He was soon proved correct. Two men came out of the shadows and began to follow them. Amun gave no reaction. Mehr watched them from the corner of her eye, head tilted down. In Amun’s presence her bared face no longer troubled her, but these men were strangers. Having no choice but to show them her uncovered face shamed her, and that shame wasn’t something she could easily shake. Her fingers twitched at her sides. She wished she had a shawl to reach for to draw around her head.

Amun stopped at a narrow door. He unbolted it. He and Mehr stepped out into the desert. Behind them, the two men followed.

The sand stretched out before them, a clear expanse all the way to the horizon. The men stayed near the entrance as Mehr and Amun made their way out into the open. The gentle wind, warm from the heat of the day, caught Amun’s dark curls. He brushed his sleeve over his hair, frowning.

“We can stop here,” he said. “They won’t be able to hear us.”

He positioned himself between her and the guards, his broad-shouldered frame concealing her almost entirely.

“Does the Maha expect me to run?” Mehr tilted her head at the men, knowing they wouldn’t catch the gesture with Amun standing in their line of sight.

“No,” he said. “He doesn’t think you will run. But a valuable item should always have a keeper, or so I’ve been told.” Amun took a step back. He folded his arms. “Do you know any rites?”

“Some,” Mehr said.

“Show me the Rite of Fruitful Earth. Are you familiar with it?”

Mehr hesitated. She had never danced in front of anyone outside the women’s quarters before. To do so in front of strangers felt alien to her, and wholly unfamiliar.

“This isn’t a test,” Amun said softly, misreading her. “I can choose another rite if you prefer.”

Mehr shook her head.

“No, this will do well enough.”

Doing her best to block out the world around her, she fell into the first stance.

The Rite of Fruitful Earth: It was a rite for the farmer with arid fields, a rite for people with no crops and only parched soil to sustain them. It was not one of Mehr’s favorite dances, but she knew it well enough to perform it now. She moved between stances, her footsteps a whisper against the sand, her arms rising and falling as she found her rhythm. She shaped the first sigils with her fingers. When she shaped life—a flick of thumb to the fingertips, like the lighting of tinder—she felt something surge through her, from her feet up to her eyes. Her vision wavered, shadows flickering at the edges. She went abruptly still.

“Continue,” Amun said. He sounded so much like Lalita did when Mehr faltered during practice that she found herself obeying without question.