“It’s been an age since I last saw a storm,” Lalita said, a wistful edge to her voice. “When I was a child I loved them. My clan would spend days preparing the Rite of Dreaming. And when the dreamfire fell—ah, Mehr, it was a beautiful thing. You can’t imagine it.” A sigh. “But of course storms were more frequent where I was raised. There’s just no soul in Jah Irinah.”

Storms of dreamfire only occurred within the confines of Irinah’s holy desert. But Irinah was vast, and Lalita had grown up deep in the heart of the desert, where storms fell frequently. Jah Irinah, built as it was on the outer edge of the blessed sand, was rarely graced with storms. Nonetheless, it was a common belief among the Irin that the presence of the Ambhan Empire in the city—in its buildings, its fountains, its culture, and its people—kept the storms at bay. Dreamfire, they would whisper, belonged to Irinah and Irinah’s people. It wouldn’t deign to fall before foreign eyes.

Mehr understood that belief. Built in the early years of the Empire, when the first Emperor ordered a loyal Governor to the conquered country to rule in his stead, Jah Irinah was and always would be a purely Ambhan city. The Empire was visible in every swooping arch, every mosaic-patterned wall, and every human-made fountain pumped with precious, wasted water. The city was built on Irinah’s back, but there was certainly none of the country’s harsh beauty in its bones.

Lalita was still lost in old memories, her face soft with sadness. “The Rite of Dreaming usually needs more dancers, but we’ll manage.” She looked at Mehr. “We’ll greet the storm together.”

“You want me to dance the rite with you?” Mehr said, not trying to hide the disbelief in her voice.

“That is how Amrithi greet storms, Mehr,” Lalita said, amused. She patted Mehr’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve taught you everything you need to know.”

“I thought you were leaving.”

“For this,” said Lalita gently, “I can delay my journey a little longer.”

How many times had Mehr looked out at the desert and imagined living on its sands in a clan of her own, dancing the Rite of Dreaming for the storms of dreamfire that so rarely crossed its boundaries? She’d always known it was an impossible thing to hope for.

“My mother …” Mehr stopped. There were so many feelings hurtling through her. She didn’t know how to put them into words. “The Rite of Dreaming is danced by clans,” she said finally, her voice brittle. “And I have no clan.” She swallowed. “This isn’t for me. But I thank you.”

The amusement faded completely from Lalita’s face. The expression that took its place was full of knowing compassion.