by Tasha Suri
Society had no place for aberrant blood.
But the Emperor’s blood had greater value than any mere mortal’s: To be an illegitimate Emperor’s child was to have the makings of greatness. Illegitimate imperial sons had become great governors and generals. Illegitimate imperial daughters had served in the households of their legitimate sisters, or made great marriages, bringing the bright stroke of their lucky blood into many a noble family’s lineage.
Still… my brother. Those words should not have been spoken. They were a claim Jihan had no right to make on an unacknowledged son of her father. Yet she had.
“Can you tell me anything at all about him?” Arwa asked.
“I knew him, when he was a small boy,” Gulshera said. “He and his mother…” A pause. “The Empress was fond of them both. But Jihan loved the boy especially. When his mother was—removed—she claimed him and protected him.”
“Removed,” Arwa repeated.
“Many people were, after the Maha’s death,” said Gulshera. “Arwa—I do not know what the boy’s work involves. I do not wish to know.” Her tone brooked no argument. “Whatever he asks—obey him. That is all you can do.”
Night came. Arwa could not sleep. She stayed dressed and placed her veil over her hair, readying herself to face the princess’s blessed brother, a man and a stranger to her. Then she sat, cross-legged, on the edge of her divan and waited for a guardswoman to collect her, as Jihan had promised.
The room she had been provided with was in the wing for elders, but was far removed from the gentle peace of the fruit garden. Arwa understood the need for that. If she was to leave her room in secrecy and silence on a regular basis, she could not be close to the other widows, where her comings and goings would be noticed.
A guardswoman rapped lightly on the door, then entered.
“Lady Arwa,” she said, bowing her head. “Follow me.”
Arwa stood and followed the guardswoman from the room.
“What is your name?” Arwa asked.
“Eshara, my lady,” the guardswoman said, as she led Arwa along a winding corridor, barely lit by silver lanterns upon the walls. “If you need me, I am on watch in this wing on most nights. If not me, then Reya will be here. No doubt you’ll meet her tomorrow night.”
The guardswoman stopped. On the wall beside her was a large tapestry. She moved it to one side, revealing a hidden door. She drew it open, and gestured for Arwa to enter. Arwa did.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The hidden door led to the gardens. Not the small, private space allotted to the widows, but the vast gardens of the women’s quarters. They were laid out in the typical Ambhan style, with a long avenue of water lined on each side with lush, symmetrical diamonds of green.
Eshara did not lead Arwa near the canal. Instead she guided her to a path at the edge of the gardens, cleverly concealed beneath a canopy of trees. Dappled moonlight broke through the leaves, lighting their way.
“In the future you will walk on your own,” said Eshara. “My priority is to protect the women of the house. Not to guide you in—this.”
Arwa did not know what this was yet. So she remained silent, and did not argue.
“There,” said Eshara, pointing. “You’ll find him waiting.”
Ahead of them stood a small building, barely visible between creeping vines. It was pale, pearly marble, with lattice walls and an arched doorway that opened on darkness. Above the door was an alcove, with a faceless effigy of the Maha and Emperor at its center. Arwa swallowed.
“That,” she said, “is a tomb enclosure.”
“It no longer contains a tomb,” said Eshara, which did not exactly put Arwa at her ease. “But I will leave you now, my lady,” said Eshara, turning to go.
“Wait,” Arwa said sharply. “He isn’t—that is. He is no family to me.”
Eshara continued to stare at her uncomprehending.
“I should not be alone with a man who is not my family,” Arwa said slowly. “It is a matter of my honor.”
“I have other duties, my lady,” said Eshara. “I can’t remain here with you.” The guardswoman hesitated then. Her eyes darted to the enclosure, then back again. “Be careful of the steps. They are not well lit.”
And with that comment, Eshara bowed her head, turned once more, and left.
Arwa stared at the darkness before her. It stared back.
Her honor did not matter—not to the guardswoman, and not to the princess. But she would not be meeting this blessed brother of Jihan’s, in the dark of the night and in utter secrecy, if someone’s honor were not at stake.
