Realm of Ash

by Tasha Suri

  “He’s impetuous.” Jihan’s voice was soft, soothing. “He’s always been one for grand gestures. But you are better than that, brother. Better than his base actions.”

  “His base actions are working.”

  “Parviz has always been able to sway Father,” Jihan responded levelly. “But court? No. I think not. Court requires different tools than war, and more subtlety than that demanded by a loving parent. Father’s favorites will see through him.”

  “He mocked my efforts to protect the Empire in front of them. They will remember that,” Akhtar said tersely. “And believe me, he says a great deal more when he’s not under Father’s eye. He’s been claiming there is no curse on the Empire at all, and nothing to be cleansed. No curse. The bald idiocy of it, Jihan!”

  “I’m aware,” Jihan said, with exaggerated patience. “He hasn’t yet managed to explain away the shadow spirits, though. Or the massacres—”

  “He does not have to. He believes order and iron rule will save us all, that Father is just too weak to maintain our true glory, and he is not alone in that belief. And he quelled Durevi, Jihan—people think that’s proof enough.”

  Jihan snorted.

  “Killing the local populace isn’t quelling. It’s a famine for the future; when we have none of Durevi’s fruits and crops, after the lack of rainfall in Chand—”

  Akhtar waved her off with a look of vibrant irritation on his face.

  “Logistics don’t matter to the people of this court, and the views of court are the ones we must consider right now. What if the nobility sway our father’s choice of heir, Jihan? What then?”

  “The logistics of food production are all that matter,” Jihan snapped. You fool seemed to be heavily implied. “The court need full bellies and loyal citizens, and they know it. If we can’t ensure that our trade routes function as they should…”

  “Be that as it may, sister, that is not what is in question right now,” Akhtar said sharply. “Your experiment is. Playing into your schemes is beginning to actively hinder me. Parviz is taking a clear stand against heresy, and when he reveals Zahir’s presence in my household, he will damage my reputation at court. I cannot afford to lose any of my reputation. It’s the only true weapon I have.”

  “He knows how I love Zahir,” Jihan said calmly. “He won’t want to hurt me.”

  “Love won’t hold him forever, Jihan. Or me.” Bite to his voice. “Have you accomplished anything you hoped for? At all? Has your pet bastard managed to find the Maha yet? Solve all our problems with a sweep of magic?”

  Jihan turned then, gaze sweeping over Arwa, before settling on Zahir. A look passed between the two of them.

  “Prince Akhtar.” Zahir’s voice was soft. Cool. “When you were a small boy your grandmother doted upon you. She would let you sit with her when she entertained visitors. She fed you grapes from a silver bowl.”

  Spasmodic twist of Akhtar’s mouth.

  “Anyone could have told you that, boy.”

  “They can’t tell you what she taught you,” Zahir said, voice silken and cold and eerily reminiscent of the Emperor’s own. “She taught you how to recognize poisons. Salt, bitter, sweet. The women of the imperial family have always known such things. But learning about death made you afraid. You couldn’t sleep. You had nightmares, brother, you—”

  Akhtar took Zahir by the throat.

  “You don’t call me brother. And you certainly don’t demean my grandmother, when you’re no more than a whore’s son. Don’t try to anger me, bastard. I’ll be sorry later when Jihan cries over you—but not that sorry.”

  He held Zahir for one beat, two. Jihan did not cry out. Did not defend him. She was very still, staring into the distance, her expression remote.

  Arwa trembled. Hands in fists.

  Do something, she wanted to cry out. Jihan, have you brought me here simply to watch Zahir suffer? What test is this?

  Very carefully, Jihan tilted her head toward Arwa. She looked at her, dark eyes fixed and intent.

  Finally, Arwa understood why she had been summoned here. Not simply to witness an argument between siblings, a political tussle in which she had no place—but for this.

  She stepped forward.

  “Stars,” she blurted out.

  Akhtar turned. Blinked at her, as if he had not even thought of her, until that moment. She had faded into the background, as all guards and maidservants faded, as all insignificant women faded, to people of his stature.

