by Tasha Suri
It took time for the soldiers and guardswomen to negotiate entry, and all the while, Gulshera sat in silence, her tension palpable. At the edge of the lake, at a great gate that guarded the crossing bridge to the Palace of Dusk, all of Arwa’s and Gulshera’s luggage was opened and searched by women robed in livery of imperial green. The guardswomen spoke to the women of the imperial household; the palanquin was raised; it was taken to the shadowed entrance of a gatehouse.
One of the guardswomen untied the curtain. When she gestured for Arwa to exit the palanquin, Gulshera said, “Is our entry barred?”
“No, my lady,” said an imperial maidservant, standing just beyond the guardswoman’s shoulder. The maidservant stood in the entrance of the gatehouse with a companion. Their heads were deferentially lowered, but their backs were iron straight, and the voice of the one who spoke was firm. “Prince Akhtar commands that all new visitors to the palace are cleansed. Please, follow me.”
Gulshera remained still only for a moment. Then she gave Arwa’s hand a squeeze—of warning and comfort—and stepped free of the palanquin. Arwa followed her.
They kept their veils lowered until they entered the sanctuary of the walls. Then they were separated, one maidservant leading Arwa to a small room, where a covered bowl waited, and a mirror. The maidservant gestured for Arwa to sit.
She checked Arwa’s eyes, opening them wide and gazing at the whites. She held Arwa’s wrists and felt her pulse. She asked Arwa questions: about her health, about her journey.
“What is the purpose of this cleansing?” Arwa asked in return, when the maidservant finally released her.
“To keep ill forces at bay, my lady. Sickness and…” Here she hesitated. “Other sicknesses, my lady. That are not of the flesh.”
Arwa thought of Darez Fort and said nothing.
The maidservant lifted a cloth away from the bowl, revealing clear water.
“The water was touched by the Emperor’s own hands,” said the woman, placing a pitcher into the bowl of water. The bowl, Arwa saw, was marked in flowing script: long lines of mantras praising the Maha and Emperor both. “Please, my lady, hold your hands over the bowl.”
The maidservant poured the water over Arwa’s outstretched hands.
This will accomplish nothing, Arwa thought, as she watched the water pour over her fingers. But she made no complaint when the maidservant bid her wash her face also, and offered her a cloth to dry herself clean.
“We are done, my lady,” said the maidservant.
Arwa’s hands trembled a little, as she clasped them in her lap. The maidservant offered her a smile, as if to comfort her.
“You need not fear,” said the maidservant, her voice knowing, as if she understood why Arwa shivered in her seat. “You have not drawn our prince’s ire. All who come to the palace are tested so. Soon our prince’s wisdom will ensure cleansings are performed across the Empire, and they will keep us safe, by the Emperor’s grace.”
“By the Emperor’s grace,” Arwa murmured in return.
The maidservant nodded. She covered the bowl once more.
“Now,” the maidservant said. “If you will rise, my lady, and return to your palanquin, you will be taken to the prince’s household.”
Finally, they entered the Palace of Dusk.
“Good,” said Gulshera, some of her tension visibly unfurling from her limbs as they were led farther through corridors of ivory. Her hands, which had been clasped so tight in front of her that the knuckles had whitened, eased their grip just enough for the skin to flush again with blood. “We are not being provided a formal audience. She has chosen to treat us as women of her household.”
Arwa had not known that Gulshera was so nervous. But Gulshera had not seen the princess in years. Gulshera did not know what—if anything—had changed at court in her absence. And the cleansing had shaken her. Neither of them had expected it.
Arwa raised her head and looked around. They were, indeed, being led away from the grand hall to the left of the hallway, which Arwa caught glimpses of between a string of half-opened doors: a room large enough to encompass the hermitage whole in its palm, its floors covered in sumptuous rugs of a red richer than blood; a raised dais set high above the floor, surrounded by a corona of gems. Arwa was keenly grateful not to have been guided to that room and compelled to bow before that dais. Formal audiences were intended to intimidate, and Arwa knew she would have been appropriately overawed.
