Mehr saw a great set of scales in her mind’s eye, heavy with dreams. Good dreams. Ill dreams. A world balanced by unknowable forces, by waves of stars that sped beneath the closed eyes of sleeping immortals. Her breath caught.

“The rite was a gift once,” the daiva said. Its voice was a woman’s voice, soft with regret. “From an immortal mother to a mortal daughter. It was a promise that all darkness would pass, and all suns would set. It was a gift of hope. It can be a gift again.”

The daiva opened its fist. An obsidian blade, Amrithi in design, sat upon its palm. A gem, pale as tears, lay embedded in its hilt. The daiva took the blade in one hand and carved open its palm. The shadows of its skin peeled back to reveal stars whirling under the surface, galaxies bursting into miniature life. Mehr’s breath caught.

“My blood,” the daiva said. “I make this vow on my blood. Make the Gods sleep, little daughter. Lull them back into slumber. Ask them for nothing but this. Do not cage their nightmares or demand their gifts. Teach them peace. Dedicate your life to this service. Maintain your vigil whenever the dreamfire falls, and when you are prepared, teach others with amata to share your burden. It will be a long vigil, but if you choose to serve, we will do more than forbid harming you. In return for your service we will protect you, and as the keeper of balance, we will enthrone you. You will be the first among Taras, the first in your own dynasty. We will give you the glory an Ambhan man once reshaped the world for.” The daiva’s blood dripped to the ground, shattering like glass. “Will you take my vow, small one? Will you take it to give you the strength to do what must be done?”

Mehr looked at the daiva’s star-strewn blood. She looked into its eyes.

“What are you?” Mehr whispered. “You’re no small bird-daiva. Nothing I’ve ever known.”

“When we were worshipped, I was called Elder Mother,” the veiled daiva told her. “I wept for my children, who were mortal and soon lost to me. Now I have no children, no tears, no name. But you may call me Elder, if you wish, because that at least is still true.”

“Elder,” Mehr said. “Forgive me. I can’t bargain with you.”

The daiva chimed around her. The nightmares howled. Mehr winced, closing her eyes, holding her strength close. She opened them again.