to warn their master. This is my choice.

  “Bahren,” Mehr said. “Please take me quickly to the Maha.”

  Bahren laughed, an ugly sound without joy. “I wouldn’t dare take you anywhere else.”

  The hands holding Mehr pinned were slippery with sweat. More than the storm had him scared.

  “I’m glad you’ve come back,” Bahren murmured. “I’m glad you’ve remembered your duty.”

  Mehr said nothing to that and kept her head lowered. She let herself be led through the honeycomb halls of the Maha’s temple, passing nervous mystics, moving through the echo of their prayers. She could feel Amun’s presence, could barely breathe through the pain and the longing.

  “Where is my husband?” she asked.

  “Dying,” Bahren said grimly. “He broke his vow. Now his soul is paying the price for the both of you.”

  He took her to the Maha’s chambers.

  One of the mystics must have succeeded in warning the Maha, because Abhiman stood in the entrance of the Maha’s chambers, waiting for them, his hand on the scabbard of his scimitar. When he caught sight of Mehr, his grip visibly tightened. “She’s here, Maha,” he said. He stepped back, allowing Bahren to shove Mehr forward into the room.

  The Maha was standing at the balcony with Kalini by his side, watching the storm fall. As Bahren released Mehr, leaving her to stand alone in the center of the room, the Maha turned to face her. His expression was calm. His face was not simply riven; his skin was paper-thin, brittle with more age than a human body should have been able to carry. His hand on the edge of the balcony trembled faintly. But it was his eyes that revealed the true extent of what the storm had already done to him. They were black, deep black, the irises clouded and shattered beyond repair. Mehr shuddered at the sight of him. As he looked at Mehr, the brokenness within those eyes only seemed to deepen.

  No doubt he could feel, just as Mehr could, that the bonds that had tied them together were broken. Mehr could sense only the barest shadow of his terrible strength, an echo of what Amun could feel passed to her through the vows they’d made to one another. Her bond to Amun ached, oh, it ached—but it reminded her, too, of why she had to be strong. It reminded her that she wasn’t the Maha’s creature any longer.

  The Maha stared at Mehr silently for a long moment, an ugly tightness forming around his eyes, threatening to tear his skin clean. Kalini placed one hand on her own scabbard, and the other gently on the Maha’s arm. Her gaze on Mehr was just as flat and unwavering. It took Mehr one long, absurd moment to realize the Maha was waiting for her to kneel.

  “Maha,” she said instead. “I have come to bargain.”

  Behind her Abhiman snarled and strode forward. She felt him grip her arm roughly, raising the other to strike a blow. Heart hammering, Mehr forced herself not to look away from the Maha’s face. “Will you risk seeing your last weapon with a sharp edge become dulled, Maha?” she asked.

  His nostrils flared. “Stop,” he ordered Abhiman. “Leave her for now.”

  Abhiman paused, then released her and stepped to the side.

  The Maha kept his eyes on her, as if he were afraid that if he looked away she would vanish in a puff of smoke. “So,” he said. “You think you can bargain with me?”

  “I do,” Mehr said.

  He took one painfully slow step toward her, pain pinching his features. Mehr watched as Kalini’s hand tightened on his arm, holding him steady. Kalini was looking up at him, her eyes full of fervent light.

  “Vow yourself to me again,” the Maha said, “and you will suffer no more than you deserve.”

  “I know what you think I deserve,” Mehr said calmly. “My answer is no. I have no interest in being beaten for your pleasure.” She took a step forward and watched Abhiman’s hands curl into fists from the corner of her eye. “The dreamfire will fall soon, Maha. And if you want its strength, you must bargain with me.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Mehr.” The Maha’s voice was a rasp of silk. “Vow yourself to me,” he repeated. “Do what you know is right. Think of the Empire. Think of your family. Consider the consequences of your betrayal on the ones you love.”

