by Tasha Suri
Now she had only this: Her clean blade. Her wounded, aching, healing hand. The promise of purpose worth dying for.
Arwa avoided meals whenever possible. There were no more walks, no more visits to the prayer hall where she could seek comfort in the presence of the effigy of the Emperor and the Maha. She did not go to the valley and practice archery again. Gulshera had never returned the bow or the quiver of arrows to Arwa’s keeping, after she had so carelessly discarded them.
Instead Arwa took food from the kitchens, which the servants handed over warily, begrudgingly. She sat in her own room, waiting for her hand to heal, struggling to ignore the itch of flesh weaving itself whole, and wrote letter after discarded letter to her mother.
In the end she settled on penning her mother a simple letter, sparse in detail and in feeling. She told her mother she liked the hermitage, that she appreciated the silence, and the time to reflect without disturbance. Being alone, she wrote, suits me well.
Arwa had never been one for writing letters, after her marriage. She doubted her mother or father would expect that to change, now she was a widow, cloistered away in the isolated keeping of a hermitage.
Besides, she had seen—felt—her mother’s raw disappointment, the heat of her shame in Arwa. She did not think her mother would be eager to reach out to Arwa now. All her work to make Arwa whole and better, and what had come of it, in the end? Nothing.
Give Father my love, she finished. I hope you are both well.
She was likely to be long gone from the hermitage before her mother’s response arrived. She had no doubts that Gulshera’s mistress would want her. Arwa knew how strange it was, the thing her blood had done. Her blood had drawn the daiva to her. Her blood had saved her. There was cure and curse tangled inside her. That was worth a great deal, in these harrowing times of blight. Especially to the Emperor’s line, who had brought the Empire all its glory, and must have felt keenly the Empire’s pain.
One evening, Gulshera came to Arwa’s room. Arwa had been sitting on her bed, reading a book of poetry—a tangle of beautiful, lyrical verses—when Gulshera rapped on the door and entered. Arwa snapped her book shut. She moved to stand, a question hovering on her lips. Gulshera shook her head. She knew what Arwa had intended to ask.
“No reply yet,” said Gulshera. “I’m here to cut your hair.”
Arwa reflexively reached a hand up and touched the ends of her hair. Her hair had always grown fast. When it had been long it had been her pride, and had lain in thick black waves to the small of her back. At its current length—not long, but not quite as short as was seemly for a widow—it curled faintly where it touched her jaw.
“With your hand as it is,” Gulshera said, “you can’t cut it yourself. And you need to make yourself presentable.”
“I could ask a servant,” Arwa offered cautiously, wary of Gulshera, who was expressionless, arms crossed.
“I doubt they would help you,” Gulshera said.
“Do they say I’m an Amrithi barbarian? Do they fear me now?” Arwa knew she should not have asked, should not have let the bitter, hurt words pass her lips, even before Gulshera shook her head, just one weary turn, as if Arwa’s words and Arwa’s very presence exhausted her.
“It’s natural for them to fear,” Gulshera said. “Do not worry about them, Arwa. Worry about your future. Sit at your desk and let me begin to make you fit for it.”
Gulshera had brought shears with her. She smoothed the curls of Arwa’s hair with her fingers, then began to cut them away neatly. Arwa felt the strands fall away from her. She sat very still, conscious of the sharpness of the shears, and the cool regard of Gulshera’s eyes on her.
“Apart from the dagger and the blood, you really don’t seem very Amrithi at all,” Gulshera said, voice approving but detached, as if Arwa were a piece of flawed livestock, a thing to be weighed up for its quality. The snip of the shears was glittering sharp in Arwa’s ears. “I would not have guessed, if you hadn’t betrayed yourself.”
“I told you. It’s just an aberration in my blood,” Arwa murmured, wrapping her memories of her early childhood away, away. “That’s all. As for the dagger…” She curled and uncurled her fingers, testing the flexibility of her healing skin. “It’s a necessity. That’s all.”
