Realm of Ash

by Tasha Suri

  As she spoke, as she began to recite a mantra, she felt her mind sharpen and the fear peel away from her. Prayer had power. Oh, it did. But the nightmare was moving, prowling on its sharp bones, and it crooned to her, Perhaps you will live. My kin.

  But we will have our due.

  Her prayer was not enough. Of course it was not.

  She thought of the inevitability of the tide, and the way it could turn any stone to the finest dust. Perhaps if she had a little more time, she could seek out the widows, and ask them to pray with her. They could clasp hands, worship the nightmare until its terror was small and its power broken. Perhaps together they could beg some benevolence from the nightmare. Pass over this caravanserai, kin. We beg you: Do not bring the dark here.

  But she had no time. She was, in fact, running out of time. There were screams beyond the walls of the House of Tears. Her voice faltered. She raised her eyes. A howl, unfurling once more, at the base of her skull. And the nightmare was watching her, all flat and smiling malevolence, its mouth a rictus.

  You cannot reason with a nightmare. You cannot cajole fear or make it serve your will. The nightmare was a thing born from horror and history, and Arwa could not destroy it.

  But the nightmare had given her a key, nonetheless. Something to fuel the hope that had sustained her ever since Kamran’s death.

  Prayer. There were many ways to pray.

  She remembered a memory that was not her own: of dancing an Amrithi rite upon Irinah’s sands, and the way the daiva had moved with her. For Amrithi, their rites were worship. Every sigil shaped by a hand, every stance. Worship.

  Worship had power. And Amrithi worship had power over the daiva.

  She remained kneeling upon the desert, as if overcome.

  Around the nightmare, the daiva shifted in a black corona. They clawed at its arms. They struggled to hold it. Balance. In Darez Fort, the nightmare had been surrounded by a daiva’s flesh. It was only when the flesh shattered that the nightmare had flown free. The daiva sought balance. She had begged them so many times to save her, and they had done so. But there was a price. She knew there was a price. At the dovecote tower, she’d been forced to use the ash she’d consumed and she’d almost been destroyed by it.

  Who am I?

  Beat of her heart. One, two.

  Losing herself was a risk she would have to take.

  This was her realm. Her path. The place where the echoes of the dead lay within her soul, still.

  She remembered the bodies of the Amrithi dead upon her desert. Her desert, which lay beneath her. She pressed her hands deep into the sand, lowered her head, and breathed in.

  The ash rose from the desert to meet her. Filled her dreamed lungs, her soul’s flesh.

  Dozens of memories. Thousands. The nightmare skittered toward her, with a menacing click of its limbs. She was screaming, somewhere where she was flesh. Footsteps pounded on the stairs. Zahir was holding on to her tight, fumbling for something on the ground. Ceramic shattered.

  She was—

  She was not—

  “You’re stubborn,” Ushan said. “Just like your mother.”

  Hands clasped on his knees. He was leaning against a rock, sun blistering overhead. “But you need to learn, Iria. You’ll thank me one day.”

  She rose up onto her elbows. Spat out sand.

  “Why,” she said, “is it always you?”

  He was silent for a moment. The memory wavered. Then he straightened, and stood.

  “One day,” he said, “you’re going to understand that not all daiva are as benevolent as my progenitor.”

  “They’ve made vows,” Iria said. “I don’t see why—”

  “Iria,” he sighed. “Darling. Not all people are blessed as we are.”

  “I don’t see why that matters.”

  “It matters because they matter,” he said gently. “If not to you, then to someone. And they need someone to help them survive when a death-spirit enters their village, or when a daiva takes more than people can bear to give. You will be needed then to protect them. And you’ll need a powerful rite. Something old and strong.”

  “I don’t know see why it has to be me.”

  “It may not be. Consider this a… broadening of your options.”

  He kneeled down beside her.

  “Father,” she said. “Must I?”

  “It’s a simple rite,” he said gently. “Not difficult at all. Now, Iria. Let’s begin.”

