On one sweltering morning, when the sun seemed particularly fierce above them, Mehr’s legs simply gave way. She tripped or stumbled—the result was the same. The mystics were all too far ahead of her to help, so this time she fell with no one to catch her, hitting the ground with an embarrassing thump. A moment later she felt Amun’s hands on her, helping her up. The other mystics were watching.

“I hadn’t expected a woman with Amrithi blood to be so weak,” Kalini called out. “I thought you were born for desert travel. How foolish of me.”

Mehr gritted her jaw, furious with herself.

It would have been easier if she believed Kalini was trying to be cruel. But it seemed to Mehr that Kalini was simply testing her, assessing her worth with cool eyes. She had judged Mehr unworthy, and frankly she was right to do so. Life in Jah Irinah had made Mehr weak. Her mother had grown up in the desert, but Mehr could barely survive in it for a few scant days.

She thought wryly that it was clear why Lalita had abandoned her clan and built a new life beyond Irinah. The desert was a hard place, and the life of Amrithi had to be a rigorous one. It was certainly not the sort of life a woman like Lalita would choose for herself.

Mehr wouldn’t have been able to continue walking, no matter how much Kalini goaded her, so she was relieved when Bahren intervened on her behalf, insisting they make camp.

“What is speed worth if the girl sickens?” he pointed out. “Use your head, Kalini.”

Kalini sighed and shook her head. “As you say,” she said. Shrugged. “Let’s waste an hour or two, if we must.”

The rest wasn’t long enough. It was never long enough. The last mystic in the group, a quiet and self-contained man named Abhiman, gave Mehr some of their water before the journey continued again. That, combined with the little sleep she’d managed, would have to sustain her. Mehr drank the water gratefully, and began walking again.

Three days passed before the monotony of the journey was broken. Dawn rose on the horizon as they walked, the five mystics and Mehr. Pale light filtered across the sand, setting the grains on fire.

This was the part of the day Mehr’s body found most bearable. It was cold, but not as cold as it was at deep nighttime, and Mehr was as well fed and well rested as she was going to be for the day.

She had grown to love watching the skyline change, darkness bleeding from black to gray to the brilliant blue-white of daylight. The mystics were talking, arguing about the journey ahead. Mehr saw the daiva before any of them.