Realm of Ash

by Tasha Suri

  She thought of the Empire. Of the Maha and Emperor. Of a long tradition of order and faith and adherence of standards of civilization. Standards that defined who had earned the right to call themselves human—and who had discarded it.

  Arwa had spent her entire life training to be adequately human: to be pretty and obedient and honorable. To be not Amrithi. She knew what it meant, to stray from the path. She knew what heresy was. The realm of ash, in all its wildness and inhumanity, its death and hollowness, was heresy personified.

  “That place is wrong,” she said finally, bluntly. “I accepted that we would meddle with heresy, and I will do so again. But it is—terribly wrong.”

  A beat.

  “Yes.” His voice was shaky, his expression incongruously calm. “It is somewhat. But is it any more wrong than the dirt and guts and spillage of war and needless death? I think not.” He winced again. Blinked once, twice, slowly. His eyes, she thought, had a strange sheen. Silver-gray, liquid shadow.

  “Next time we can try to move farther along the path. Seek the Maha. But no longer tonight. Go back to your room and rest, Lady Arwa. You have done enough.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Arwa did not bother attempting to sleep the night before the Emperor’s next dawn audience. She had never been one for falling easily into slumber, and had always woken at the slightest sound, even as a small girl. After Darez Fort, nighttime rest had become even more difficult for her to achieve. Now she had even more reason to stay awake through the dark hours. She had the not-prince and his library tomb; she had an apprenticeship.

  She had Zahir’s books.

  Zahir had interrogated her about her experience in the realm of ash, pried every bare scrap of knowledge she’d gained. He’d been fascinated by the fragments of memory she’d gained from him. He’d muttered something of unexpected consequences and roots and shared dreaming, staining his fingertips with ink as he scrawled notes into the margin of a book, and had not spoken of it since. But she knew it mattered to him. The book had remained on his table since, the page creased from overuse, as he turned to it over and over again and stared at the words with furrowed brow.

  He had not asked her to enter the realm of ash since. Instead he had begun teaching her in earnest, leading her away from slim tracts of poetry to dense texts of study. Mystical orders from the distant past—long before the Maha had made the Empire whole and powerful, and given the mystics the blessing of service to him—had cobbled together vast tomes about the nature of the soul and the body, the nature of death—the nature of the realm of ash, and how to walk its paths, aware and unharmed.

  Together she and Zahir sifted through their theories, their claims, weighing them against their own experience of the realm for their worth. Theories on the manner in which a person’s own history could shape the realm over time were carefully studied. Even more focus was given to the texts that discussed the blood roots: their strength, their nature, the relationship between flesh and soul.

  Not all books were useful, of course. A bloated text that claimed souls and paths could be melded together via the conduit of shared roots was swiftly dismissed as untestable nonsense, and one discussing the anatomy of the soul’s manifested body in the realm was put aside by Zahir with a muttered claim that it was a headache in the guise of paper.

  Together, they were piecing together a picture of reality. A map, to lead them into the Maha’s waiting ash.

  She often returned to her own room with a large book hefted up in her arms, so that she could read in privacy until daybreak. After a handful of nights bent over her burning lantern, reading until the dawn chorus, Arwa had asked Eshara for more light.

  “Another lantern, if you can provide it,” Arwa had said. “But I would be grateful for more fuel. My lantern burns too quickly.”

  The guardswoman had frowned and ignored Arwa entirely.

  “I want no part of it, my lady,” she’d said, when Arwa had persisted.

  Thank the Gods, then, for Reya, who had turned up the next night with fresh oil and wick, and the promise of more in the future.

  “I don’t care what you do, Lady Arwa,” she’d said, a faint frown marring her forehead. It was a much gentler expression on her face than on Eshara’s. “Only—perhaps you should consider working by sunlight. Your eyes will thank you.”

  Arwa had agreed—and how could she not?—but in truth the study of the realm of ash felt like Zahir’s business, his possession, and Zahir was entirely a creature of night. She could no more study the realm by daylight than she could imagine Zahir strolling along the central path through the garden at midday. It was an unnatural thing.