There were dangerous secrets here. Work that Arwa was required for—Arwa with her Amrithi blood. Work Gulshera did not want to think of, that Eshara did not want to witness.
Work that could, perhaps, save the Empire.
For the Empire’s sake, Arwa reminded herself. She felt a familiar thrill at that thought, a fire that eased the dark weight of grief and fear pressing on her skull.
She lowered her veil and crossed the threshold.
The stairs were dark, just as Eshara had warned her they would be. But darkness soon gave way to soft light, as Arwa entered a room set low in the earth, with lanterns burning bright on the walls. The lattices, far above her head, let in the moonlight.
Arwa walked farther into the room. Much to her relief there was no sign of a tomb—the outer appearance of the building had only been an illusion, an artifice. Instead of bodies, there were only shelves upon the walls, neatly crammed with books and scrolls. If Arwa had not been able to smell green and soil, she would have believed herself to be in a scholar’s library.
One quiet step farther. At the far end of the room, beneath a lattice and close to one fierce burning lantern, sat the man Arwa had been sent to meet.
He was seated at a low table with a book before him, his head rested on his knuckles as he stared down at the pages. Absorbed as he was, he hadn’t yet seen her.
She savored that moment of power, standing utterly still. Assessing him.
Zahir—bastard and blessed—was thin and fine-boned. In the spill of moonlight and lantern light, gold and silver-milk, she could see the narrow bones of his wrists, revealed by the too-short cuffs of his tunic. The nape of his neck, between the sweep of his turban and the collar of his tunic was a warm ivory, pale from a lack of sunlight. She stared at it, strangely transfixed.
She had not known what to expect from Jihan’s brother. But vulnerability… no, she had not expected that.
“My lord,” she said. His head rose sharply, eyes wide and colorless in the dark. “I was told you were expecting me.”
“Lady Arwa,” he said slowly. He closed his book. “I thought Eshara would introduce you.”
“She said she was busy, my lord.”
“Did she.” He frowned and stood. He bowed his head respectfully to her, and took a step closer through the lantern light. Knowing that her face was hidden from him beneath her veil, Arwa allowed herself to stare straight at him.
He did not look very like Jihan, this brother. Jihan was tall and dark-eyed and imposing. In contrast, Zahir was a man of insignificant height, with a face that—for all that his nose was slightly crooked, and his bones too sharp—verged on pretty. When he frowned at her, she felt a tug in her chest, an attraction she was appalled and fascinated by in equal measure.
“I hear you are to be my assistant, Lady Arwa,” he said.
“I gather, my lord,” she replied. “Though I am not yet sure how I am intended to serve.”
“What has Jihan told you?”
“Nothing, my lord. Only that I must assist you.”
“Jihan likes her secrets,” said Zahir. “Here is proof that she has not been especially unkind to you in particular, Lady Arwa: I know very little about you. Only that you are a widow, and that you have Amrithi blood.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How did that come about?”
“The widowhood, my lord, or the Amrithi blood?”
“Both,” he said. “Or either. Whichever you think more telling.”
“My apologies,” Arwa said in a low, deferential voice. Be soft, Arwa, soft. Do not show him the sharp edge of your tongue. No man likes a woman who speaks in the language of knives. “I am sorry if I have offended you, but I do not understand what you require of me.”
“I am not being very clear,” Zahir agreed. “It is only that I am curious about you, Lady Arwa. I am curious what sort of woman would throw herself into danger, knowing nothing of the service she has elected for herself. I wonder: Are you a faithful zealot, or simply desperate to break yourself on a cause?”
Ah. That stung.
So Arwa was not the only one with a sharp edge to her tongue, then.
Arwa had to bite her lip to hold back the words she wanted to rain down upon him. She reminded herself that it was better to apologize than to argue, better to sweeten than to sour, when faced with a man’s ire. Better to let him see her wilt. Better to let him believe he had won. She had been good at such things, once.
