“Reshaping the world takes a greater power than the daiva possess,” he said finally. “The Maha desires for the Empire to defy the natural order of the world and continue in everlasting glory. He desires the same for himself. For that, he must harness the one force in the world that shapes the natural order. A power only present during storms.”

A force that shaped the natural order. A force that came only with the storms.

Dreamfire. He was talking about dreamfire.

“No rite can compel the dreams of Gods,” Mehr whispered. “That is impossible.”

“Raise your hands.” Mehr did so, numbly playacting at the lesson along with him. “Show me your next stance.”

“Amun.”

“The Maha’s spies saw the dreamfire respond to you, Mehr,” he said. “Dreamfire is the power of the Gods shaping the world. Don’t you understand what you did in that storm?”

“I was praying, not compelling,” she said tightly. “Gods are not daiva, to be compelled by vows. Gods are Gods.”

“But you can compel them,” Amun said, “whether you choose to or not. The amata gift gives us the very rare ability to compel the dreams of the Gods. That decides your value to the Maha.”

She couldn’t. Surely she couldn’t. But Amun had promised to tell her the truth, and although she wanted to believe he was lying to her, she knew he was being honest. The Maha had taken Mehr, tricked her into vowing away her life, because of the gift of her Amrithi blood. No wonder he had called her a gem. She had the power to place the world in his hands.

The truth was awful. It revolted her, deep in her gut, her bones. She had always known the daiva were holy beings and worthy of reverence, that the Gods were as permanent and powerful as the earth or the sun or the night. To bend the dreams of the Gods was to destroy the very order of the universe. She couldn’t imagine a greater heresy.

Mehr had always been taught to show the daiva reverence. Respect your blood, she’d been told—by her mother and by Lalita after that. Respect the daiva, because when you pass on, they will remember your actions, and your soul will pay the price.

She had thought the way Amun banished the daiva in the desert, without respect, without cajoling, had been anathema. What he told her the Maha expected of her—of them both—was far, far worse. What price would her soul pay for such an act?

“Your stances need work,” Amun told her. “We should begin again. Here.” He gestured at her left arm, held his own at an angle. “Follow my lead.”