Mehr realized quickly that the mystics had to rely heavily on offerings from the Empire, carried by those courier mystics who followed the trade routes, to sustain themselves. The mystics were so numerous, after all, and the crops were so sparse. The majority of their food, the cloth they wore, their medicines, their fuel—all of it had to come from beyond the desert, just as it did in Jah Irinah. Like her father’s people, they didn’t live with the desert, thriving on its strangeness and strength. They lived in spite of it.

An unfettered view of the temple helped Mehr face the bitter truth: Although the Emperor needed his nobles to administer the Empire, they would never come first in his heart or his politics. It was the Maha’s concerns that came first. It was the Maha’s need for Amrithi with amata that had driven the Emperor’s search for people like Mehr. Law and faith were intertwined, but it was faith that held sway in the Empire.

Together she and Amun collected soap, made from fat and sweet herbs, from an open veranda where herbs lay drying crisp in the sun. They even managed to wrangle some fairly new tunics for Mehr. The mystic in the laundry who offered them up said they would need some minor alterations, but surely Mehr would be able to do that for herself? To which Mehr nodded agreeably, while internally accepting that she would be wearing ill-fitting clothes for the foreseeable future. Her life experience hadn’t equipped her with skills anywhere near as useful as sewing.

“I’ll help you fix them,” Amun muttered once they were alone.

“Thank you,” Mehr said graciously, and tried not to burst into fits of laughter at the thought of Amun with his big hands delicately darning a ripped hem.

Amun had kept his silence throughout every interaction with the mystics, hovering like a dark presence over her shoulder as Mehr wheedled the mystics they encountered into giving her what she needed. It was hardly difficult. She noticed quickly that the mystics were more than willing to help her. They looked at her with pity, and no little kindness. The sight of her mussed hair and faded clothes aroused their generosity.

When they looked at Amun—if they looked at him at all—it was with loathing. Always.

“Why do they hate you?” Mehr asked. His coldness was no excuse for the level of silent spite directed at him. “Is it because you’re Amrithi?”

“You are too,” he pointed out, as if that were an answer.

“I’ve been reliably informed that I am not Amrithi in the way you are,” Mehr said dryly. “But I can’t quite believe that they hate you so much for that alone.”