“I think, my lord, that you mean to hurt me. I am sorry if I have done you any wrong.”
“Wrong? No.” He shook his head. “No, it is not the nature of what you do, but the why of it that makes me curious. Why you have made the choices you have—that is the source of my confusion.”
“Do my answers change whether I am of use to you, my lord?”
“A fool won’t suit this task,” he replied. “So yes. Your answers have weight.”
“I am not a fool,” Arwa said, faster and more sharply than she should have.
“Fools rarely know they are fools,” Zahir said levelly.
She owed him no answers. She owed him nothing of herself at all. But she had offered herself up for this task, as he had said, without knowing its dangers or its costs. If it required her honesty, her heart—
Well then.
“Do you know, my lord, of Darez Fort?”
“Somewhat,” he said guardedly.
“Then I may tell you of my widowhood and Amrithi blood both,” she said. “I am Ambhan raised, my lord. But my father had a concubine, once. And I was the result. My father’s wife raised me as her own. She raised me to be a true noblewoman, and that is what I have been. By her training and the Emperor’s grace, I married well. My husband was commander of Darez Fort, serving under the Governor of Chand. As I am sure you know, Chand was and remains rife with unrest, and my husband was famed for his success in quelling its strife.”
I was proud of him, Arwa should have said. Or: I admired him. But neither would have been a true statement, and she did not have it in her to claim such things. So instead she said, “He died in Darez Fort. At the hands of a daiva, or something akin to it. He died as everyone in the fort died. Everyone but me.”
Here, she paused to breathe. It felt appropriate. Zahir had his head tilted to her, intent on her voice. He said nothing to fill the silence, merely waited, as Arwa found her words once more.
“It is a strange grief, Lord Zahir, to live when others die, for no reason but your blood, a thing quite beyond your control. Strange and… difficult. If I were a man, I would give my grief a purpose, and to the sword. I would fight for the sake of my Empire. But I am only a widow, and I have nothing to offer beyond my blood.” She held out her hand, scarred palm upraised. She wondered if he could see the new silver of her scar. “My blood is the only tool I have. Make use of it, my lord. I entreat you.”
He looked at her hand. She wondered if he was noting the pale scars on her fingertips; her calluses from archery; the faint curl of her fingers toward her wounded palm. She could almost see the thoughts flickering through his eyes, swift as birds.
“I see,” he said. “Thank you, Lady Arwa.”
“Perhaps you still think me a fool, my lord.”
“I don’t know what I think of you,” he said softly, slowly. His gaze was intent. He watched her lower her hand with all the focus of a hawk. “But I find I am not… averse to introducing you to my work.” The frown marring his forehead eased. “You should not have offered yourself up for this task, Lady Arwa, and I should not accept your help. But I am glad you are willing and here. I believe the help of someone of your blood will be invaluable to me. Now I have the opportunity to discover whether I am correct.”
“I will help you, my lord,” said Arwa. “You will see.”
“By the Emperor’s grace.” The smile that shaped his mouth was so lovely against his sharp bones.
“What will you have me do?” Arwa asked.
“Read.”
He turned from her abruptly and walked over to the shelves. Tracing the spines of his books with a finger, he paused, and plucked down a slim volume. He handed it to her.
“Before you are introduced to the practical work, you need to learn. You need to understand the shape of the world and the arts we will meddle with.”
“Arts?”
A pause.
“Occult arts,” said Zahir. “Forbidden arts.”
Arwa looked down at the book in her hands. Occult arts. Of course. She should have guessed, should have known, that any efforts to save the Empire that involved her birth mother’s blood would be forbidden art. No wonder Eshara refused to enter the tomb. No wonder Zahir had hesitated before he spoke, his gaze wary and sharp.
“You speak of heresy,” she whispered.
She could not imagine that any act sanctioned by the Emperor’s daughter would be heresy. But she remembered her suspicion that someone’s honor was at stake here, and felt a thrill of fear spill through her.
Heretics and Amrithi shared the same fate.
