Realm of Ash

by Tasha Suri

  Just as she and Zahir had worked to piece together an image of the realm of ash, so too was she forming a picture of Mehr’s true fate, and true death.

  Arwa had witnessed a dreamfire storm, and soon after her sister had been taken. Had her sister called the dreamfire to her—revealed a seed of amata in her blood?

  Her sister had told her she was getting married. She had given Arwa her Amrithi blade, and told Arwa not to fear, and told her she would see her again. And then Mehr had gone to the Maha, and died. But she had not simply died. She had been used and enslaved and forgotten. Her gift—her Amrithi gift of amata—had been used to manipulate the dreams of the Gods, suppressing dreams that would bring ill fortune, raising up dreams that would continue to burnish the Empire’s glory.

  After the night her father wept by her bed, Arwa had heard no more of her sister. Once, she had asked her mother Maryam about her, tentatively questioned where Mehr had been buried. Her mother had gone quiet, and cold, and told her not to ask again. Some things, she’d said, will only hurt you. Let it be, Arwa.

  Arwa had grieved for Mehr, but she had blamed her too, for the fall of their family into disgrace. For being so Amrithi, when she could have made the choice Arwa had made, to mold herself into a quiet Ambhan daughter and wife. She had blamed Mehr because she had been ignorant. Because she’d known nothing.

  But now Arwa knew. And she was hurt—yes, as her mother had told her she would be hurt. But she was also furious she’d been denied the right to that pain. To the truth.

  You were stolen, Arwa thought. You were stolen, and no one told me. I did not know. Oh, Mehr.

  Mehr had died because of the Maha. Her father had tried to bring Mehr home, and in return the Maha—his Empire, his nobility, the world he had carved—had flung her family into disgrace. The blame for that lay at the Maha’s feet too. Not Mehr’s.

  And Amrithi—generations of them, beyond Arwa’s graceless understanding—had been enslaved or died by their own knives. Over and over again. The Maha had used them. Taken their magic. Built the Empire’s glory upon their bones.

  Her sister. Her poor sister. Arwa retched again, a visceral reaction.

  Her head was full of ash, full of flashes of preserved memory, sharp as splinters. She was Arwa. She was Arwa.

  Nazrin. Ushan. Tahir.

  Arwa made it back to her room somehow. She was glad not to see Eshara or Reya patrolling the halls. She reached, fumbling, through her own trunk of possessions, between pale folded tunics and sashes, trousers and scarves until she found her own dagger and held it in her hands. Trembling, she unfolded it from the protective casing of fabric that surrounded it.

  She thought of her sister, again: of being raised to put aside her Amrithi-ness; of carrying the shadow of it inside her nonetheless, the ghosts of all the people who had come before her, buried and lost, in a desert of the Maha’s dead. She thought of the history and the people she had never known, the culture of her birth mother that had been stolen from her, cleaved straight from her body. She thought of the Arwa she was not: the shadow Arwa fashioned from all the Amrithi things she had taught herself not to be. The Arwa she had yearned to be, once.

  She barely slept.

  In the morning she washed herself, and then took her own shears to her hair. Looked at herself in her mirror: her sand-brown skin, her deep brown eyes, large in her fine-boned face. She looked like an Ambhan woman. She knew it. It seemed almost cruel, after all, that she could see nothing of her sister in her own face.

  We have the same blood, her sister had told her once. Arwa had no vows burned into her skin, had said her marriage vows without ancient magic binding them to her soul and flesh. She had no amata.

  And yet she couldn’t help but think of the Amrithi families that military commanders like her husband had driven out of villages. She thought of the warnings her mother had pressed into her of the suffering of faceless Amrithi, and how Arwa had thought: That could be me.

  I cannot allow that to be me.

  She remembered Mehr’s smile. The sound of her singing a lullaby. The feel of her arms, as she held Arwa close.

  The same blood. They all had the same blood.

  The heretic mystics were put to death. The women of the imperial household were not expected to attend, for which Arwa was grateful. But Jihan, as Emperor’s daughter, was expected to witness. Gulshera accompanied her, as did Jihan’s closest noblewomen.