Facing a woman of the Emperor’s holy blood was a daunting enough prospect on its own. Even now, as she walked down the corridor with Gulshera’s steady presence at her side, Arwa’s skin felt far too tight, her nervousness a sharp knife in her lungs. She could barely breathe around it. Instead she lowered her eyes, and fixed them once more on the shape of Gulshera’s clasped hands.
Arwa heard music and faint laughter long before the guardswoman guided them across a threshold that led to a veranda overlooking the gardens. There was a musician by the door plucking lightly at the strings of a sitar. Beyond her were a dozen noblewomen reclining on bolster cushions, sherbet and wine set on low tables between them.
Gulshera bowed, and Arwa followed her lead. As they straightened, one of the women also rose to her feet. The room quelled to silence around her.
The woman was unusually tall, with great dark eyes and her hair bound back in an impossibly long braid, unconcealed by a shawl. When she took a step forward, moving from shadow into bare sunlight, Arwa saw that her braid was laced with diamonds. They glimmered in the light, giving her black hair the iridescence of a snake’s flesh.
“Dear Gulshera,” said the princess. She smiled and crossed the room, clasping Gulshera’s hands in her own. Her voice was rich with feeling, sweeter than wine. “Oh, I am so glad you are returned to me!”
“Princess Jihan,” Gulshera said. “You look well.”
“How was your time in Numriha?”
“Cold and quiet, my lady. Very different from your fine household.”
“Come,” the princess said, amused. “You must have found some sort of entertainment.”
“The solace of prayer,” said Gulshera. “No more than that.”
Arwa thought of archery and gossip and wine, and kept her mouth carefully shut.
“I have brought a companion with me,” said Gulshera. She gestured at Arwa. “Lady Arwa. The young widow I told you of, my lady.”
“Princess,” said Arwa. She bowed her head, lowering her eyes. “I am honored by your kindness.”
“Oh, she is young,” Jihan said softly. She touched a cool hand to Arwa’s chin, raising her head. “Where is your family, my dear?”
Arwa hesitated. “My husband had no living kin, my lady.”
“Your father, then?”
“My father is in Hara, my lady.”
“What is his name? His status?”
“Suren, my lady. Son of Karan.” Her father’s name was a simple enough answer. As for status…
She swallowed, then said: “My father was Governor of Irinah—once.”
“Ah.” Jihan’s voice was an alto, rich and soft. She was the Emperor’s daughter. No doubt she knew the history of the Governor of Irinah’s fall from imperial favor. Her expression was gentle, her gaze shrewd. “And now?”
“My father has been unwell,” said Arwa. “Very unwell, my lady. By the Emperor’s grace, he survives. But he has been unable to restore the family’s fortunes, or regain imperial favor, although he ardently desires it.”
“And your mother?”
A beat. The knife in Arwa’s lungs turned, slow and inexorable, bleeding the breath from her.
What could she say here—before a room of watchful noblewomen, before imperial guards and a musician, before a deferential serving girl pouring fresh wine—about her mother?
Jihan knew the truth of Arwa’s blood. She had received all of Gulshera’s careful letters; she had summoned Arwa on the basis of that blood alone. She knew Arwa’s mother was some long-gone Amrithi woman, a b
arbarian who consorted with spirits and made no vows or contracts, a woman with no place in the Ambhan Empire. She knew the wife of Arwa’s father was not Arwa’s birth mother, for all that she had raised her and molded her and taught her how to survive, tainted blood or no.
But Arwa could not bring herself to speak of her Amrithi mother before the women of court. She touched a finger to her lip. Lowered it. Said, “Lady Maryam. She has raised me with… great generosity and kindness.”
“You have a good lineage, my dear,” said Jihan. “A shame about your husband. Gulshera told me he passed away at Darez Fort. You have my most sincere sympathies.”
A rustle of unease ran through the reclining noblewomen. One of them drew her shawl over her face, as if she could not bear to look at Arwa a moment longer. Jihan gazed at Arwa unwavering. Then she smiled.
“I have a mind to go for a walk, while the day is still pleasant and cool,” said Jihan. “Gulshera, you may accompany me. I have missed our talks.”
“Princess,” Gulshera acknowledged.
“Bring your young friend,” said Jihan.
