by Tasha Suri
She took a step closer.
“I am afraid something similar will happen here. Don’t you feel it? The fear? Don’t you feel something terrible growing within your skull with no way to leave it?”
She drew the memory of the dream close around her. The storm. The face of white bone. Kamran’s dust—and all the memories his death brought with it—hovering half-formed in the air before her.
“I know you do,” she said, letting her voice soften not with the gentleness expected of a noblewoman, but with the rasp Zahir’s voice sometimes held when he showed the sharp edge of his curiosity. “Please, my lords, you must help us.”
Sohal leaned forward. Like a tree swayed by a great wind.
“Your eyes,” he whispered.
Her eyes. Panic clamored up within her. Had she reached for the ash? Were her eyes full of gray-white light? She blinked, breathed, hoping it would fade away.
Sohal cleared his throat, and turned away. “By the Maha’s blessing,” he said, “you believe we need to warn our captain? That everyone will die?”
“I know it.”
“You can’t,” said the soft-faced guard. He lowered his voice. “That’s heresy.”
“I’m no heretic,” Arwa said, even though it was a lie. She stared at him full in the face, holding her knowledge around herself like a fierce armor all of her own. “I know it.”
Sohal shook his head. Took a step back. The spell was shattered.
“Go,” Sohal said abruptly. “Go now, lady. And keep your foolish thoughts to yourself.”
“Come on, sister. Let’s obey,” Eshara said tightly. Arwa could hear the fear tucked in her voice.
She felt Eshara grip her tight and knew her time had run out.
“Sohal.” A voice, deep from within the storefront. “He heard voices. He’s asked for you to bring him the women at the door.”
Sohal closed his eyes. Opened them. There was sweat on his forehead.
“My apologies, young widow,” he said. “You have your wish after all.”
They stepped into the store. Arwa assumed it must have been used for selling medicine, once. The air smelled of spices and herbs; jars of turmeric and honey and stoppered clay containers lined the walls, on cramped shelves. Some of the jars were broken, their contents spilled across the floor. Seated slumped against the wall, surrounded by shattered jars, a carafe of wine before him, sat the captain.
His helm was on the floor, but he wore his status in the fine fabric of his tunic, visible through his half-assembled armor, and the bands of decorated metal encircling his wrists. He had a cluster of men with him. One, old and grizzled, helm still on his head, was kneeling and speaking to the captain in a low voice. The older soldier rose when Eshara and Arwa entered, gave them a grim look, and stepped back into the shadows, where the captain’s other palmful of men stood in uneasy silence.
Captain Argeb raised his head. He gave them a smile that was unexpected in its openness: mouth curling, teeth faintly bared, eyes crinkling with joy.
“So much useless chattering,” he said by way of greeting. There was a faint slur to his voice. “Ladies, come and sit.”
Arwa and Eshara kneeled down across from him.
He placed his own cup on the ground.
“Wine,” he said, pushing it toward Arwa, keen light in his eyes. “Drink.”
“I am a widow,” Arwa said softly, scrabbling for decorum in the face of the captain’s drunken joy, the nervous and fearful silence of the soldiers. “My lord, I will not imbibe with men.”
“Your honor, is it?” Lips peeling back from his teeth. “As I see it, a respectable widow wouldn’t be flirting about with my men at all. A respectable widow would trust the Governor’s men to protect the caravanserai as they see fit. She would have faith.”
He turned his gaze onto Eshara.
“And you, I think, are not a widow. Too much hair, for one.”
“No,” Eshara said shortly.
“Then you can drink for the both of you,” he said.
“I think we’d best leave,” said Eshara.
“No,” said the captain. “We haven’t talked yet. Drink.”
Eshara took the cup. Drank a sip. Lowered it. Satisfied, Argeb picked up the cup, placed his mouth pointedly where hers had rested on the rim, and drank deep and fast. When he’d finished he lowered the cup. Poured again.
“I can forgive your behavior, widow. People are so desperate to leave that they’ll do anything, it seems. Why, a man tried to climb the walls an hour ago. He’s being made an example of; of course, we can’t treat men the way we do women. Has it been done, Giresh?”
