Realm of Ash

by Tasha Suri

  “You’re well,” Gulshera said shortly.

  It took a moment for Arwa to realize that Gulshera’s words had been a question, not a statement. She lowered her cup.

  “Yes,” she said. Hesitated. “Lord Zahir was—”

  “Best if you don’t tell me,” Gulshera cut in. Her gaze was distant, firm hands clasped in her lap. “I spoke to Princess Jihan. I was… concerned. The princess informed me I should not question or interfere. So I will not.”

  “Questions are not exactly interference,” murmured Arwa.

  “Perhaps.” Gulshera’s mouth thinned. “But Jihan tests the people she trusts. She has asked me not to pry. So I will not. But I am… very glad that you are well, Arwa.”

  Arwa understood. Jihan had so clearly wanted Gulshera to know the influence she’d gained, in her absence: the changes she’d made to the Palace of Dusk, the tower her brother had built for her, in a reflection of his regard for her. Controlling what Gulshera knew was a further demonstration of her strength. It was a form of showing off, like a child demonstrating a newly learned poem or song. But Jihan was no child, and her newly honed skill lay in the hoarding of information, and with it, the hoarding of power.

  What would she do to you, if you betrayed her? Failed her?

  Judging by the tension in Gulshera’s shoulders, Arwa did not want to know the answer, and Gulshera would not provide it anyway. So Arwa took one more sip of cooling tea, then said, “I am glad you are well too, Aunt.”

  Gulshera gave Arwa an unreadable look. Then she stood.

  “Get dressed,” she said. “We must attend on the princess. The Emperor is holding audience.” She hesitated. “Jihan told me he has missed a number of audiences lately. She feels it is important her household attend his return to court in full force.”

  “Asima told me the Emperor had been unwell,” Arwa said carefully.

  “I’ve been assured his fever has passed.” Gulshera did not sound convinced. “Asima told you, did she?”

  “She did.”

  “Gossip travels very fast,” muttered Gulshera. “Let’s have no more of it now. Get dressed. The audience begins soon after dawn.”

  Society was held together, warp and weft, by rituals and duties. Arwa understood the nature of duty. But she had never experienced imperial ritual before, in all its grand weight, immense and heart-stopping. The rituals of her life were a mere shadow by comparison.

  Once every seven days, at dawn in the imperial palace, before his audience with his nobles, the Emperor stepped on the Balcony of Beholding and showed his face to the public. An endless crowd of pilgrims—city-dwellers from Jah Ambha, travelers from the Empire’s wide-flung provinces of Chand and Numriha, Hara and Irinah, even Durevi—bowed low to the ground before him. To gaze upon the Emperor’s face, mortal and endlessly glorious, was a blessing beyond compare. Arwa had heard poetry about that moment: the halo of rose-gold dawn illuminating the turn of his head; the way the sun shone through the pure, unveined marble of the balcony, filling it with light.

  Although he had maintained the tradition of Beholding, the Emperor’s missed audiences had not gone unnoticed. The charity women of Jihan’s household—the widows and elders that Arwa now belonged among—spoke about it in low, anxious whispers as they dressed. He’s well now, of course. Entirely well. But it was his one missed Beholding, at the height of his illness, that had caused the most distress, and sent ripples of unease across the Empire.

  But today, the Emperor walked to his balcony. As he was beheld, the members of his disparate satellite households assembled. The women of Prince Akhtar’s palace gathered together in the audience hall Arwa had seen only yesterday, through half-opened doors. Jihan awaited them upon her dais, surrounded by her closest noblewomen. She wore a shawl over her hair; a veil was swept back from her face, ready to be lowered.

  Her eyes were fierce and bright.

  “Are we prepared?” she asked, gaze sweeping over her women—over noblewomen young and old. There was a murmur of assent, a lowering of eyes. Jihan smiled in response and stood. She lowered her veil, concealing her face entirely beneath a length of soft gauze.

  Her retinue mirrored her and lowered their own veils with a rustle of cloth. Jihan looked down upon them for a long moment, shrouded and utterly in control.

  “We go,” she said.