  “I have made a sacred vow that leaves no room for you,” Mehr said. She closed her eyes, just for a moment. Long enough for her to envisage that golden thread tying her and Amun together, that circle with no end. She felt the distant echo of a heartbeat and thought, I am here, Amun. I’m here. And I will be strong for you. “I made a vow in love, and I will not undo it for anything or anyone. But I will bargain. Will you listen, Maha?”

  The Maha looked over her shoulder. He made a gesture, and Mehr felt a blinding pain shoot through her skull and her spine as Abhiman wrenched her arms high behind her back with one hand and took hold of her hair with the other. Fear, she knew from experience, made pain infinitely worse. But at least this time she was not the only one who was afraid. The Maha was afraid too, terrified that his power was slipping away from him. So she would be brave, brave—

  Abhiman’s hand closed around her throat. Mehr couldn’t scream. She couldn’t breathe. He was pulling her hair harder and harder. The air went white around her.

  She almost vomited when he released her. She crumpled to the floor, holding herself up with a palm against the cool marble.

  “Will you have him beat me now?” Mehr asked, her voice raw and pained. “Don’t be a fool. You can’t afford to damage me.”

  Light reflected on the marble, bright and deep. Mehr raised her head. “The dreamfire is falling,” Mehr rasped. “You’re running out of time.”

  “Your vow,” the Maha said. His voice trembled.

  “You know what will happen if the rite isn’t performed, even if your mystics do not. The Gods will awaken. Their nightmares will tear the world apart.” She coughed hard, fixing her eyes on his face. “You will fall. The Empire will fall. Your Emperor will fall.” This seemed to hit him the hardest. His shattered gaze flickered, a hundred points of pain. “The world will fall.” She rose to her feet, looking at their stricken faces through the ringing haze of her own pain. “Bargain with me or break me,” she snarled. “Those are your options.”

  The mystics were silent. They watched her. Watched the Maha.

  “Speak,” he said.

  “I will perform the Rite of the Bound alone, without a partner to dance alongside me. I’ll keep the world whole. I will do this task of
my own free will, although it is anathema and threatens to destroy me. I will not fail.” She said this calmly. “And in return you will release Amun from his vows. You’ll let him walk away free and whole. That is my bargain.”

  The Maha looked at her. A smile bloomed on his face.

  “You did not have to come to me, to attempt to perform the rite,” he said softly, as if he had her in his snare again. With his power over her restored, his fear abated visibly. The broken light in his eyes grew. “You could have tried to perform it alone, far from this place, but you came to me because you are a weak and foolish creature after all.” He leaned forward, into the support of Kalini’s hand. “You came for him.”

  “I did,” said Mehr.

  “If you refuse to vow yourself to me, if you refuse to obey me, he dies too,” the Maha said, in the same slow, gentle voice. “Everything dies.”

  “I am not as much a fool as you think, Maha. I know. But I also know his heart. He would rather die than remain with you. If the world is the price, well.” She swallowed. Raised her head high. “I will have his freedom, one way or another.”

  The brightness of the dreamfire was growing, growing. Beneath the howl of the daiva she heard the creak and skitter of new limbs. Fear, animal and raw, crawled down her spine. She heard the prayers of the mystics rise, somewhere far below them. The Maha turned to listen. His expression was hungry, utterly starved of the power that had kept him blessed for so many years. When the light filtered over his face, his skin looked as thin as gauze.

  “Without the dreamfire, you’re nothing but a man who likes to hurt people,” Mehr murmured. “I see you, Maha. I know you won’t deny me this bargain.”

  Kalini was looking at the Maha too, gazing at him with eyes that drank him in, that consumed the new hollows of his face, the thinness of his skin, the turn of his thin, starved lips. Her gaze never wavered. Her mouth was slightly parted, her hand soft on the Maha’s arm.

  The sound of screaming rose suddenly between the prayers. Bahren cursed, startling from his place by the door. Abhiman began to unsheathe his weapon. “What is that?” he shouted.