  Stars. Arwa breathed deep. Spoke once more.

  “You did not like the dark as a child. And your gracious grandmother told you she could arrange for the stars to remain with you always. She stitched them in gold thread on gauze, and placed them upon the ceiling of your chambers. Sometimes she would watch you sleep, and she would see you clutching for them with your hand, as if in a dream…”

  Arwa felt the ash like a physical thing: a memory coiling up from the base of her skull, unfurling across her mind’s eye. For a moment something of the Emperor’s own mother lived within her, breathed within her, then faded to sudden dust. Lost.

  She had no more. Paused. Glad for her veil, she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and breathed, and breathed.

  “And who,” said Akhtar, face gray, “is this witch you have dredged up?”

  “This honorable widow,” Jihan said coolly, “studies with Zahir. She has been here a mere handful of weeks. And no one told her about your childhood bedroom, I can assure you. I had hoped to have her demonstrate for you how far my experiment has come, brother. But not like this. I thought you would be more—civilized.”

  Akhtar released Zahir with a curse. Zahir doubled over, coughing, heaving for breath.

  “We found—all. Memory of her soul,” Zahir forced out, voice raw. “In the realm of ash.” He coughed again, massaging his throat a little. “I will learn what the Maha knew. I will give you his knowledge, so that you may save us from the curse, when you are Emperor.”

  Akhtar’s eyes narrowed. Calculating.

  “He can do this,” Jihan said, “because I procured him Lady Arwa’s assistance.”

  “Is she a witch, then, sister?” Akhtar asked. “A heretic in widow’s clothing?”

  “She has Amrithi blood,” said Jihan. “It makes her useful. And she dearly wants to be of use. Don’t you, Lady Arwa?”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Arwa. “Anything for the sake of the Empire.”

  “Barbarian blood. Wonderful. My brother spills it, and I bring it into my household.” For all the harshness of his words, Akhtar’s tone had finally softened. “You think you can find the Maha’s knowledge, Zahir? Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Zahir raised his head. His eyes were red, his skin flushed, but he looked at Akhtar with a stare that was quietly, clinically eviscerating. It was a look that could flay a man’s soul from his skin and study it, with terrible, dispassionate care.

  “Yes,” he said. “My lord.”

  Akhtar’s hand made a fist.

  “You are still a dog that should have been drowned with its mother,” he said softly. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Zahir. “I know.”

  “No matter what Parviz believes, the spirits, the unnatural ill luck—they remain a threat to all we have,” Jihan said, forcibly drawing Akhtar’s attention back to her. “One Zahir’s work can put right.”

  “I know,” Akhtar said. An exhalation. “I know. So get on with it. Fix it.”

  “As my brother wills.” She bowed her head. Turned to go. “Come, Arwa.”

  Arwa turned and followed her, looking back once at Zahir. His own hand was still around his reddened throat, as if he held his own death and life both in the palm of his hand.

  She had thought, once, that he had a nature like a keen blade. She had not considered that he lived his entire life on a knife edge. It would take so little to see him dead: a shift in the familial balance of power; failure in
his work; an expression on his face that foolishly revealed the glittering sharpness of his mind.

  She touched her own fingers to her throat. Her pulse was river-fast; she could not hold it.

  His eyes met her own.

  Go, his gaze said. Go now.

  She did not want to leave him.

  But she turned away from him regardless, doing as she had been bid, the image of him imprinted on her eyelids.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  She sought out Gulshera.

  The widows often rested at midday, and perhaps as a result of the tense, subdued mood of the women’s quarters, not a single one of the elders was present in the communal spaces of their wing. Arwa went directly to her own chamber.

  Arwa entered her room and found Gulshera there waiting for her. She was not even sitting on the bed, but standing at attention, coiled with energy, head tilted forward, pale eyes hooded.

  “Tell me everything,” she said.

  Arwa shook her head.

  “You told me that we can’t discuss him. Lord Zahir.” There was an edge of malice to her words. She knew it. Gulshera had avoided her, denied her company and a confidante, for the sake of keeping a promise to the princess. And Arwa could not blame her for that—she knew an imperial daughter had infinitely more power and value than either of them possessed—and yet the viciousness bubbled in her regardless.