  Great doors opened before them, one by one, as they made their way from the women’s quarters of Prince Akhtar’s palace to one of the great bridges that joined the princely palaces to the World Palace, grand seat of the Emperor.

  The dawn air was crisp and cold. Light reflected on the water beneath the bridge. Guardswomen lined their way. Ahead of them, a set of gates embellished in gold and obsidian were drawn open.

  They entered the Hall of the World.

  The Hall of the World was the Emperor’s audience hall, and Arwa—who had spent her early years in the opulence of the Governor of Irinah’s own court—had never seen a place of greater beauty. Through the intricate lattice screen that concealed everything but silhouettes of the women from the male court, Arwa could see pillars of marble, covered in bursts of inlay: flowers of emerald and carnelian, birds of lapis lazuli. The domed ceiling was lacquered in pure gold, with a sun whittled from mirrored glass in its center.

  Upon the floor of the hall stood courtiers and nobles, organized in discrete clusters, intended to mimic the order of the universe: stars and planets alike, the most powerful courtiers set closest to the Emperor’s seat. Hall of the World, indeed.

  “Follow me,” whispered Gulshera. It was an unnecessary order. Arwa would hardly have done anything else. She could barely think through her awe, only follow Gulshera as they kneeled down far behind Jihan, who sat to the left of the dais visible through the lattice. Golden, inlaid with gems carved to resemble constellations of stars, it was the Emperor’s throne.

  To the right, another woman kneeled, mirroring Jihan’s posture. She wore an archaic style of dress: a high coned silk cap, and a voluminous robe, with a heavy sash of velvet at the waist. Her veil was long enough to pool at her waist. Her hands, lined with age, were demurely clasped and weighed down by jeweled rings.

  “Princess Masuma,” murmured Gulshera. “The Emperor’s sister. She has been the highest lady in his household since the Empress’s death.”

  Gulshera touched a hand to Arwa’s wrist. Arwa wondered if she could feel the rush of Arwa’s pulse, the sheer intensity of it.

  “Be quiet and calm,” Gulshera counseled. “I will direct you. Do not fear.”

  A conch was sounded, twice in succession. The courtiers bowed their heads as two men entered. One was slight, barely out of boyhood; the other tall and elegant, in a green embroidered jacket and a turban of silver cloth. They kneeled facing the throne.

  The princes.

  One, she realized, had to be Prince Akhtar. Strange to think that she belonged to his household, and yet knew nothing of him at all.

  Another conch sounded. Distantly, she heard the thrum of drums. This time the courtiers did not simply bow their heads. They lowered themselves to the floor.

  “He arrives,” whispered one woman.

  They did not bow low as the men did. Barely visible behind the lattice, their bodies blurred to soft shadow, they were free to watch the Emperor’s approach.

  The Emperor entered the room on foot, walking beneath a canopy of silver and gold held above his head by attendants. He had walked from the Balcony of Beholding across one of the great bridges of the imperial palace. He walked now across the Hall of the World, walked between his sons and made his way up the steps to his throne. For a single moment, his face was visible to the women who sat concealed behind him. Arwa saw a severe face, wrinkled with age. Light hazel eyes and thick brows; a thin, puckered mouth.

  He is frail, thought Arwa. Even though she knew he had been, it surprised her, somehow. He had always seemed greater than flesh. Greater than time. And yet, here he was, a mere man. Frail, and old.

 
The Emperor turned and sat. At the sounding of a second conch, his courtiers rose back to their feet.

  The petitions began almost immediately. This, after all, was the purpose of an audience with the Emperor: an opportunity for the nobles of the Empire to bring him their grievances and beg his favor, to argue for greater supplies or men or resources for their province, to enter into the business of politics and war that occupied all men of high stature.

  The women of the imperial household were not uninvolved. Sister to the right, daughter to the left, the imperial women were carefully positioned to allow them the ability to advise the Emperor. Occasionally, Princess Masuma would consult one of the women seated around her, then lean forward and place her veiled face close to the lattice, so she could whisper in her brother’s ear. Whenever she did so, the Emperor would raise a hand, instantly quelling the rest of the court to utter silence. Then, after a moment, he would speak once more.