Gulshera gave a low hum of acknowledgment. Then she said, “It shows, at least, that you can learn how to behave appropriately, when you need to. Beneath your rage is a mind that can think.” Snip. Snip. “I need to teach you about the protocol a widow must adhere to.”
“I know that,” Arwa said.
She heard the huff of Gulshera’s breath. It almost resembled a laugh.
“You learned how to behave in your family’s own women’s quarters, or in a hermitage made up solely of widows. The behavior of a widow in another household must be different. It must be beyond reproach.” She brushed the cut strands of hair from Arwa’s shoulders. “I served at court after my husband’s death. In the very household where you will soon go, in fact. I learned the standards of behavior expected of women like us.”
Ghost women. Shadow women. Women who had lost their purpose.
Arwa resisted the urge to nod, her body itching with restlessness. She waited and listened.
“You must be demure. Limit your laughter. Limit your smiles. Do not engage in dance or celebrations. Focus on prayer.”
“I know all of that,” Arwa said.
“You know, but you falter. Here you have the luxury of forgetting what is expected of you. That is the benefit of life in a hermitage, or among loving family willing to turn a blind eye to transgressions. The imperial palace…” Gulshera paused. In the silence, Arwa heard a dozen things that Gulshera discarded, unsaid. The tension in her coiled at that. “You cannot forget,” Gulshera continued, finally. “You’ll be watched constantly for many, many reasons beyond your widowhood. Do not allow anyone a reason to smear your name.”
Arwa could feel cold air on her bare neck. She shivered, and unable to resist the urge, she touched her fingertips to the surprisingly neat ends of her newly shorn hair.
“Have you heard anything?” Arwa asked tentatively. “From your mistress?”
“No,” said Gulshera. “Not yet.”
But she would. And Arwa did not think she would receive a simple letter in response.
Four days later Arwa was woken by sharp rapping on her door. She shot awake, and wrenched open the door. Gulshera was waiting for her. She was dressed for travel, her veil thrown back, her expression firm.
“They’re here,” she said.
“Who?” Arwa asked.
“The guards who are going to accompany us to Ambha.”
“Us?”
“You have a great number of inane questions,” Gulshera said. “Dress. I assume you’ve already packed your possessions.”
Arwa veiled herself appropriately, dressing in a white robe that covered her body from head to toe. A servant arrived to take her possessions; she assumed Gulshera had arranged it and was thankful. She could barely think over the tense joy and fear running simultaneously through her.
There was a void ahead of her. Unknowable. It brought her far more pleasure than it should have.
There was no great crowd of women, waiting to send Arwa off with tearful farewells, although they watched from their rooms through cracked doors, or hovered guiltily at the edges of the corridors, eyes shadowed, shawls drawn protectively around their faces. Only Roshana and Asima met them at the foyer, Asima leaning heavily on Roshana’s arm.
“You’ve been avoiding us all,” Asima said, overloud. Arwa winced, offering a soft murmur of apology, which Asima discarded with a pointed wave of her hand. “You should have come,” Asima continued. “I would have defended you. I like you better than those other silly owls, ill blood or no.”
She gestured for Arwa to come closer, which Arwa did. She glanced at Roshana’s face, which was downturned, and realized the older woman was crying.
“Take this with you,
” Asima said gruffly, shoving something into Arwa’s hands.
“Thank you, Aunt,” Arwa murmured, reflexively. “I’ll miss you. Both of you.”
“Good of you to say,” Asima grumbled, even as Roshana softly murmured, “Take care, Arwa. Please.”
“They’re waiting,” said Gulshera.
Asima and Roshana watched them go.
“I didn’t think you would come with me,” Arwa said, tentative, not yet quite willing to frame a full question, as Gulshera walked ahead of her, and adjusted her veil carefully into place.
“I knew I would have to return to my mistress eventually,” Gulshera said. Her voice was grim. “You are my gift to her. I offered you up. Of course I intend to accompany you.”
That was not correct, of course. Arwa had offered herself up. Her history, her blood. But she made a noise of agreement, lowering her own veil into place.