  Arwa waited for their return for a time. She thought of death. Of Amrithi. Of Darez Fort. Of soldiers, and their fears. She searched through her belongings and left her room.

  She found Gulshera in her own chamber.

  The room was sparsely furnished. There were no piles of letters, no tray of tea, no pen and ink. Her husband’s lacquered court bow was not even upon the wall. Gulshera was lying on her divan, eyes closed. Arwa sat on the edge of the divan, thumped a carafe on the floor beside her.

  Gulshera cracked open an eye.

  “I don’t want wine.”

  “It isn’t wine,” said Arwa. “It is—was—a drink my husband liked. Liquor made from soured milk.”

  “You want to make me ill?”

  “It will ease your pains,” said Arwa. “Kamran would give it to his men, sometimes, when they were afraid. A drink like this, he told them, will make you strong. I kept a bottle in my trunk. For memory’s sake.”

  Arwa nudged the carafe toward Gulshera.

  Gulshera gave her a look. Rising to a seated position, she took the carafe. Opened it and drank it. Grimaced.

  “You are trying to poison me.”

  “Some poisons are good for you,” Arwa said. She took the carafe from Gulshera, and drank herself. The arrack was viciously sour, a sweet burn down her throat. She grimaced.

  “There,” she said. “I feel better already. Don’t you?”

  Gulshera gave her a faint scowl.

  “I’m certainly distracted. My mouth feels foul.”

  Arwa took another swig and Gulshera said, “Ah, Gods, put that swill down.”

  Arwa resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and obeyed.

  They sat in silence for a moment, before Gulshera spoke.

  “The Emperor was merciful. Their deaths were quick.”

  “Good,” Arwa said tightly.

  “There will be a celebration tonight,” said Gulshera.

  “A celebration?”

  “Parviz’s suggestion,” Gulshera said tiredly. “More merrymaking to lift the spirits of an uneasy nobility.”

  “Prince Parviz doesn’t care for merrymaking.”

  “He’s learning the ways of court quickly. Murder a few men, lavish favors on a few others—soon you’ll have followers driven by greed and fear aplenty.”

  Arwa frowned and lowered her head. They can merrymake all they want, she thought. It will not change anything. Child daiva with bone faces. Winged daiva. Famine and rebellions, and a dying Emperor.

  “Does it matter if the courtiers like him?” Arwa asked.

  “If those courtiers have influence over the Emperor, of course,” Gulshera said dryly. “But no one truly knows the Emperor’s mind.”

  “I think,” Arwa said slowly, “I understand why you chose to leave here. It is like being caught in a net, isn’t it? The longer you are here, the less you remember what it means to move freely. To know the cool air on your face. The shape and heft of a bow.”

  “We serve the Empire,” said Gulshera, after a moment. “That, at least, is a good thing.”

  It was not disagreement.

  Arwa wondered, somewhat helplessly, what difference there was, if any, between serving the interests of the imperial family and serving the Empire.

  “Yes,” Arwa said softly. “I’m glad of that.”

  Gulshera placed a hand on Arwa’s back. Through her touch, Arwa felt the sharpness of her own bones, the fragility of her spine, her lungs as she breathed in and out, in and out, as birds sang beyond the window lattice.

  Arwa didn’t remain long at t
he feast. The thought of doing so was unbearable. She could not eat. Could not think. She left, but didn’t go to Zahir, and didn’t go to her own room. Instead she found herself walking to the dovecote tower.

  Here, she was high—high enough to feel as if she could reach the stars. The pigeons cooed, some rustling around her. She leaned against the wall and placed her face in her hands.

  For so long she had run from the true shape of her grief. She had sought to grieve as was expected of her, at the hermitage. Here at the imperial palace, she had tried to alchemize her grief into a purpose, a mission. But in the end all her efforts had failed her. Her grief was a beast without a leash. Now it hung about her close, and sharp. It was not simply a product of Darez Fort. It was ingrained in her bones—her very soul. She felt overwhelmed by the scope of the suffering that had shaped her, as she strove to be the good Ambhan daughter, all unknowing.