  Arwa sat in the Hall of the World, her sleepless mind full of ash and poetry, as the Emperor announced edicts and dispensed justice, as the court scribes inked his words, as Akhtar offered his input on imperial administration, as Princess Masuma whispered through the lattice, speaking for the women of his household. When the Emperor once again announced Prince Parviz’s imminent return, declaring that his son would be greeted that evening with appropriate pomp and ceremony, a whispered message passed from Masuma’s retinue through the women: the feast in his honor would also be tonight. Although most women murmured in pleasure, at least one of Jihan’s confidantes was not happy about the lack of notice.

  “She wants to make our lady look foolish. Oh, you know what she’s like—”

  “Hush before one of her favorites hears you,” another hissed.

  Arwa blamed the high spirits of the women around her and her own exhaustion, but it was only when the audience ended and they returned to their own household that Arwa’s addled mind realized that she had not seen Gulshera all morning.

  In fact she had barely seen Gulshera at all since the first audience. Gulshera rarely ate with the other charity women of the princess’s household. She did not join them when they spent the mornings and afternoons embroidering or writing letters, or discussing news from the larger Empire. She had seen Gulshera only briefly, once or twice, walking at the princess’s side, among her circle of close companions.

  Arwa went to the fruit garden and sat in the shade, arms curled about her knees. As the other widows and elders entered their shared hall, gossiping, removing their veils, she closed her eyes and sought some brief ease from her tiredness and her own thoughts.

  She did not want to miss Gulshera, or require her counsel, but here she was regardless, mulling over the imperial household, wishing for Gulshera’s blunt, even-handed guidance.

  The princess informed me I should not question or interfere. So I will not. That was what Gulshera had told her. Did that extend to all aspects of Arwa’s role in this household? Was Gulshera required to leave Arwa be, or did she simply have a much grander purpose, as one of Jihan’s favorites?

  “Lady Arwa,” said a voice. It was not Gulshera, but another widow, still veiled. Arwa recognized her by the rings upon her hands, each embellished with rough-cut blue gems. An unseemly display for a widow, but Lady Bega was cousin to the departed Empress, distantly imperial by ancient blessed blood, and no one dared treat her with anything but respect.

  “Lady Bega,” Arwa said deferentially, rising to her feet.

  Bega drew back her own veil, wrinkled eyes focused on Arwa’s face. Considering.

  “You are too young by far,” she said, shaking her head mildly. “Wear your veil tonight, at the feast. Trust an old woman’s advice. The princes are good men, young one, but they are still men. You understand?”

  “We are dining with the princes?” Arwa said, feeling herself become pale. She had expected a celebration—something to honor the prince appropriately—but she had not expected to see him face-to-face, or any of them. The worlds of women and men who were not kin, not bound by blood or marriage, were not meant to cross. That was the way of any noble household. “Aunt, my honor—”

  “Ah, ah!” Bega tutted. “My dear, there’s no shame in it. This is the imperial household. You think the Emperor’s kin obey the same
rules as the rest of us?”

  “I—”

  “You’re a woman of the household, aren’t you? No different from any widowed aunt in her brother’s or her nephew’s care. Regardless, do be careful. We know there is no difference between you and I, age or no age… But men, even the very finest of them, they are… easily misled by a young and pretty face.” She tapped Arwa’s cheek lightly.

  Her touch made Arwa look toward the other widows, seated around their fountain. They were watching her and Bega both. Had the widows been discussing who would speak with her, this painfully young and tragic widow thrust into their lives? Arwa swallowed and bowed her head deferentially. She knew a warning when she heard one.

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Arwa said. “I appreciate your wisdom.”

  Arwa wore her veil.

  Jihan led the retinue as always, with Gulshera once again at her side, where Arwa had no opportunity to speak with her.

  They crossed the great bridges of the silver lake to the imperial palace proper once more, but this time they did not go to the Hall of the World. Instead they entered the women’s quarters of the Emperor’s own great palace. Arwa stared about, wide-eyed. Arwa had near laughed, when Jihan had called her household humble. But she had not been lying. In comparison to the central women’s quarters, they were. The ceilings were gold, the walls mirrored with gems and silver alike.