  “True,” Gulshera acknowledged. “I did. And yet I am asking: Tell me as much as you can. As much as is safe for both of us.”

  Arwa nodded. As much as was safe.

  She did not know what was safe anymore.

  “I was taken to Prince Akhtar’s study. I remained veiled. Princess Jihan and Lord Zahir were both present. Prince Akhtar was angry about Prince Parviz’s actions in the Hall of the World. He feared Prince Parviz would supersede him. Then he and Princess Jihan spoke of…” Arwa paused. Said: “Of Lord Zahir.”

  “Go on,” prompted Gulshera. “Leave that tale in silence. Tell me what happened next.”

  “Prince Akhtar tried to strangle Zahir.” She said it entirely without feeling. Her insides were burning with a fury she could not feel. Not about a prince. Not about a blessed. “He put his hands around Zahir’s throat. Princess Jihan did… didn’t stop him. He only stopped when I—interfered. I think she wanted me to.”

  Arwa had not told Gulshera of Jihan’s barely veiled message, of the princess’s desire for Arwa to make Zahir happy, to give him… more than simply her apprenticeship. The thought of speaking of such a thing made her throat burn, stoppered.

  It was, after all, not a safe thing to tell Gulshera of.

  “Damn Jihan and her games.” Gulshera touched her fingertips to her forehead, pressing at an invisible pain. “I am tired of being so constrained. Ah, what I could do if she allowed it.”

  “Aunt?”

  “You tell me nothing, as ordered,” Gulshera said grimly. “But Jihan said nothing about what I could tell you, Arwa. Sit.”

  Arwa sat. Gulshera paced before her, back and forth, with the same fierce tread she’d had upon the grass outside the hermitage. There, it had given her an air of confidence. Here, she simply looked caged.

  “Do you know when the Emperor usually chooses his heir?”

  “In his old age,” said Arwa. “Often upon his deathbed.”

  Gulshera nodded.

  “It has never been a difficult task, Arwa. One son is always superior to the others. They say our current Emperor was born with a halo of light about his brow. But now… well.” A shrug. “The Empire is changed, is it not? We all know it. Many men of court have long believed his eldest son would inherit. Akhtar is fit for it. Well-educated, versed in the nature of court politics, surrounded by able advisers…” Gulshera’s lips thinned. “But he is also—as you have seen.”

  As you have seen. She thought of his hand around Zahir’s throat, his words to Jihan. She remembered how Jihan had spoken of Akhtar’s temper, the night of the feast. Arwa needed no further clarity than that.

  “Parviz has a military bent,” said Gulshera. “And a level of—zeal—that many consider a strength. He believes in the Emperor’s might and that crushing heresy will return the world to its proper order. But the world has changed since the Maha’s death, in ways that cannot be easily undone without great bloodshed.”

  “What ways?”

  A narrow look.

  “You think he will be gentle with pilgrims and mourners, who collect relics of the Maha and pray for his soul? Or those who place folk charms outside their windows to keep the daiva away? I think not.”

  “And Prince Nasir?”

  “He is no danger to anyone,” said Gulshera dismissively. “No more than a boy. But two princes at war is enough, in these terrible times. No. Prince Akhtar must ascend the throne. He must become Emperor, when his father passes.” A pause. “There is little time.”

  The Emperor’s visible frailty. She had wondered. Her heart clenched.

  “Must it be Prince Akhtar who rules us?” Arwa asked, soft, knowing the danger of her words.

  “It is what Jihan wants,” said Gulshera. “And her, I trust above all others. So Arwa: Be careful. Consider your role. Consider what must be done, in the time left to us all.”

  When she entered Zahir’s workroom that night, raising her veil, he was lighting his candles, wick to oil, shadows flickering on his hands. His face was turned away from her.

  “Lord Zahir,” she said.

  “Lady Arwa,” he responded. He didn’t turn.

  “Look at me,” she ordered, soft, and felt a thrill when he turned to the sound of her voice.