A guardswoman trailed after them as they walked along the corridor. Jihan’s skirt whispered against the floor as she walked, gossamer and beads trailing gently against marble.
“Walk next to me, Gulshera,” said Jihan. “Let me lean on you.”
Gulshera moved closer to the princess, who clasped her arm with great tenderness. Arwa trailed after them awkwardly. Her palms were damp with sweat. She felt foolishly, thrillingly anxious.
She was in the imperial palace. She was following the Emperor’s daughter. She had thrown herself headlong into the service of an imperial scion without thought, without cleverness or reason, but for all her fear—for all that her skin felt tight and her lungs too small—she regretted none of it.
“A tour for you, Arwa,” said Jihan. “My brother Akhtar trusts me to care for his household, and I have done my best to make it a pleasurable home. This palace does not compare to my father’s, of course, but humble though it is, it is my pride.”
Humble was not a word Arwa would have applied to the opulence around her, but she murmured an acknowledgment regardless. Jihan described the changes she had made in the years of Gulshera’s absence: the swathes of silk to soften the austere marble of the walls; new mosaics set in the floor, deep green and turquoise. She spoke of the artisans she’d cultivated, the musicians one of her women, a niece of the Governor of Hara, had brought into her household as a gift.
She was no longer the woman new to her position and power that Gulshera had described during their journey from Numriha. Now Jihan was the established head of her brother’s household, with her own retinue of noblewomen and a sharp elegance to her carriage that reminded Arwa—as if she could forget—that Jihan was the Emperor’s own blood.
Her words were clearly calculated to make Arwa and Gulshera both aware of that reality. This is my household now, her tales said. And here, everything is under my control.
“He is generous, my brother, and he has improved his palace extensively at my request,” Jihan finished. She looked at Gulshera. “You remember my mother’s passion for pigeon breeding?”
“Yes,” Gulshera said slowly. When Jihan stared at her, Gulshera shook her head. “Oh, my lady, no. They’re vermin.”
“Your hermitage would have benefited from its own dovecote, Aunt,” Jihan said. “I know how you hate my birds, but think how much more easily we could have exchanged our letters by carrier.”
“Hawking is a much more respectable hobby,” said Gulshera.
Jihan laughed. “Oh, Aunt,” she said fondly. “Perhaps, but it is far less useful. Come. Let me show you my brother’s gift to me.”
A set of winding steps led them up to the highest point of a tower. Pale-bricked, open to the sky and air, the tower was covered in miniature structures of tessellated bricks, small dovecotes with nooks for pigeons to roost in.
Arwa resisted the urge to bring her shawl to her nose. Everything smelled faintly of bird shit.
Jihan did not seem to have noticed the smell. She led Gulshera around the dovecote tower with genuine pleasure, cooing over the pigeons, expanding volubly on Akhtar’s efforts to build a dovecote tower befitting his sister. She seemed to have forgotten Arwa, so Arwa took the chance to move to the tower’s edge. Even the walls had nooks for the birds. One, plump and raisin-eyed, with feathers a mixture of brilliant green and ash gray, rested serenely on the edge of the wall. It didn’t even rustle its feathers when Arwa leaned on the wall beside it and stared over the tower’s edge.
Set on the edge of Prince Akhtar’s minor palace as it was, the dovecote tower gave Arwa an unimpeded view of both the vast imperial gardens of the women’s quarters and the world beyond the palace’s walls. It was that great world that drew Arwa’s attention. She gazed down at the fortified walls of the imperial palace and the water that lay beyond them. She stared at the city of Jah Ambha. Arwa could only stare at it in astonishment. She had never seen a city so large or so strange.
“… unrest again,” Jihan was murmuring. “You were right about your Lady Roshana’s nephew. His mistress claims he’s too deep in his cups to collect tax revenue from Demet, no matter how well he’s hoodwinked the Governor into trusting his word. I’ll speak to Akhtar, and see what can be done.”
Gulshera’s gaze slid to Arwa, and in response Jihan went silent. Then she smiled once more.
“Ah, Arwa,” she said. “We’re talking of the Empire’s ills—there are so many of them, my dear, too many to enumerate now.” She walked toward Arwa, a kernel of pity in her voice when she next spoke. “But you will be familiar with such things.”