“Sir, I, well…” The soft-faced soldier, Giresh, stopped and swallowed. Then he said, “I will check. My lord.”
“Do.”
Giresh vanished.
“I am not just rooting out bandits, you see,” the captain said. “I am rooting out all sorts of things.”
He leaned forward, conspiratorial, and she smelled his breath, sweet with wine, bitter with something that was not wine. Not just drunk, she thought.
How long had he been sitting here drinking, imbibing, even as his men stood apart from him in nervous, fearful silence? The oldest of them was watching the captain like a hawk. This was his patrol. No doubt they knew his moods well.
“I heard you speak, widow,” he said. “You spoke of Darez Fort. Said we could end up like that place. You verged on heresy.”
“Not heresy, my lord,” Arwa said, even as her heart pounded in her chest. “Only a mere woman’s fears.”
“I know, you said. I know.”
He leaned in even closer. Arwa felt the back of Eshara’s hand against her leg, grounding her, helping her avoid the desire to wrench herself away.
“I see it in your eyes,” he whispered. “Something… inhuman. Your eyes are not a natural color. They are like…”
Ash, Arwa thought.
But he did not finish his statement. Instead his smile twitched, spasmodic.
“You hear it too,” he said. “Don’t you?”
He did not say, the nightmare. But she understood. She knew.
She nodded. Careful. She had to be careful. The wrong words would see her and Eshara dead.
“It whispers to me,” she said.
“It whispers in my ears too,” he said. “Constantly. I hear it waking. I hear it in my sleep. I gave it so many gifts, and yet it follows me.”
“Gifts,” she echoed.
“You know how it hungers.”
She thought of the bodies on the road. Her stomach twisted.
Could the men around the captain hear him? Eshara certainly could. But they were silent, no words, barely breathing.
“I have studied Darez Fort. I have been to it, can you imagine that?”
“No, my lord. I can’t imagine such a place.”
“I made a special visit of it. The blood has never been cleared, you know. You can still see the shadow of death…” Argeb trailed off. Lifted his cup. Drank deep again. Refilled it. “The place was cursed, widow. Oh, that I don’t doubt. But the death!” He leaned forward. “The death,” he said, “cleansed it.”
Images flickered through Arwa’s mind’s eye. What she had seen at Darez Fort had not been cleansing. But she bit her tongue. Silent. For once, she would be silent.
“I’m no weak-willed creature,” he said. “Oh, it speaks, but I question it. It wants butchery, it knows killing can be sweet. But I speak to it in return. And I have come to understand it. It has taught me the truth. The Empire is cursed. Saving it demands a price. And the terror, its voice. I think…” Voice trembling with joy. “I think it is the Maha’s voice. The Maha’s will.
“Butchery is disrespectful,” he continued. “Untidy. What I do here will be a purification. Perfect. Precise. When I am done everything will be pure. The Governor is wroth with me now, but he won’t be. He won’t. The Emperor will be glad. Everyone says he desires above all things to blot out heresy. These caravanserais, these
pilgrims, are a part of the Empire’s curse. They must be cut away, as infected flesh must be.”
One heartbeat. Two. Eshara’s hand on her leg now, gripping tight. Hold fast.
The ash had no answers for her. The nightmare was in him. The nightmare would see them all dead.
And she could not stop him.
“My lord is wise,” Arwa managed.
With a sense of dull dread, Arwa felt the inevitable occur: The captain’s hand gripped her shawl, drawing it away from her shorn hair, baring her. He gripped her face. Sweat-damp fingers, his hold too firm, his face far too close.
“Yes,” he said satisfied. “You hear it too.”
“Captain.” Sohal’s voice from the entrance. Shaking. “May I speak to you? Giresh has news of the latest heretic’s punishment.”
For a moment, the captain continued to hold Arwa’s face in his grasp. She waited, feeling Eshara’s nails against her knee, the sheer tension in the air. Then the captain exhaled, released her, and slumped back against the wall.
“Come in and speak,” he said.