  They were led to a grand hall. Musicians were playing in the corner of the room. A courtesan was dancing, dressed in a long skirt of deep blue and imperial green. Large tables, arranged to reflect the importance of their occupants, were set around the room to hold lesser members of each imperial household.

  The table of the imperial family was unmistakable. At the center of the room, small but wrought of ivory carved to resembled roses, it was surrounded by a corona of cushions of brocade and velvet where the family’s closest companions knelt in attendance. At the table itself, an older woman with henna-red hair drawn back beneath a high coned cap was already seated. Princess Masuma, surely. Next to her sat the boy Prince Nasir. He was smiling, chattering volubly to his aunt beside him.

  On the other side of the table, expression set and grim, sat Prince Akhtar. He turned as Jihan and her women entered. His expression thawed a little at the sight of her. He quirked an eyebrow, still unsmiling.

  “Have you come to save me from this farce?” he asked.

  “Of course not.” She glided forward and performed a graceful bow to her brothers and her aunt. Then she rose. “I see you began without me. A shame. I do so love our family gatherings.”

  “I told Akhtar he should ask you to hurry,” said Nasir, practically squirming in his seat. He had a great deal of energy, this one, when propriety did not force him to be still. “Parviz will be here soon.”

  “And I told Akhtar not to rush you,” Masuma said, smiling sweetly. Her eyes were flat. “I know how young girls are.”

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Jihan said, with equal poison. “How kind.”

  “This is a celebration for your brother, Jihan,” Masuma said. “Do try to sound less—difficult.”

  “I will do my best, Aunt.”

  “What does it matter? He won’t appreciate it,” Akhtar said to Masuma, drumming his fingers idly against the table. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Aunt; he may be your favorite, but you know him. He’ll make sour faces and revile you for wasting your coin on frivolity. He doesn’t understand the value of making people happy.”

  Masuma’s lips thinned.

  “Sit, Jihan,” she said sharply. “Let your retinue go and enjoy themselves.”

  She spoke to Jihan as if she were a child, and Jihan kneeled at the table with a sweep of her skirt and a tilt of her chin that was all defiance. Her smile was sharp enough to cut, and Masuma’s expression soured all the more at the sight of it.

  As Arwa moved to her own distant table, slowed by the press of women around her, she heard Nasir begin to describe Parviz’s arrival to the city with anxious enthusiasm. There were flowers, he told them, roses and carnations and marigolds, thrown in abundance so that Parviz’s chariot crushed them as he moved and released perfume into the air. And he threw gold coins to the people watching too—

  “I’m surprised no one was harmed,” muttered Akhtar. “But he does like to make a spectacle of himself.”

  Masuma gave him a sharp look.

  “More drink for you, I think,” she announced, gesturing a servant over. “Perhaps it will soften your tongue.”

  Nasir wilted into silence.

  Oh, child, Arwa thought, as she walked. She felt suddenly rather old. You will never soften that family of yours, though you may break yourself trying.

  Food was served. Great platters of fruit, fish and meat charred to sweetness and rich with spices, bread so thin it flaked in her fingers, and rice dotted with raisins and pomegranate seeds that burst sharp and sweet against her tongue. The courtesans danced; the musicians played; the women gossiped and laughed and ate. Parviz arrived in the midst of all the revelry without fanfare. Only the lull of silence that fell over the feasters made Arwa aware that he had entered.

  His tunic was plain gray, his turban unadorned. She would not have known him for who he was if he had not crossed the room to face his family, if he had not had a military man’s posture, straight and tall. He walked with a soft, weighty tread. He bowed his head to each of his siblings and his aunt in turn, without speech, without meeting their eyes. Then he sat, made a curt gesture to a trembling maidservant, and took the carafe of wine from her hands. And drank.