Jihan placed a hand on Arwa’s shoulder.
“I was so pleased when Gulshera offered you to me,” she said, voice gentle. “The offer felt like a piece of good fortune, a change in the Empire’s ill fate. You are something we can use, Arwa. I am glad to have you.”
A piece of good fortune. Ah, thank the Gods.
“You and Gulshera will stay,” said Jihan. It was not a request.
“Thank you, my lady,” Arwa said, lowering her eyes.
“It is natural for a royal woman to care for noblewomen who do not share her blessings,” murmured Jihan. “The elderly, the widowed—you will see many of them in my household, Lady Arwa. And in return for my benevolence, I am fortunate to have the wisdom of my elders, to receive their advice and guidance. Your presence here will not seem strange, I assure you. But your true purpose—well. It will not be guiding me.”
There was a beat of silence. Arwa heard the soft coo of birds, the rustle of wings, as the pigeon at her side took flight.
“What will be my true purpose, my lady?” Arwa asked, still staring at the ground. “How may I serve?”
“You will assist my brother in his work,” said Jihan.
“Prince Akhtar, my—?”
“His name is Zahir,” Jihan cut in, voice suddenly as smooth as a blade. “And he is no prince, my dear. But you will honor and respect him regardless.”
“My lady,” Arwa agreed, uncomprehending.
“A guardswoman will show you the way tonight. You must be obedient, Lady Arwa. Whatever he may ask of you—think of yourself as a tool that may save the Empire, a tool my brother must utilize, and act accordingly.”
Arwa murmured her agreement once more.
She felt Jihan’s eyes trace her face, slow and assessing.
“You do not look very Amrithi,” Jihan said finally. “Lucky girl. I think you’ll do well enough.”
The wing of the women’s quarters set aside for elders and widows was beautifully appointed. A maidservant showed Arwa and Gulshera to a seating hall that was shared by the household elders. It opened to a small garden of fruit trees, with a fountain at its center. Gulshera and Arwa walked out into the garden. The air was full of the wafting scent of citrus and water.
“You gave this up for the hermitage,” Arwa murmured, gazing around in awe.
“You think this is paradise, I suppose?”
There was a sharpness in Gulshera’s voice that made Arwa bite her own tongue, holding back her reflexive retort. She waited in silence.
Eventually Gulshera sighed and rubbed her knuckles between her eyes, as if forcing a headache away.
“Court has teeth, Arwa,” she said. “Teeth and claws both. Don’t forget it. Allow it to do so, and court will hurt you terribly.”
“You served court even from Numriha,” Arwa pointed out. “You returned here willingly.”
“I expect you have a point to make,” said Gulshera flatly.
“Princess Jihan could have ordered you to return, and you would have done it for duty and political gain. But I don’t believe you returned for that alone.”
Gulshera gave her a look of exasperated pity. “Despite your widowhood, you remain a child,” she said. “I returned for love, yes. Love has a longer reach than politics. It can hold you fast across any distance. But when it comes to the imperial family… Arwa, they cannot be disentangled. Love and politics are one and the same. I returned with you for political gain, and for Jihan’s affection both, because one cannot be earned without the other.”
Arwa remained silent for a moment, until she could stand it no longer. She was clamoring with questions.
“The brother the princess spoke of,” Arwa began tentatively. “Is he…?”
“He is a blessed,” said Gulshera. “Entirely unacknowledged, of course.”
A blessed. Any other child would have been called a bastard. Arwa had been, many a time. Behave, Arwa, or people will realize you are a bastard. Please, dear one. I want better for you than your blood.
The Emperor did not acknowledge illegitimate children. It was rare for anyone to do so. Only the Maha had ever honored them, drawing the fatherless and abandoned into his service, naming them his mystics, his closest servants. But men were not as generous as the Maha, who had forged his people an Empire. Oh, Arwa’s father had acknowledged her and her sister both, loved them and honored them, but his actions had been unusual. The fate of other illegitimate children had been held over her as a warning often enough for her to know that many ended up discarded, with no father to shelter them, no mother to rear them.