  She could not be a good soldier or sacrifice to overcome it; worse still, sacrificing herself on the basis of her Amrithi blood filled her mouth with metal. It felt like a betrayal of the dead. Of the culture and people who she had always known were part of her.

  Of her sister.

  Face pressed into her arms, she finally raised her head. And smelled incense.

  She whirled around.

  The pigeons cooed faintly around her. They rustled gently in their nooks. There were no daiva.

  No daiva, until she looked up.

  At the peak of the tower were a dozen birds in shadow. But they were not, she realized, in shadow after all. They were shadow. They stared down at her with eyes like blazing lights, burnished gold.

  Bird-spirits.

  At the hermitage, when she had stabbed the daiva, it had broken into dozens of smaller birds. They watched her now, those same birds, not rustling or cooing, only utterly still, barely visible against the velvet dark of the night.

  Arwa swallowed. Her throat was clogged—with terror and with wonder both.

  She remembered Ushan, lifted off his feet by a winged daiva progenitor that had loved him.

  She remembered the daiva at Darez Fort. Inhuman hands on her own. The dagger at her feet, that she could remember fumbling for in her rooms, that she could not remember laying beside her, as unnatural fear fell over the fort.

  All her life, by everyone but her sister, Arwa had been told the daiva were monsters. But to her Amrithi dead, they were family. The daiva had loved their Amrithi children. Loved them enough to make a binding vow to protect them.

  A vow made on blood.

  “I am sorry I harmed you.” Her voice sounded small. Felt small. The night seemed to swallow it. “I should never have turned my knife on you, at the hermitage. You tried to save me from the—thing—at the fort, didn’t you? It was no daiva, that creature of bones. You brought me a knife, you gave me the chance to use my blood, to seek your protection from that—nightmare. And this is how I have repaid you.” She sucked in a breath, shallow, her heart racing. “I am sorry for trying to keep you at bay. For using my blood as a barrier against you. I didn’t understand that we are kin.”

  The daiva birds were silent. Watchful.

  She was a fool, speaking a mortal tongue to immortals. She did not know their language.

  The taste of salt and ash rose in her throat. She did not. But Ushan had. Nazrin had. They all had.

  She lifted her hands. Feet solid against the ground.

  The Amrithi danced rites. Rites of worship. Rites to communicate with the daiva in their own language. Sigils were their language; stances were feeling. She knew this in snatches, vaguely, secondhand knowledge coming to her. She shaped a sigil for debt, another for grief.

  Her hands faltered.

  “I am sorry,” she said again. She had no sigils for that.

  The birds flew down, drawing together swift as an arrow; she saw the semblance of a human figure, felt it clasp her hands with very human hands, the beginning of a face…

  Then Arwa flinched, instinctual terror, and the daiva flinched with her.

  “Wait!” she shouted, but it was too late.

  It broke apart again and flew away, leaving her on the tower, hands outstretched to nothing.

  When she next went to Zahir he was waiting for her, bruised and cross-legged and grim.

  They did not greet each other. Only stared, unwavering.

  “I deserve answers, Arwa.”

  “Do you,” she said.

  “You risked both our lives, when you ripped away from me,” he said. “I expected better.”

  “I am sorry for disappointing you, my lord.”

  Zahir laughed. A bitter thing.

  “No, you’re not,” he said. Arwa did not answer him.

  “What did you see,” he said, “in the realm of ash to make you act so rashly?”

  “Exactly what you saw. Bodies.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But that did not surprise me, and surely did not surprise you. You are a noblewoman and a commander’s widow. You know the Maha fought many wars to establish the Empire.”

  “There were children,” Arwa said. “Women.”

  “He was ruthless, Lady Arwa,” he said softly. “We know that.”

  “Zahir. Lord Zahir. They lay upon my path of ash. You know those were my dead. People of my blood. Amrithi. I recognized a blade. Like my own.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “We both know the Empire has murdered Amrithi.”

  “And that does not concern you? Upset you?” she challenged.

  “I do not allow myself to feel pain for things I cannot alter. You know this, Lady Arwa.”

  “Do you know he has done worse?” Her voice wavered. “Worse than murder?”

