“Of course,” the veiled daiva said mildly. “Dead men master no one. He was your master.”

“No,” Mehr said, shaking her head. “No, no matter what he did, I always belonged to myself.” She spoke reflexively, but in that moment, she knew it was true.

The circle of daiva rustled around softly, a whisper running through them that sounded like the chime of bells.

Mehr knew that sound. She’d heard it. Dreamed it, long ago.

“I have watched you a long time,” the veiled daiva said.

Mehr thought of the daiva that had haunted her dreams, the chimes she’d heard in the desert, on the first night she and Amun had shared a tent under the stars. She shivered, not quite from fear.

“Why?” she asked softly. “Daiva, why me?”

It cocked its head to the side, quizzical as a bird. “You were a tool,” it said slowly, as if grasping the words from a long distance. “You were in the right place. Near the one you call Maha, but not yet his property. We haunted the edges of him, the man who made immortals small. Years and years, we haunted him.” The veil rustled. “And there you were.”

“I see,” Mehr said. “You saw that I was a weak link in his armor.”

“A strong one,” the daiva responded. “A strong link to us. Your blood is our blood. You were still ours.” The daiva held a hand toward her. Its hand transformed back into wisps—coiled, gently, against the edge of her jaw. “There is a little of my blood in that flesh of yours,” the daiva said. “And in the flesh of your mother, and the flesh of your beloved. Blood has power.”

“So I’ve always been told the daiva believe,” Mehr said shakily.

“So humans believe too,” the daiva responded swiftly. “The one you call Maha came to the Salt and bound his first Amrithi for the sake of his bloodline, after all. All this, he did for love of his children. He wanted an Empire for his progeny. He wanted to bless them with an everlasting throne.”

An image bloomed in Mehr’s mind through the daiva’s touch: the shadow of the Maha from time long gone, an arrogant and charming commander of men with unflinching eyes and overbearing charisma. She saw a small hand in his own, saw the terrible love in his eyes. In his child he’d seen himself, seen his glory stretching eternally into the future. His love was selfish and overpowering, a monstrous thing.

He would not have cared about the price he paid or demanded the world to pay for the sake of his own blood. He’d died sure of the glory of his own purpose.

Mehr felt nothing for him. Not even pity.

“Some men believe there is no greater immortality than blood,” the daiva observed. “Even when they die, as they must, they hope their blood will survive.”