  She sat up. “Fine,” she said. “I’m ready, Father. Show me.”

  “Its name,” he said, “is the Rite of the Cage.”

  She rose out of the memory, was dragged, red roots drawing her home. She sucked in great gouts of air. The world spun around her, half-ash, half-mortal, but Zahir was holding her, clasping one of his hands tight against her. She realized he’d cut his hand and her own and clasped them together. The feel of their shared blood was terribly hot.

  “I’d hoped it would be enough to draw you back somehow,” he said raggedly. “Blood and flame, if not—sleep.”

  “Zahir,” she said shakily. “There is too much in my head.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t. I keep forgetting. Forgetting who I am—”

  “Arwa,” he said softly. “You are Arwa.” He held her tight, drawing her hand against his chest. “I’m holding you. My roots to yours. I’m trying to take some of the burden from you. Can you feel it?”

  She nodded silently. The realm of ash was still so terribly close. In her mind’s eye she could see the way their roots were tangled together. Stronger than they would be alone. Between them the ash moved, flickering at the edges of his mind even as it filled her own, filtered through the conduit of their roots.

  They were a mystical order of two. They were.

  “Good,” he said. Smiled. He was sweating. Even in the dark, she could see how wan he was. “Because I certainly can.”

  She blinked up at him. Ash. She could still feel the ash.

  “Help me up,” she said hoarsely. “I need to perform a rite.”

  He asked far fewer questions than she expected, helping her to her feet. He supported her body, holding her steady as she breathed deep and held her arms before her.

  “What do you need from me?” he asked.

  “Keep holding me up,” she said. “I know what I need to do.”

  Once, long ago, Ushan had gripped his daughter’s forearms. Lifted them.

  “Remember,” he’d said. “Back straight and strong. Legs at an angle—”

  “I know.”

  “Holding firm will be important, Iria,” he’d said patiently. “You must understand this rite isn’t—easily done.”

  Arwa held herself as firm as she could, relying on Zahir’s strength. She held out her arms. Shaped sigils. One. Then another.

  Hold. Strong.

  “I need to move,” she said. “Just—don’t let me fall.”

  He said nothing, but he held on as she moved, his breath sharp against her hair.

  Blood.

  Hands circling, mimicry of a knot.

  Bind.

  Fingers fanning. Arms shaping a winding circle, her thumbs catching together.

  Lock.

  “The daiva won’t thank you for demanding they cage one of their own,” said Ushan. “But they’ll do what’s needful. And that will give you time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “To tell people to run, of course. What else?” He shook his head. “Don’t let anyone tell you that you can fight the child of a God.”

  The nightmare was not a daiva, to be caged by its own so that mortals would have time to flee. But it was an immortal creature, God-born, as immortal as a daiva, and daiva had the capacity to contain it. Or so Arwa hoped. She only had hope, and a theory. But Arwa had learned the value of testing a theory, and what better time than now, when lives depended upon it?

  Hands interlocked. Fingers interlocked. Brought back against her chest, to her heart.
r />   Cage.

  There was a sound—awful, screeching, racing through her skull—and then—

  Silence. Darkness.

  The pale light of the nightmare had been snuffed out. Arwa heard Zahir release a ragged breath.

  “The fear,” he said. “It’s gone.”

  “The daiva will hold the nightmare for a while,” she slurred, crumpling. He held her steady, whispering an apology as he steadied her.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Not long, Zahir. Balance. It will need to—let go. For balance. We need to get out while we can. Can you…?”

  “Anything,” he said.

  “Lower me,” she said. “My head. It hurts.”

  He lowered her down. The world spun her, in lazy and vast circles.

  “The captain may still not let us pass,” she said. “But now we…”

  “Stop talking, Arwa,” he said softly. “Please.” He touched a hand to her face. “Your eyes…”

  She wanted to laugh. “I know.”

  The worry on his face only made her try to stand up once more. Her legs crumpled. Fool.