It was only when she and Gulshera had exited the hermitage, unfamiliar guardswomen waiting to greet them and lead them down the mountainside, that Arwa looked at what Asima had pushed into her hand. It was a grave-token, empty but expertly woven, the grass that had formed it still warm from Asima’s palm. She thought of the way it curved around soil, the way the world cupped the bodies of the dead. Arwa curled her own fingertips over it gently. It would not do to crush it.
The palanquin the soldiers had brought with them was no more comfortable than the one Arwa had traveled to the hermitage in. It was larger, at least. Large enough to accommodate both Arwa and Gulshera comfortably, protecting them from the eyes of the male soldiers who guided the palanquin. Their female retinue was sparse, but the guardswomen were heavily armed and alert, light on their feet around the palanquin’s curtained sides. They’d made no complaints the first—or second, or third—time Arwa had asked for the retinue to pause and allow her to throw up her guts at the roadside.
“They come from my mistress’s own household, I expect,” Gulshera said, speaking to Arwa softly, as Arwa lay on the palanquin’s cushions, trying to regain her composure once again.
It was impossible not to converse, confined as they were with no other entertainment, on their interminable, lurching journey through the mountains. Gulshera had remained pointedly silent for a good day after Arwa first removed her dagger and made a small cut, daubing a crook of the palanquin wood with blood. But in the course of time, she had thawed to Arwa again. Perhaps she was even grateful.
“Tell me about your mistress,” Arwa requested, not particularly expecting a response. She was not surprised when Gulshera merely huffed, reclining back and closing her eyes.
Arwa was already lying on her side, her shawl drawn tight around her, as if the shell of it could keep the full weight of her nausea at bay.
“You will need to trust me eventually,” Arwa pointed out. “I am your gift to her, after all.”
“I suppose,” Gulshera said slowly, “you need to be prepared.”
That would be nice, Arwa thought, with instinctual acidity. She wisely maintained her own silence.
“My mistress,” said Gulshera, “is Princess Jihan, the Emperor’s only legitimate daughter. When I left for the hermitage, she had just risen to the head of her brother Prince Akhtar’s household. She is… was, very much like her mother once was. A clever woman. I have no doubt she has only grown in strength.”
There was something akin to affection in Gulshera’s voice.
“Were you a friend to the Empress?” Arwa asked, speaking of this Princess Jihan’s mother.
A real smile graced Gulshera’s face. She shook her head.
“Arwa,” she said. “The imperial family do not have friends. But I was one of her women, and Princess Jihan’s wet nurse. A great honor.” Gulshera leaned forward, palanquin jolting around them, and pressed her hands flat to the palanquin’s floor. “When you meet her, Arwa, remember: Show her the same respect you would show your father. Your departed husband. She is no green girl. She is the Emperor’s blood, his legitimate child. Do not forget that. She has more power than you can comprehend.”
Arwa shivered, not sure if Gulshera’s words or her own nausea had set her insides roiling.
“You keep warning me about my behavior.”
“Because I have to. You’re too blunt,” Gulshera told her. “You speak without thinking. You’re too direct. Your survival will rely on your behavior now, Arwa. You must not forget it. Think on that for a while. Prepare yourself.”
“What else,” Arwa said, “should I know about Princess Jihan?”
“I have told you all you need to know for now,” Gulshera said, clearly weighing up kindness against her iron-clad loyalty for her distant mistress.
“The more I know, Aunt, the more likely I am to survive,” Arwa argued.
Gulshera shook her head. She would not relent today. “Remember your status. Remember what is expected of you. That should be enough. I will be there to guide you anyway.”
Arwa was often a fool. She didn’t deny that, even to herself. She drew her knees up to her stomach, tucking her wounded hand protectively into the crook of her own body, and closed her eyes. She felt too ill to argue further. Perhaps when their retinue stopped to rest for the night, she would pepper Gulshera with questions again, and attempt to erode some of that reserve. But not now.