  Although Jihan’s closest attendants—noblewomen of pure, powerful blood, every single one of them—whispered advice or information in her ears, she did not speak. Instead she remained still and silent. Watchful.

  One minor noble, clearly nervous, petitioned for more men and funds for what he called his land’s sanitation, though he did not speak of drainage or irrigation as Arwa would have expected. He spoke for some time before she understood he meant the cleansing Arwa had experienced on her arrival at the palace, on a greater scale. The Emperor directed him to consult Prince Akhtar privately for funds. Another nobleman requested an opportunity for his son in the service of the Numrihan Governor. After a protracted discussion, the next noble stepped forward to make his petition and bowed low to the floor.

  “Lord of lords,” he said. “King of kings. My Emperor. I beg the generosity of your household for my youngest daughter.”

  One of Jihan’s women whispered to her once more. Arwa heard a name, a brief scrap of words. Influential and fiscal, of all things. Jihan listened for a moment, then leaned forward, her fingertips pressed lightly to the lattice.

  “Father,” she said. “I will accept Lord Ulegh’s daughter, if Akhtar allows it.”

  “My daughter has kindly offered your daughter a position among her women,” the Emperor stated. His voice was low and rich as velvet. Unlike his body, his voice and his mind clearly remained undimmed by time. “Akhtar, my eldest, will you allow it?”

  Akhtar bowed his head.

  “Emperor. Of course.”

  “I pray she will prove herself worthy, Most High,” said the nobleman, eager and grateful.

  “I am sure she will be an honor to your name,” the Emperor said.

  The nobleman bowed and withdrew.

  The Emperor raised his hand once again, silencing the room. He made a gesture to the edge of the hall. There, a group of scribes sat, discreetly recording each of the Emperor’s proclamations. One scribe stood. Bowed his head.

  “Emperor.”

  “May special note be made,” said the Emperor, “a proclamation to be shared across the city: our son Parviz returns imminently from Durevi. He has quelled all rebellion, and returns victorious, a credit to his lineage.”

  There was a roar of approval from the crowd. The women behind the lattice were silent; Arwa did not know if they smiled or not. Behind the quiet of her own veil, Arwa watched the way Jihan’s shoulders grew tense, visible even beneath the gauzy cover of her shawl.

  “His actions deserve our especial gratitude,” the Emperor continued. “And we will honor him accordingly. Feasts shall be held for both the women and men of court. Gifts and coin shall be arranged for the poor.”

  The Emperor continued his litany of celebration. Arwa noticed—as no doubt, did all the women—that Masuma was nodding, head close to the lattice, her fingertips gently pressed to the marble. The tension had eased from Jihan’s shoulders. Now she sat still and serene, as if entirely unmoved. But Arwa had seen her control slip. She knew something tumultuous lay beneath that veneer of calm.

  The thought of feasting and gifts had cheered the crowd, who were effusive in their response, a roar of approval filling the chamber. Prince Nasir cheered with them, but Prince Akhtar sat still and tall and merely smiled—a strange, formal smile that did not suggest any real joy.

  It was only when the Emperor rose once more to his feet that silence fell. Every noise and every man in the hall moved to his whims like the tide beneath the moon.

  Arwa’s own breath had caught in her throat. The tide controlled her too.

  As the Emperor departed the Hall of the World, the men bowed. The women lowered their veiled heads. One heartbeat. Two.

  A conch sounded.

  The women stood as one and exited the hall. Princess Masuma’s entourage crossed to another door. Jihan and Masuma did not speak—did not even look at one another.

  They crossed the bridge. Arwa touched her hand to Gulshera’s sleeve. She realized she was trembling, faintly.

  Ah, Gods. She had seen the Emperor.

  “It has been some time since I have belonged to the world,” Arwa murmured, forcing the words from numb lips. “But I believe open rebellion in Durevi was quashed in the first year of my marriage. Certainly, my husband was pleased to receive greater funds for provisions, as a result of the spoils.”

  “It was,” said Gulshera.

