Mehr nodded. She couldn’t argue with Lalita’s belief. She could feel that the vow holding her to the Maha had been cleaved through, just as she could feel the ache of the bond between her and Amun, but these things were invisible to Lalita—to anyone but Mehr herself.

Lalita’s gaze was soft with compassion. “I must leave you now,” she said. “But your mother will be here soon. Prepare yourself, if you can.”

“What is she like?” Mehr asked.

“A great deal like you,” Lalita said.

For some reason, Mehr didn’t find that particularly comforting.

It was Kamal who entered the tent first, carrying a lantern. He gave Mehr a level look as he settled the lantern on the ground in front of her and moved to sit to her left. His presence felt like a warning. Mehr wasn’t to be trusted, not yet, and certainly not with their clan’s Tara.

Tara. Mehr’s mother. She couldn’t quite believe it.

A moment later, a woman entered. The first thing Mehr noticed, as her mother ducked inside, her form half hidden by the shadows thrown by the lantern light, was how unassuming she was. She was average height, dressed in dun-colored robes, her face hidden by her hood. She wasn’t dressed in the finery Mehr had come to expect of a leader, and there was nothing proud or regal in her bearing or in the way she looked slowly around the tent, head moving from side to side, before carefully lowering back her hood. She could have been any of the Amrithi who had circled Mehr earlier.

Then she stepped into the lantern light, hood lowered, and Mehr’s heart nearly stopped. She was frozen between breaths, looking into the face before her.

Ruhi, her mother, Tara and Amrithi, was not exactly beautiful. Her face lacked the idealized Ambhan delicacy that beauty required. Instead she had the kind of bold looks that caught the eye and held it. Her cheekbones were high, her nose strong, her mouth full; her skin had the richness of soil after rain. There were hints of silver in her curling hair, and fine lines etched around her mouth, but that made the resemblance no less striking.

Mehr had seen her own reflection: in mirrors, in the oasis, in the dreamfire when she had seen through Amun’s eyes. But she had never seen herself as clearly as she did in that moment, looking into the face that had shaped her own.

The Tara smiled tentatively. Her eyes were sad.