Amun began teaching Mehr the sigils necessary for the Rite of the Bound the next day. Mehr was familiar with the language of the daiva, but the sigils of this rite were a new tongue—a cryptic, clever thing that twisted her fingers into knots. These sigils, Amun told her, were the language of the Gods. Amun demanded utter precision from her. Every movement had to be perfect. The angle of her wrist, the flick of her fingers, the height of her hands, all had to match Amun’s demonstrations exactly.

“Together the sigils have a specific power,” Amun explained. “They are what allow us to act as a conduit. They make the dreams of the Gods vulnerable to the influence of the mystics’ prayers.”

The mystics’ prayers: prayers for the Emperor, for the Maha, for the Ambhan Empire’s strength and its glory. It was because of this rite, Mehr reminded herself, that the Empire possessed unnatural good fortune. It was because of this rite that the Empire could expand ever larger, that the generations of Emperors had lived long and fruitful lives, the Empire’s cities untouched by plague, its borders secure.

Good health, safe borders—these things sounded like blessings. But the thought of all the blessings of an Ambhan life—of the life Mehr had lived for so many years—now left a bitter taste in Mehr’s mouth. Ambhan wealth had been won with Amrithi blood. No more, no less.

“How am I supposed to lose my flesh and remember all of this?” Mehr demanded, wriggling her fingers pointedly.

“You learn,” Amun said shortly.

Mehr gave Amun a doubtful look.

“You must perform this correctly, Mehr.” Amun sounded tense. “If you make a mistake the consequences will be unpleasant.”

“Tell me what could happen,” Mehr said.

“You know already.”

“I like things to be clear.” She gave Amun a pained smile, half grimace. Her fingers were cramping from practice. She shouldn’t have wasted energy goading him. But oh, she couldn’t help herself. She began massaging her hands together, working the stiffness from her knuckles. “Humor me.”

His gaze flickered down, fixing on her hands. She thought for a moment that he would take her hands in his, or ask if he could—

But no. Her mind was playing tricks on her.

“If you don’t control the dreamfire, channel it, direct it, then it will move like fire does, and consume everything in its path,” he said. “When we dance the rite the fire is inside us, Mehr. To perform it wrongly is to risk immortal dreams burning your soul clean away, leaving nothing of your soul or self behind.” He paused. “Or the Maha could punish you.”

“I’m sure both things would be equally unpleasant.” Her hands dropped to her sides. “Fine. Let’s continue.”

“Are you—?”

“I’m fine. I’m ready.”

Amun’s mouth thinned.

“Let me show you again,” he said. He raised his hands.