The bodice and skirt had been gifts from Lalita. “If you need replacements, you ask me,” Lalita had told her. And Mehr had nodded, understanding, because she could hardly ask her stepmother’s seamstress for help, could she?
The sash and hair ornaments had belonged to her mother. Mehr had found them in her mother’s chambers, in the early days after her mother left, carefully folded and wrapped in linen. She had no proof, but she liked to believe her mother had left them for her, as an apology and a farewell.
She fanned the cloth, the bodice, and the skirt out on her divan. She kept the stones in her palm, tracing the edges of the flowers with her thumb. She felt restless, full of joy and sadness at the same time. It wouldn’t be long until the storm reached Jah Irinah. On that day, she would finally be able to dance the Rite of Dreaming as a grown woman, Amrithi and Ambhan, light in her hands and her heart.
Then Lalita would leave, and Mehr would be alone.
A sound from beyond the bedroom made Mehr snap sharply out of her reverie. She placed the flowers on the divan and stepped out of her room. She found Sara waiting for her, a characteristic look of nervousness on her face.
“Lady Mehr.” The maidservant offered a shaky bow.
“What are you doing here?” Mehr asked.
“Nahira sent me, my lady.”
“Does Arwa need me?”
Sara shook her head quickly.
“Oh no, my lady. Lady Arwa is well. Nahira sent me to … to request a favor.”
Mehr frowned.
“What could Nahira possibly need from me?” she asked.
Sara swallowed, biting her lip. Her reluctance to speak almost radiated off her.
“Go on,” Mehr urged.
“Your blood, my lady.” Sara’s voice was small. “She wants your blood.”
Mehr was stunned into silence. She was saved from responding by Sara, who seemed determined to finish speaking before her courage failed her. She went on hurriedly, tripping over her words. “The dreamfire frightens her, my lady. She knows a storm is coming. But the daiva—there are so many of them out there now, my lady—they frighten her so much more than the dreamfire.” Sara took a deep, steadying breath. “Your blood has kept Lady Arwa safe. Everyone knows nothing creeps into her rooms at night. She sleeps soundly. And Nahira—she is old, my lady, and superstitious, you must understand—Nahira has asked if you will protect her too.”
Sara had her hands on the edges of the shawl draped around her shoulders. Mehr watched her fingers as she spoke. She was twisting the cloth into knots. Her words were a buzz of noise in Mehr’s ears.
“You are lying to me,” Mehr said coolly.
“No, my lady!” Sara’s voice was high and frantic.
“Shall I summon Nahira now and ask her?” Sara’s silence was answer enough. Mehr went on. All the fury Mehr had been holding back rose up as a hard frost in her veins, her voice. “Nahira sleeps in Arwa’s bedchamber. She doesn’t need my blood to protect her, and she would know better than to ask for it.” Right now, when Mehr was in disfavor, asking for her help was a dangerous act. Nahira was too much of a survivor to make such a basic error of judgment. “You know what the other servants say about me. You know what I’m capable of. So why, Sara, have you decided to make me your enemy?”
Sara tried to turn and bolt from the room, but Mehr was close enough to catch her hand and hold her still.
“No,” Mehr said. “Speak to me first. Then you can run.”
“I’m sorry,” Sara said, teary. “But some of us are so afraid, my lady. Not the Harans or the Numrihans—they don’t understand, they laugh at me and call me a superstitious barbarian—but we Irin, we know what’s coming. I grew up outside the city, my lady. Near the Northern Oasis. I know what a storm is like. I know how the fire falls and the daiva follow it. So many daiva, my lady, and our blood doesn’t protect us from them. What will we do if an evil daiva creeps into our quarters with the storm? Gods forbid, an ancient? What will we do?” Her voice turned entreating. “A little blood, my lady, that’s all I need to protect the servant quarters. Please.”
Mehr let go of her. But Sara didn’t run. She stood her ground, terrified but determined. In the face of her fear—and her stubbornness—Mehr’s own anger faded. She didn’t have the strength to be cruel.
“You shouldn’t have come to me,” Mehr said heavily. “It was a foolish thing to do. Be sensible, Sara. Find an Amrithi clan and barter for some blood. You work for the Governor, you surely have the coin.”
Sara looked down at the floor, as if she couldn’t bear to meet Mehr’s eyes. Her voice came out in an incomprehensible whisper.
“Speak up,” Mehr ordered. Her patience had worn thin.
Sara swallowed.
“I haven’t seen a clan in years, my lady. That’s all.”
“Near Jah Irinah?”
“Anywhere, my lady,” Sara said. She still wouldn’t meet Mehr’s eyes. “It’s as if they’ve—vanished.”
Mehr turned away from her. Without consciously deciding to do so, she walked over to the perforated wall and stared out at the desert beyond. The sand was glowing with the warmth of encroaching dreamfire.
She thought of the feel of Maryam’s fingers on her face, of Lalita’s trembling hands, her tired smile.
She had told herself she would seek out new knowledge. Well, here it was. Mehr already knew that not all was well in Irinah, and not all was well for the Amrithi. Lalita had always done her best to make sure that Mehr was aware of the dangers the Amrithi faced. But it was different, hearing what had become of the Amrithi from Sara’s lips. Lalita’s knowledge came from the highest echelons of society: from pillow talk, from salons, from the constant threads of rumors and gossip that wound their way through the city. Sara—raised near the Northern Oasis, far beyond the city’s borders—had gleaned her knowledge of the fate of the Amrithi not from gossip and connections, but from the bare reality of life on Irinah’s sand that Lalita had worked so hard to escape from. Sara knew what Lalita—always so careful to avoid crossing paths with the people or haunts of her past Amrithi life—couldn’t have known:
There were no Amrithi clans visiting the city in Irinah. No clans visiting the towns. No clans visiting the villages. No clans.
They were vanishing.
The Emperor’s hatred had not grown suddenly, as Mehr had so foolishly believed when Maryam had warned her of his messages to his nobles. His hatred was a storm that had grown ever larger by feeding on itself, and Mehr had been protected from the full weight of it by the shelter of her privilege and of the very Ambhan walls that so stifled her. Now the storm was too great for even Mehr to ignore. Her status as the Governor’s daughter couldn’t protect her forever. She had Amrithi blood, and the Amrithi were being erased.
“You can have my blood,” Mehr said finally. “But in return you’ll owe me a debt.”
“Anything,” Sara said. “Oh, anything, my lady.”
Mehr watched the shadows of the daiva shifting in the dreamfire’s light.
“A favor,” Mehr said. “You’ll owe me a favor. That’s all.”