  He was silent. Then: “It would not surprise me.”

  “Don’t you care?”

  “I have told you, Arwa. I can’t.” A sudden fierceness honed his voice to a blade. His eyes snapped open, fierce. Fixed upon her. “I have one use. One task. If I waver from that, what will it accomplish? Who will I save, if I crumble? And you, Lady Arwa—you live in the Empire also. You were raised a noblewoman. Do you spend your days pondering the suffering the Empire has inflicted on those who are not part of it, or do you choose to sweep their pain aside and focus on your own survival?”

  “I made no choice,” snapped Arwa.

  “Did you not?”

  “I have merely lived my life, Lord Zahir. As best as I can.”

  “Living is a choice, Lady Arwa.” Zahir was leaning forward, eyes bright and fierce. “Believe me. I know.”

  Arwa looked away from him. Ah, his eyes burned.

  “You make it sound so simple,” she said.

  “It truly is that simple.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, it isn’t.”

  She thought of the life she had lived. She had tried to be a good and dutiful daughter, a pleasing and gentle wife. She had been exactly what was expected of her.

  Until the daiva in the hermitage. Until the surface of her world had splintered. Until she had offered herself up for this task, and opened a new door onto—light.

  “It is like… your lamp. Your Hidden One’s lamp of truth.” She spoke slowly, weighing her words. “We know monsters with teeth live in the darkness; we know ill things live in the warp and weft of our world, but they are… no more than children’s tales to us. They are hidden in deep shadow. We cannot see or feel them. To us, they barely exist. We need not acknowledge them at all. But the lamp, Lord Zahir.”

  She looked at him, and at the glow of lantern light on his skin. The hollows of his face, carved by shadow, illuminated.

  “The lamp of truth reveals the world. But when we lift the lamp we see—knowledge that cannot be unknown or undone. That is what your poems do not say, my lord. What do you do when you find the truth at the end of the path?”

  She met his eyes.

  “I cannot unsee what I’ve seen. I can’t unfeel what I felt in the realm. I know what was done to the Amrithi. More than death, more than exil
e from the Empire’s grace. I know what my sister…” She stopped. The words threatened to choke her.

  “I had a sister,” she continued, finally. “A sister who was more Amrithi than me. Who kept our—her—birth mother’s traditions. She entered the Maha’s service, married, I was told, and then she died. And now I know what became of her. Of what became of so many like her. And I can’t look away,” Arwa said helplessly. “I can’t possibly look away.”

  “Lady Arwa,” he said softly. His eyes were wide. He said nothing more.

  And oh, that infuriated her. She took a step toward him, hands in helpless fists.

  “You are so curious, Lord Zahir. You question everything with such care, but you surround yourself in such—such darkness. And I know it must be a choice. Your mother offered her knowledge to the Emperor and was executed. Your Hidden Ones work in secrecy because exposure would see them destroyed for heresy. You gut yourself for the Empire and the heir apparent names you a dog.” She spat the words. “You say saving the Empire will save countless lives, but how can you bring yourself to do it, when the Empire eats its own people, when it gorges on the living and the dead alike? How can you bring yourself to sacrifice yourself for this Empire, which will only accept you when you are useful in the way it commands, when you crush your true self in order to survive? How, Zahir?”

  She was not talking of Zahir anymore. Or not simply Zahir. She was talking of herself.

  He knew it, just as she did. She could read it in every line of his face. His gaze was shattering soft, his face an open carapace.

  “What did you see in the ash?” he asked, urgent. “What did it show you, beyond death?”

  He did not deserve to know. He did not.

  But perhaps deserve was a pointless measure of the right to know. Did Arwa deserve the truth? She had been nothing, done nothing, saved no one. Not even herself. The truth needed to be known. That was enough.

  In the night the bruises around his neck were deep and dark.

  “We can go back into the realm of ash,” she told him. “If we had still had our roots twined together, you would have seen some of it. As I saw what you saw, the first time we entered the realm. We can go into the realm, and I can show you. Come with me again. Let me show you what the Maha did. Follow the lamp of truth, my lord.”