He was hesitant, now that the attention of his brethren was focused on him. He began in a halting voice.

“In the old mantras, they say the desert existed long before the Gods went to their long sleep. In the early age of the world, it was created by an old, grieving Goddess who mourned her children, who had died and left her.” He was warming to his topic, his voice growing stronger. “Mother’s tears, some called it, because the sand was born from her sorrow. Others named it—”

“Get to the point, Edhir,” another man muttered.

Edhir coughed. “They called it the Salt. For tears, you see? And we call ourselves the Saltborn, because—the Maha says—without the Salt, we wouldn’t be what we are.”

He smiled. Mehr managed to murmur out some appreciative nonsense. She saved herself from having to offer a better response by biting into the flatbread, softened by the heat of her fingers. Her mind was whirling. She hoped her hands weren’t shaking.

Salt.

How do you forget a death that happened in your arms?

Mehr lay in the darkness of the tent with her eyes wide open. The entire camp was asleep. She was sharing a tent with Amun, a single blanket beneath them, their robes thrown over them for warmth. The temperature had dropped even further, and Mehr was very cold. But there was nothing she could do about it. All she could do was lie still, and wait. And remember.

Who came, Usha? Please.

Salt.

She shivered.

Salt. Saltborn. Usha had tried to warn her. Mehr did not know if the mystics had been the ones to kill Usha, but their name had been on her lips when she had died. They were responsible in some way, tangled up irrevocably with her death and with Lalita’s abrupt absence. That, at least, she was sure of now.

She wanted to turn to Amun and ask him if he knew what had happened to Lalita. But she bit her lip. She wasn’t an utter fool. So Amun was a good enough man not to want to hurt her—what did that matter? It didn’t mean he was trustworthy. It didn’t mean she could show him all her weaknesses without consequence. He was still bound to the Maha; he had still made vows that held him fast, that covered his skin like chains made flesh. What kind of man bound himself to people like these? Could anyone truly understand a man like that?

Whatever had happened to Lalita, Mehr would have to find out on her own.