  The thrill soured when she saw the bruises mottling his throat.

  “We can enter the realm of ash directly, if you like,” he said.

  “How can your family treat you so?”

  “I am not family, to Akhtar,” Zahir said. “I had no right to call him brother. In fact”—a rueful smile—“perhaps I wanted to anger him.”

  “I hate it,” Arwa burst out. “He should not have done it. It is so—so very wrong. You have worked so hard to help them, you have done everything in your power, placed yourself in terrible danger to save the Empire, their Empire, and yet they scorn and hurt you like this? No.”

  She took a step closer. No veil, nothing to hide the sheer way she felt everything—too deep, too fierce. “You are a person, you are their blood. You deserve their respect.”

  She felt like an animal, wild with feeling. She thought of the dreamed tenderness of Zahir’s grandmother, her sewn golden stars, his grandmother who had never treated him with the same kindness she’d shown her legitimate grandson. She thought of the stars upon her shawl. She knotted her own fingers in her embroidered shawl, with its strange sparse constellations—and froze.

  Zahir’s fingers were pressed to her knuckles. Feather light.

  “Please,” he said. “You’ll damage the cloth.”

  Gently, he untangled the shawl from her hands. Then their hands were simply touching. Skin to skin.

  “I don’t require your fury, Lady Arwa. I am in truth very lucky.”

  “And who,” she said shakily, “convinced you of that?”

  “I did. I should be dead, Lady Arwa. I should have died with my mother.”

  He drew his hand back. Touched it to the mottled skin of his neck.

  “I don’t often have the opportunity to tell the tale. In many ways it is not mine to tell. But my mother was from—a long heretical Ambhan mystical tradition. An order of women scholars, courtesans by trade, who worked in secret, who sought a world where even those who were not men of noble blood could rise in service to the Empire. A world where choice and merit were prized, where all could serve and rise beneath the Emperor and Maha’s benevolent eyes. In honor of their own secrecy, they named themselves the Hidden Ones. You will, of course, recognize that name.”

  Arwa inclined her head in silence. Her mind was racing. Mystics. Courtesans. Poetry. A history of women seeking a stake in the E
mpire’s games of power and knowledge from the realm of the dead itself.

  And Zahir, here, alone. A man and a blessed, bound to them by a thread of scholarship and blood.

  “My mother and the Empress were—friendly.” Voice halting. “A courtesan must be entertaining. My mother not only danced and—did as courtesans do. She also sang. Recited poetry. Performed at salons of women, at feasts and celebrations. The Empress took a liking to her. She would invite my mother to sing to her, and when my mother shared a little of her esoteric interests, the Empress saw the potential benefit of them.” Ghost of a smile. “Jihan is very like her.”

  “So I have been told.”

  “When the Maha died, my mother believed she could help the Empire. She offered her knowledge to the Emperor, and recognizing it as heresy, well…” Eyes closed. Opened. “Perhaps she thought the Emperor’s fondness for her would protect her. Or the Empress’s. But of course—not.

  “When the Maha died, and the Empire fell into the first chaos of grief, my mother believed she could help the Emperor raise a new world from the ashes of the Maha’s dead: an Empire like a lamp of truth, a beacon saved and shaped by many hands. She pleaded with him to seek the support of the people. Alchemize their grief into service, she told him. Let your people serve you, and they will build you a stronger Empire from their love.”

  “No,” Arwa whispered. She knew her horror was written upon her face.

  Zahir inclined his head, acknowledging the look.

  “The Emperor had to secure his power. He could not allow his position to be weakened by her heresy. Respect for noble blood and hierarchy and order had to be maintained. I understand this.” He said it matter-of-factly. Confidently. As if it were a thing he had told himself, until the words had worn a groove into his soul, until they had the bone-deep quality of truth. “If not for Jihan’s intercession—if not for the skills my tutors gave me, that my mother gave me—I would have died long ago. I have the opportunity to serve the Empire. I have the opportunity to show Jihan my gratitude.”

  Arwa said nothing. Her voice seemed to have left her.