  “We have a chance,” she said. “We have to take it.”

  “We will. I promise it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  There was a pointed noise from the staircase. Arwa turned her head, as Zahir turned his. The widows were on the stairs once more. Eshara was in front of them, arms outstretched protectively, her mouth a thin line.

  “For clarity, Zahir, these fine ladies just watched the Maha’s strange white effigy vanish into the air, consumed by dark spirits,” Eshara said tightly. “They’d like an explanation. You will remember, of course, that they have weapons.”

  Arwa could not help him. She was exhausted beyond words, shaking with the weight of the realm of ash still clinging to her mind.

  What had they seen? Zahir holding Arwa; the shadow of hands moving. The darkness swallowing the effigy—and the fear racing through their minds and their dreams—whole.

  “What witchcraft was this?” one widow asked shakily. Another adjusted her hold on her weapon, knuckles visibly white.

  “This was not witchcraft,” Eshara bit out. Then, “Zahir.”

  He was looking down at Arwa, head bent, gaze thoughtful. Fool boy, her not-prince—as if he had time to think, now. She saw his eyes close, and a fine crease form between his brows.

  There were no lies readily at hand that would explain what had happened before the widows’ eyes. She knew he was considering falsehoods, one by one, and discarding them. And he could not tell them the truth either. Not the whole of it: not what lay in Arwa’s blood, the spirits she’d called to her, the paths of death and ash they had walked together.

  There was only one tale that would do. A tale that had grown into its own beast. A tale that would draw Parviz’s ire and drag Zahir out of hiding and into the blazing, dangerous light.

  A tale that—once invoked—would set its teeth around his throat and never let go.

  She saw him think. And she saw him make his choice.

  He opened his eyes and his face smoothed. Before her, she saw a Zahir she both knew, and did not. His expression was serene, his eyes full of a cutting light.

  “You don’t need to be afraid,” he said. His voice, ah—it was a rasp of silk, his father’s voice, rich enough to stop the heart. He raised his head. In the light, she saw that bringing her back from the realm of ash had marked him, at least for the moment, as it had marked her.

  His eyes were gray from end to end. Liquid silver.

  They had barely looked at him, these widows, when he’d first entered the House of Tears.

  They looked at him now.

  The lantern light flickered across him, framed the sharp loveliness of his bones. She remembered how she’d hungered when she’d first seen him, and was glad. There was power in that. He stood.

  “My name is Zahir,” he said. “Son of the courtesan Bahar. Blessed scion of the departed Emperor. Brother of murdered princes. I have walked the Empire as a pilgrim. I have mourned and feared with you, I have saved this caravanserai from the Empire’s curse, and I…” He tilted his head back, haughty and pure, an effigy given flesh and face. “I am the Maha’s heir.”

  It was Zahir who led the way, out into the courtyard.

  In his pilgrim’s robes, his hair uncovered, no turban to give him status, he should not have been imposing. But he was impossible to ignore. For all that he was a bastard, a blessed, disgraced and hidden, he was still the Emperor’s blood. He’d been raised knowing what grace lay in his bloodline. He had seen the utter ease with which his siblings had held power. He wore a stitched costume of their confidence now—wore it as if it were his own.

  The crowd responded to it. The widows had been shaken by fear, but now they were fierce with hope. They had witnessed a miracle. They would not be easily shaken, now.

  She walked close to Zahir, mere footsteps behind him, Eshara holding her steady. Eshara kept grinding her teeth. Arwa didn’t have the heart—or the energy—to tell her to stop.

  “I can’t believe this,” Eshara said, not for the first time. She kept her voice low. “Does he really believe they’ll simply let us leave?”

  “What else can we hope for?” Arwa whispered in return. “You think we can fight imperial soldiers with broom handles?”

  Eshara ground her teeth again, and said nothing more.

  We could still die, Arwa thought. She did not say it. She knew Eshara thought it too. The guardswoman was holding her fast, staring unblinking at Zahir and the soldiers ahead of him.