“Lady Arwa,” he said, after another pause that had stretched long and awkward between them. “What I do—what we will do—is a necessary evil. It is necessary in order to save the Empire from its unnatural ill luck. We must seek the only knowledge that can save us. The Maha’s knowledge.”
Arwa clutched the book tighter.
“Does this book contain his knowledge?” she asked in a small voice.
He shook his head. “No. The book is the foundations of our work. I have made notes that may help you within.”
“Notes,” she repeated.
“Guidance,” he added, as if that made anything clearer to her. “Consider this the start of your apprenticeship, Lady Arwa. When you have your bearings we are going to make use of your blood—and mine—together.”
CHAPTER NINE
She returned to her new room long before dawn. She did not see Eshara again, but she heard her tread on the corridor floor, her armored boots producing an unmistakable clang.
The book was small, almost ephemeral in Arwa’s hands. She felt as if it could easily fade to dust in her grip, as if it were barely real at all. But nothing about the night felt entirely real: the tomb that was no tomb; the not-prince reading in the shimmering lantern light; the tug of want in her, a thing that—if she were a proper noblewoman, a widow worth her salt, as she had so tried to be—should have died in her at Darez Fort.
Forbidden. That was what Zahir had called the arts she was to learn. Nothing about this path she had been set upon seemed right or proper. Any want in Arwa, even unspoken, and never acted upon, was a transgression—that, at least, was a simple truth. But Zahir’s mission—his occult arts—were true heresy. In a world where the Maha and Emperor were worshipped, where their lineage were glory and solace…
No wonder Zahir’s presence—and his work—were secret.
Arwa opened the book. To her surprise, it was full of poetry.
hollow are the eyes when ash is untasted / oh, beloved, my pyre knows / the shape of light born of flame—
Each poem was signed by the same author, in the same hand. The Hidden One. A false name, certainly. But between the careful, elegant script used for poetry were neat notes in another hand. Zahir’s hand.
Do not eat the ash.
She turned page after page, searching for his guidance.
Do not le
t go of your roots. This was heavily underlined.
Travel where the worlds break.
The answer is in—blood. (Lineage?)
His words were as cryptic as the poetry, she thought sourly. She read one final poem—the blazing eye sees the lamp of truth / the lamp of truth reveals the world—in a frustrated attempt to understand what on earth he wanted her to learn.
She snapped the book shut, and snuffed out her lantern.
She was already on the edge of sleep when she thought of bloodying her window. She rose from the bed and fumbled through her luggage. To her relief, her dagger was safe, still wrapped in its leather sheath. She used it to carefully mark the single latticed window to her room, before lying down once more.
She did not have the energy to keep her vigil, but she also found that her fear was curiously distant. She had fought and defeated a daiva. She had survived the journey through Numriha with nothing but a trace of blood on the palanquin wall. She could hold the daiva at bay, and no longer needed to fear discovery. That was a great weight lifted from her shoulders.
She was not safe, but this was the closest she had come since her widowhood. For now, while she was useful, a piece of good fortune, she could rest.
When she next opened her eyes it was hours later, but the dark was only beginning to fade from beyond her window. Her sleep had been deep, blissful, and empty of dreams. Waking left her disoriented, her mind still clouded with exhaustion. She would not have woken if she had not heard her name.
“Arwa,” a voice said again. “Time to get up.”
Gulshera was sitting on the edge of the bed, a cup of mint tea clasped between her hands.
“Take it,” Gulshera said. “I had to ask a girl to bring me tea three times this morning.” She shook her head. “They wouldn’t allow me to visit the kitchens.”
“Well, I’m very grateful,” Arwa said honestly, and took it from her. She tried not to yawn.
The tea was lukewarm, but not unpleasant. Still, Arwa couldn’t help but think of breakfast in Gulshera’s room: blisteringly hot tea and warm, spiced fritters. For all the opulence of the palace, she felt as if Gulshera had lost a precious measure of freedom she would not be able to regain.