“Let me refresh your carafe, Captain,” said the older soldier. He leaned down, blocking the captain’s view. He gave Eshara a look.
Eshara tightened her grip. Released it.
“We go,” she whispered. “We go now.”
Arwa fumbled to her feet. None of the soldiers stopped them as they stepped carefully away. At the door was Sohal, arms crossed, face gray. He stepped aside to let them pass, and then stepped into the interior.
“Walk faster,” Eshara said in a low voice, and Arwa obeyed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Eshara walked faster, still gripping Arwa’s arm.
“That man,” she said tightly, “was cursed.”
Arwa’s own throat felt terribly tight.
“Yes,” she managed. “He was.”
“We’re in the shit,” Eshara said grimly. “It was a miracle we left that room. It’ll be an even greater miracle if we make it to Irinah. Keep walking. Don’t look behind us.”
“He may be following us,” said Arwa, breathless, struggling to keep up with Eshara’s brisk pace. “Or his men, he may—”
“Keep. Walking.”
They made it across the courtyard, nearly to their sleeping quarters. Then Eshara dragged Arwa into the shadows of a stall and leaned forward, breathing unevenly.
“Eshara…”
“Get Zahir,” she said. “We can’t stay here now. Your eyes, they couldn’t stop speaking of your damnable eyes. What is wrong with them, anyway?”
“Ash,” Arwa said tightly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“They look almost normal now at least,” Eshara said. “Better for us. Those men will be looking for us soon enough, after all. When the drink and—whatever that captain was suffering—wears off.” Eshara pressed a hand on her face. She swore violently.
Arwa didn’t move. She stood still, day’s heat around her, fear curling unnatural fingers along her spine. She knew Eshara felt it too. She could not blame her for shattering. But she also couldn’t ignore Eshara’s strength, the curl of her fists… the memory of the men of Darez Fort turning on one another, as the fear ate them whole.
“I hate being this afraid,” Eshara said suddenly. Her voice was savage.
“All is well, Eshara.”
“Don’t tell me what’s well. It isn’t.”
Arwa swallowed.
“Fine, then,” she said. “It isn’t.”
Deep breaths. Eshara straightened.
“You must think I am easily cowed,” said Eshara, clenching and unclenching her fists. “The bodies we found sickened me. I can’t sleep alone. But I’m not afraid of death or of killing. I was a guardswoman. I knew my duty, and there’s no shame in death. It’s what I was trained for. But what was done to Reya, to my fellow guardswomen…” Eshara shook her head. “She was loyal. They were all loyal. We deserved better. It has… shaken me. And the damnable curse on this place doesn’t help.”
Eshara began to pace, for all the world like a creature caged.
“Perhaps you think because I am a Hidden One that I wasn’t truly loyal,” Eshara said, suddenly savage.
“I know you were loyal,” said Arwa. But Eshara was not listening.
“Zahir’s mother,” said Eshara, “offered her skills to save the Empire. She did more than simply cajole the Emperor with soft words and flattery. She took a risk. The others hated her for it, but I thought it was brave. I still do. How much can you really do to save an Empire from the shadows?” She made a vague, fierce gesture with one hand. Kept on pacing. “I protect him because I believe in his purpose, in the power of knowledge, of truth. But I protected the imperial women because I am loyal to the Empire, and to everything it offers us. Safety. A future. A purpose.”
“You think noblewomen are pampered fools,” Arwa said, because ah, she had no sense.
Eshara looked at her.
“The Empire,” she said, “is not a group of pampered women. It is not the Maha. It isn’t even an Emperor anymore.” She spat the word Emperor, heavy with all her hate for Parviz. For what he had done. “But all of those elements maintain the Empire, and I do my part to ensure that the structure of our world does not shatter. I do my part to keep it whole so we can make it better.” She stretched out her hands. “And yet here we are. The world breaking around us. Isn’t it?”
Sickness. Terror. Dead imperial sons. Failed harvests. Hunger stretching its hands across the provinces.
“That’s what the curse on the Empire is, I suppose,” said Arwa. “All the ways the Empire is fragmenting. Turning to dust.”