  The soldiers were at the gates. A crowd still stood about them, tense and silent. But they parted when the widows approached, and Arwa could not blame them for it. The widows were an eerie, silent sea of white, their heads covered with their shawls, their hands full of grave-tokens.

  The grave-tokens had been Aunt Madhu’s suggestion. Gimlet-eyed, hands shaking as she ordered her women around her.

  We need to remind them of what we are, she’d said.

  “Let us go.” Diya’s voice. Clear as a bell. Her head was raised, her hands before her, full of soil and grief. “We are widows, my lord. Not heretics or bandits. We mourn the Maha’s memory. We are keepers of the Empire’s great grief, just as we keep our own. Let us go free, or may the Maha’s heir remember your ill deeds, and strike you down.”

  Let us go. Let us go. Maha’s heir.

  The call was taken up by the other widows. The chant spread from them to the watching pilgrims, who stood under the walls, their voices growing and swelling until Arwa could hear nothing but a press of noise, taste nothing but iron and ash and foolish, foolish hope.

  Before them all, Zahir stood silent and unblinking. Eshara had once feared that his name had become a locus for all the Empire’s rage and hope. In that moment, his body was a talisman, a shield. They surrounded him and believed they would live, that he was their hope and their future, their Maha’s heir, and so he was.

  He did not tremble. That was all right. She trembled enough for him.

  Sohal stepped forward from the line of soldiers. She recognized his bald head; his tense shoulders. He walked slowly, shivering like a newborn animal. But his expression was resolute as he met Arwa’s eyes—one long, unblinking look—then bowed his head. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his scimitar to the ground. Reached into his sash, removed his dagger, and lowered that too.

  There was no falter in the chanting, which grew and grew; against the tide of noise came another soldier, walking steadily forward. This one was a stranger to her, older and helmed. He lowered his weapon too. Placed a hand on Sohal’s arm.

  The rest of the soldiers did not move.

  “This will end in a bloodbath,” muttered Eshara.

  It certainly will if we’re not free before the nightmare is, thought Arwa. She gripped Eshara tight in return, heart in her throat.

  “Open the gates.” A voice, gruff with command. It was a leader’s
voice: loud enough to echo through the air and cut through the desperate fury of the crowd. The chanting faltered. “Let them out.”

  It was the old soldier Arwa had seen in the store. He walked slowly, with a pronounced limp she hadn’t seen before. Behind him was another soldier, cleaning a blade upon a rag.

  “Where is the captain?” one soldier asked.

  The older soldier said nothing. Arwa noticed—as surely the soldiers also did—that his sword wasn’t entirely clean either.

  “Open the gates,” he repeated. His gaze was flat. “Now.”

  There was a moment—a long moment—when Arwa was sure the men would not obey. But then she saw one move, then two. She heard the creak of gates being drawn wide, and felt the press of people surging forward around her.

  “Don’t fall, now,” Eshara said, gripping her. “I’ve got you.”

  They stumbled forward, following the pilgrims, and finally left the Grand Caravanserai—and its nightmare—behind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I don’t think there’s any doubt now,” said Arwa. She had one hand raised to shade her face, squinting against the fading sun. “We have a proper retinue.”

  “Stop staring at them,” Eshara said, aggrieved.

  “Do you think if I stop they’ll go away?” Arwa asked.

  “Don’t joke with me,” said Eshara. “I am still not your friend, Lady Arwa.”

  Despite her words, she guided Arwa forward gently, supporting Arwa as she walked onward and onward on shaky legs. The worst of her fall into the realm of ash had faded, like a dream, to dust. For two days they’d walked from the Grand Caravanserai, Eshara and Zahir in turn holding Arwa steady, near carrying her as they’d followed the pilgrim route toward Irinah. At first Arwa had struggled to walk at all, but her strength was returning. She only saw the realm of ash when she slept; when she closed her eyes for too long, red roots bloomed.

  But she was going to be fine. She told herself this. There was no option but for it to be true.