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Back Empire of Sand
Chapters (48)
  1. COVER
  2. COPYRIGHT
  3. DEDICATION
  4. MAP
  5. CHAPTER TWO
  6. LALITA
  7. CHAPTER THREE
  8. CHAPTER FOUR
  9. CHAPTER FIVE
  10. CHAPTER SIX
  11. CHAPTER SEVEN
  12. CHAPTER EIGHT
  13. CHAPTER NINE
  14. RAHIMA
  15. CHAPTER TEN
  16. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  17. CHAPTER TWELVE
  18. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  19. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  20. KAMAL
  21. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  22. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  23. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  24. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  25. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  26. CHAPTER TWENTY
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  36. LALITA
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  42. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  43. EXTRAS
  44. MEET THE AUTHOR
  45. INTERVIEW
  46. A PREVIEW OF REALM OF ASH
  47. A PREVIEW OF TORN
  48. ORBIT NEWSLETTER

Kalini had said she’d pray for Hema to haunt Mehr, and for a long moment Mehr was sure she’d gained her wish. But when Mehr collapsed down on the sand, heavy with the weight of her own sadness, the blood bloomed into red flowers at her knees. She reached out her fingers—reached out all hesitant and wondrous and hoping for something beautiful—and the flowers reached back, twining around her wrists, lifting her hands a gentle increment higher.

I remember this, Mehr thought. Not the flowers. But the feel of her wrists being taken in an inhuman grip, being raised, as the daiva that had cornered her so long ago in the desert had tried to shape her hands into words—

She woke, sharp and sudden, breathing in air as sweet as incense. Amun’s hand was on her shoulder, his voice in her ear. He must have been trying to wake her.

“I can smell it,” Mehr gasped out. “The storm.”

“Yes,” Amun said. His hand was still on her shoulder, soft and steady. “Not long now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

There was very little time for the usual preparations. The mystics attended their fervent prayers, all other tasks forgotten. Bahren came for Mehr and Amun, a dagger at hand. It was time, again, to mark the temple windows and doorways with their blood. Mehr was obedient enough, but inside she was cold. She had no room for emotions, for the terror threatening to creep over her. She had to be strong. And for that, she had to avoid feeling anything at all. She couldn’t think of the nightmares uncurling beyond those blood-marked windows. She couldn’t think of the way they’d seeped into her own dreams, ragged veils and flowers and all.

She moved through the day in a daze. Practiced when she was told to practice. Ate when she was told to eat. There was no cooking done, with the storm so close, as all the mystics were spared from their usual tasks for the vital service of prayer. Amun scavenged bread from the kitchen and urged her to share it with him. He broke everything in neat halves, placed bread and palmfuls of seeds into her hands. Mehr ate the food and tried not to think of how much she had hoped this storm would be the opportunity for her and Amun to break their bonds and escape the Maha’s service. All those hopes felt so far away now. She tried not to think about how she would make it through the storm at all.