She fanned a hand thoughtlessly over her stomach, felt the heat of her own skin.

“You don’t have to fear,” Amun said. His voice was hoarse. All his agony had faded, but its ghost was still there, in his eyes.

“I have a lot to fear,” Mehr said wryly. “We both do.”

“No.” A moment of hesitation. Then he placed a hand over her hand, covering her bare stomach.

“You won’t …” He hesitated. “There’s no need to worry.”

Mehr sucked in a breath and nodded. She hadn’t even considered it. She should have sought out the herbs she needed, the bitter greens that Lalita had shown her once and warned her she would need someday.

“There are no children born here,” Mehr said. It wasn’t a question. She knew, suddenly; she was sure. “Why wouldn’t he have his Amrithi create him new servants, if he could?” she said out loud, wondering. “He can’t, can he?”

“He tried, with her,” said Amun. “The woman who came before you. He’d tried before too.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “In the end, he decided the rite was to blame. The dreamfire used in that way was … too much.”

Amun had told her that the Rite of the Bound took a toll. She’d felt its impact after the last storm. She hadn’t considered what other consequences the act of becoming a vessel for immortal fire could have on the human body.

“I am sorry for what has been done to you, Mehr,” Amun said in a low voice.

“Don’t you be sorry,” Mehr said, something savage in her voice. She turned, pressing her face to his skin. “Not you.”

The physicians came and took Amun away. He went without complaint, quiet and lumbering like the beast she knew he wasn’t, unsteady on his exhausted legs. Left on her own, wishing keenly that he were with her still as her scar thrummed and burned, Mehr went down the stairs. Bahren was waiting for her.

“I can tell him truthfully that you obeyed,” Bahren said. He looked profoundly uncomfortable, and profoundly tired. He must have stayed up all night, standing guard at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Mehr and Amun to obey the Maha’s orders.

She didn’t ask how intently he had listened to them. She didn’t ask what he had—or had not—heard. He had done the kindness of giving her a little dignity. That had to be enough.

“Thank you,” Mehr said quietly. She crossed her arms, looking around the dark hallway. Somewhere she heard the bells ring, calling the mystics to morning prayers. Soon there would be people walking the corridors, dressed in their dark robes. The girls—Rena, even Anni (Mehr’s stomach dropped; Anni, that traitor, that wretch)—would already be up and dressed, the morning food cooked. But Hema would not be with them.