After a moment, he joined her. He moved fluidly from the first stance straight into her own, mirroring her movements without the same cautious deliberation Mehr gave to shaping the rite. Sigils flickered over his fingers. Mehr felt power surge through her again, but this time she didn’t stop dancing.

Finally, she fell into the last stance and felt the power release her.

“Look,” said Amun. Following his gaze, she lowered her head.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Between their feet, the sand had transformed into soil. In amazement, Mehr kneeled down and touched the earth. It was cool and soft, heavy with its own richness. Between the clods of soil were the first pale green shoots of new vegetation. She touched the edge of a leaf. Real. It was all real.

“How?” she whispered.

Amun kneeled down too, his body still concealing hers. He touched the soil too, soft and reverent.

“The daiva draw their strength from the dreams of their mothers and fathers,” he said. “This temple lies at the heart of the desert, the place where the Gods sleep and dream most strongly, which makes the daiva infinitely stronger also. Here they can truly answer our prayers.”

“So,” she breathed out. “We Amrithi. We can make the daiva shape our world. To our will.”

“In small ways, yes.” The green was withering beneath them, soil desiccating back into gold-hued sand. “The daiva only have so much strength. For a price, some of us can do more.”

Amun’s expression was grave. Whatever the price was, she knew it had to be high. Before Mehr could ask him anything more, Amun rose to his feet, brushing the sand from his robe.

“Stand,” said Amun. “As long as we practice, they won’t approach us.”

Mehr stood, giving her new guards a sidelong glance as she did so. The men had edged farther back. Clearly like many of the servants in her old home, they distrusted Amrithi customs. Amun caught the direction of her gaze.

“The Maha expects you to be taught before the storm comes,” he murmured. “They won’t risk his displeasure by disturbing our lesson.”

“Tell me about the storm,” said Mehr. “Why must I be prepared for it? What does the Maha want you to teach me?”

“A very specific rite,” said Amun. He fell into the first stance. Mehr followed. “Adjust your posture to match mine,” he told her. He looked over her stance with a critical eye, then proceeded to offer her criticism after criticism. Her shoulders were too high—then too low. Her feet were not properly placed. The angle of her knees was not quite right. Mehr felt like a child in the schoolroom again.

“The storm, Amun,” she said impatiently.

He was all reluctance. But Mehr waited, her eyes fixed on him. She would not relent.