  Arwa watched him. They all watched him, celebration tilting ever so slightly into unease. Even seated, even silent with wine in his hands, he had a terrible, compelling gravity to his presence. He belonged somewhere more severe, more dangerous, a world of steel and war. Beneath his gaze the feast felt… frivolous. Small.

  Masuma tried to make conversation, her smile painfully fixed. Nasir looked between all of them, eyes darting to and fro.

  Akhtar said nothing. His mouth was thin.

  Jihan raised her own glass.

  “To family,” she said, in a loud voice, clear as a bell.

  “Jihan,” Masuma said sharply.

  Jihan only smiled and drank deep.

  The merriment—for what it was worth—continued despite Parviz’s presence, the unease giving the laughter around Arwa a frenzied edge. There would be no visit to Zahir’s workroom tonight. Arwa bore it for as long as she could. Eventually, when other widows had begun to leave and she could see no sign of Gulshera in the throng seated at Jihan’s back, she decided to depart.

  She entered the corridor leading away from the dining hall, not far behind a small group of other women, when she felt a soft hand on her arm, spinning her on her feet. Her heart rattled in her chest.

  Jihan.

  “Arwa,” said Jihan. “You’re leaving so soon?”

  “I am, my lady,” said Arwa.

  “Why are you veiled?” Her mouth was a play of amusement, lips upturned.

  It was oddly absurd to be alone with Jihan, who was constantly in the company of others, surrounded by maidservants and guardswomen and her small coterie of favorites. Arwa was almost sure that Jihan had cornered her only because she had drunk far too much wine.

  “Come,” said Jihan. “You may tell me.”

  “My lady, forgive me, but your brothers are not family.”

  “What reputation do you need to protect, with no husband left to care if you reflect well on him now?”

  “My father’s,” Arwa offered, unsure what Jihan sought from her.

  “Did he give you leave to come here? No.” Jihan shook her head. “I think you placed the defense of his reputation aside a long time ago. Or he did, when he fell into disgrace, and won my father’s ire.”

  “My reputation, then,” Arwa said, some sharpness bleeding into her voice. Jihan blinked at her, as if struck.

  “Does your reputation matter so much?” She touched a hand to the end o
f Arwa’s veil, making the soft gauze flutter. “You are a widow, Arwa. A ghost.”

  Arwa remembered Gulshera’s warnings. Jihan likes to test people, she’d told her. Court has teeth and claws, she’d claimed. Arwa felt the weight of Jihan’s regard, and knew all Gulshera’s warnings had been true.

  “What else do I have?” Arwa asked.

  Jihan laughed at that, a soft laugh. Arwa could hear distant music from the hall. A man’s yell, and more laughter.

  “How do you like my brother?” she whispered.

  “Which one, my lady?”

  “You know which one, ghost. The one I am relying on to save us all, as my true brothers play foolish games while their Empire burns.” She shrugged, all grace. “Akhtar is good enough. For all his pride, he listens. He understands the hard, dull work that builds an Empire. But Parviz…” Sharp turn of her mouth. “Well.”

  A breeze entered through the lattice. The nape of Arwa’s neck felt cold.

  “I like Lord Zahir well enough,” she said guardedly. “He is a good teacher.”

  “Good. That is good. You will do whatever it takes to help him, won’t you?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “Try to make him happy,” said Jihan. She sighed and touched a hand to her own cheek, which was rose-tinged with warmth. “Zahir is so very alone. When my mother lived, we protected him together. We assured him a place in her household. This household.” She touched a proprietary hand to the bejeweled wall as if to say, This is by rights mine.

  “But my mother is no more,” she continued, “and politics are… complex. One day, Gods willing, this will be my palace again. But, Arwa, if you wish to please me, think a little less of your reputation. Think of the gift Zahir has, and focus on proving your faithfulness to me, and to a cause far greater than you, in all ways.”

  Try to make him happy.

  The words burned. Arwa’s skin crawled.

  “Princess,” Arwa murmured. Deferential.

  Jihan looked back at the hall, a smile still playing upon her mouth.

  “Go, then,” she said. “Rest well, Lady Arwa. I have a celebration to return to.”