Eshara had stopped pacing. She stood now, wavering on her feet.
“We are better than this,” she said numbly. “Stronger than this. More glorious than this. We have to be.”
“We need to get Zahir,” Arwa said, with more gentleness than she thought herself capable of. “We need to take him and hide, and do our best to ensure he survives and reaches Irinah. Hold on to that, Eshara.”
“Yes,” Eshara said. “Yes. All right. I will.”
Eshara looked at Arwa then, not as if she were seeing her with new eyes, but as if she had come to the end of the world, and no one was left but Arwa, so Arwa would have to do.
It was hardly complimentary. But it was something.
Zahir was waiting for them. She could see the relief on his face, splintered all through with fear.
“Good,” he said. “You’re still alive.”
“We need to go.”
“Oh, I’m aware of that,” he said. “But where do you suggest? And what happened when you spoke to the soldiers, exactly?”
“I’ll tell you as we walk,” said Eshara. “Just hurry up. We’ve wasted enough time coming back for you.”
They left their makeshift room and walked across the courtyard, Eshara speaking to Zahir in a low, hurried voice. The open space was still full of milling people, but it was silent. People were staring up at the walls.
Arwa raised her own head. Something was staked on the walls. In the light she couldn’t quite see.
“Don’t stare,” hissed Eshara. Her own voice trembled on a knife edge.
But Zahir had paused too, raising his own face up, and said nothing when Arwa stopped alongside him and blinked through the glare of the sun. She saw what was there. Swallowed the bile that rose to her mouth.
Corpses upon walls. Ah, Gods save them.
At least she knew what the punishment Argeb had spoken of was.
She tugged Zahir’s sleeve. Understanding, he followed her.
The House of Tears had shut its doors. Eshara strode forward and rapped on them sharply. She knocked harder still when there was no response.
Arwa pressed her own hand to the wood.
“Sisters,” she shouted. “Aunts. Please. If you recognize my voice, or not—I am a fellow widow. You offered me sanctuary once. I beg it of you now. Please. Answer me.”
Silence. Then:
; “We’re not allowing anyone in, widow or not.” The voice was a woman’s voice. Trembling. It was painfully close, just beyond the wood.
“Please,” Eshara said, pressing her hand flat to the door alongside Arwa’s. “We only want—”
“We do not care what you want,” another voice said. How many women were pressed close to the door, huddled tight together? “We will not open the door.”
“They’re killing a man,” said Zahir. His voice was devoid of feeling. “Out in the open. They’re making a spectacle of it.”
Eshara turned. Swore again. But Arwa did not turn.
“Please,” she said. “You offered me safety once. Please offer it again.”
“We don’t owe you anything, woman,” snapped the widow. “Not safety. Not entry here. Is this how you repay our kind offer? By placing us all at risk by asking us to open our doors to chaos?”
“You have wooden doors,” Eshara said bluntly. “Cheap. They won’t hold for long. And I know how to gut a man from groin to neck. Do you?”
“At least one of us does,” another widow said guardedly.
“Horse shit,” said Eshara. “You need us.”
“Let us in, Aunt, or we will die out here,” said Arwa, trying a softer tack. “I know you are good hearted. You offered me shelter when you believed I had none. I beg you now: Do not rescind your offer. Do not allow us to die.”
“All of you?” said the first voice. Hesitant. “I heard a man’s voice, sister.”
“You do not need to take me,” Zahir said. “Only take them.”
“We survive together or not at all,” said Arwa. “Please.”
Silence. Nothing. Nothing.
Somewhere, distantly, she could hear wailing.
The door opened.
“Quickly now, before I change my mind.”
They needed no further encouragement. The three of them tumbled in, and the doors of the House of Tears closed behind them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
As soon as they were through the door, Arwa felt as if she could breathe more easily. The terror eased, just enough for her to take in the sight before her with clear eyes. The widows were all crowded at the top of the stairs, which led to the prayer room. They had no proper weapons—no scimitars, no bows, no handheld daggers—but they had makeshift tools of defense. Cooking knives. A broom, broken, the end sharpened. One was holding, of all things, a bucket.