Gulshera had not been wrong to ask Arwa to think on her behavior. She could not be a flighty, mercurial, grief-stricken creature any longer. In her hermitage she had sloughed away her strongest defenses. Now she needed a new carapace. She had worn the armor of a wife: attentive to her husband, charming and soft, beautiful and ephemeral with it. Now she needed to wear the flesh and garb of a widow. Not yielding, but barely visible. A ghost. A shadow.
Numriha and Ambha were divided by a great swathe of mountains, jagged and near impassable. But in the years since the Empire was first formed, one great road had been carved into the mountainside, clearing a winding path between the Emperor’s own province, birthplace of the Empire, and Numriha, land of mines and artisans, and source of all the pale, flawless marble that now filled the imperial city of Jah Ambha. There was good reason for Numriha to be accessible.
Whenever Arwa peered through the curtain surrounding the palanquin—properly tied in place, because Gulshera had carefully impressed on her the importance of adhering to protocol—she sometimes caught sight of the outposts lining the road. Some were set high in the mountains; others were near the road itself. She saw small, distant figures move—the reflection of torchlight.
Ambha was well-protected. The closer they came to it, the greater the number of guards became, and the less Arwa was able to leave the security of the palanquin when sickness hit her. There were too many eyes.
Gulshera did her best to distract Arwa instead. She told her the road had not always been so forcefully protected. But the time since the Maha’s death had been one of a steadily swift descent into watchfulness, earned paranoia. Daiva had been seen, and bandits had roamed with greater and greater ease, even so close to the heart of the Empire. Somehow luck always seemed to be against the soldiers in their outposts. A man would fall asleep on watch at an inopportune moment; supplies sent to them would go missing, or be stolen, leaving soldiers hungry and inclined to desertion. The only solution had been to expand the number of outposts and increase their provisions at the expense of the local populace, who bore the brunt of the taxes necessary to put food in the soldiers’ mouths.
It was a familiar story. Arwa had heard similar things from her husband, on the evenings when he had returned to his chambers and asked for her presence. She’d listened to him attentively, making soothing noises when appropriate, softening the knots in the bruised muscle of his ego with gentle, tender words. It was novel to hear stories of strategy and taxation and hunger for her own benefit, for someone to attempt to soothe her.
There was nothing to mark the moment when Numriha became Ambha, but Gulshera knew. Like Arwa, she had begun peering through the gap between the curtain and the resinou
s palanquin wood. She turned to Arwa sharply.
“We’re almost at the palace,” she said, sudden urgency in her voice as she unknotted the curtain and gestured at one of the guardswomen with her arm.
This time, despite all her emphasis on protocol, it was Gulshera who demanded the palanquin be stopped and the men move to a respectable distance up the path. Veiled, she and Arwa left the palanquin and stood on the road, great gouts of dust staining the ends of their robes as they stepped out of the shadow of the palanquin.
“Follow me,” she said to Arwa, leading her to the curve of the road. Below it was a sheer drop. And below that—
“Ah,” Arwa breathed. She had no words. The sight before her had stolen her voice.
There was a great swathe of space between the arms of the mountains. At their heart lay a lake—a great sheet of silver, rich with the glittering reflection of sunlight. And upon it stood the Emperor’s palace.
The palace was not one single building, as the Governor’s palace in Irinah had been. Instead it was a complex of multiple constellation palaces, bound by bridges to the great palace at the center of the lake, its surface a clever, complex heart of sandstone and gemstones, a brilliance of white marble and gold. It burned as bright as the bloodied heart of the sun overhead. Around it, connected by bridges, stood four smaller palaces, each one a closed flower, rich in color and beauty. She barely noticed the surrounding, white-marbled city. The palace—the Emperor’s palace—had swallowed her attention whole.
“Ambha,” Gulshera murmured. In that word, Arwa heard home as clear as if Gulshera had said it aloud instead.
“We’re going there?” Arwa said helplessly.
“There,” Gulshera said. She pointed a finger at one of the smaller palaces set on the water. “The Palace of Dusk. That is where Princess Jihan lives, and where we will live now too.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