  “Prince Parviz has chosen an interesting time to return.” In her head, she calculated how long it would have taken for the news of his father’s illness to reach him, and his own journey across the Empire to progress. The timing was clear enough.

  “Indeed he has.” Gulshera’s voice was grim.

  Jihan had not been happy. Of course she had not. She was the head of her brother Akhtar’s household, as her aunt Masuma was the head of the Emperor’s. A woman’s fortunes rose and fell with the fate of the man she served. And for all that Prince Akhtar held a clear position of power at court, the Emperor had not yet named him heir. That, Arwa would have heard.

  If Prince Parviz believed the Emperor’s health failed, if he returned in the hope of being named heir himself…

  A woman like Jihan, who reveled in her power, would rightly fear to lose it.

  Jihan’s tension was only one of the events that had filled Arwa with disquiet, since she had arrived at the palace. The rift between aunt and niece; the blessed not-prince hidden like the dead; the distant son quelling rebellions, as the two close at hand kneeled at their father’s feet, all of them waiting for the Emperor to anoint them as heir. The loyalties that ran like blood, holding the imperial household asunder and yet intertwined. These things hung in the air, unspoken, knife-edged. Arwa had known the Empire suffered, but she had thought—believed, with the constancy of a woman who had prayed her whole life to the Emperor’s effigy—that court would be a bastion of stability within the Empire’s chaos. Instead, she was strangely afraid a misplaced word would tip it all into chaos. She drew back her veil, as Gulshera drew back her own. Gulshera’s jaw was tight.

  “Arwa—”

  “Lady Gulshera.” One of Jihan’s favored noblewomen approached, veil thrown back. “The princess requires you. Please.”

  “Of course,” said Gulshera. She squeezed Arwa’s arm—in comfort or warning, Arwa did not know—and vanished, leaving Arwa alone in a crowd of elders, her mind full of questions without answers.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A different guardswoman walked the corridors that night, when Arwa left her room, book of poetry in hand, and headed toward the gardens. Arwa remembered that Eshara had told her a guardswoman named Reya would be on duty that night, and bowed her head in acknowledgment.

  Reya bowed her head in return.

  “My lady,” she said, voice soft. “Do you need me to accompany you?”

  Arwa shook her head, murmured her thanks, and continued walking. Behind her was a brief silence, followed by the renewed stride of booted feet.

  Arwa walked through the night to the tomb enclosure; she lowered her veil and walked in. Zahir was wai
ting for her.

  “Did you enjoy the book?” he asked.

  “Somewhat,” she said guardedly. “I had very little time to read. There was an audience at dawn.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Of course.”

  She wondered when he slept. Certainly not at night. Did he live here, within the women’s quarters, hidden away within the walls of the tomb enclosure? She was filled again with the sense of unreality she’d felt when she’d read the book of poetry in her own room by lantern light. He should not have been here. He should not have been staring at her, eyebrows raised, waiting for her to speak—as if he were a real man, and not some strange mirage enclosed in what should have been a grave. He should not have been in the women’s quarters—even their grounds—at all.

  “Prince Parviz is returning from Durevi,” Arwa continued.

  “Indeed,” Zahir said neutrally. “What did you think of what you did read, Lady Arwa?”

  Arwa considered the not-prince carefully through the soft haze of her veil. There was no irritation on his face, no fear or tension or anger. His expression was utterly calm.

  “The poems were—beautiful,” she said haltingly. “But I don’t believe I fully understood them, or your words, my lord.”

  “Well then. Let me provide you more context. Sit, please,” he said, gesturing at the low table where she had first seen him reading, only the night before.

  She sat. There was a tray on the table, something brewing in a small samovar. Tea had already been poured into small ceramic cups, curls of steam rising from the liquid’s surface.

  As she waited for him to join her, she opened the book of poetry once more. The words wavered before her, softened by the gauze of her veil and the fragile shimmer of lantern light. She gave up on the book. Instead she watched him trace the edge of his shelves with searching fingertips, his eyes narrowed against the flickering dark. Eventually she could not suppress her impatience; she shifted uneasily in her seat. Spoke.