by Tasha Suri
“Arwa,” he said. Tender, his voice was so tender, as if he understood. He gripped her arms. “Let me go.”
“No.” She tightened her grip on him in return. “Will you push me aside?” she demanded. “Will you let go of my roots, and break yourself upon his ash on your own? No, you need me. And I am not moving.”
“You know this is necessary,” he said, with that same terrible tenderness—as if he had expected this and was prepared to refuse her.
“I’m not sure that I do,” she whispered. “I can still hear the poetry, Zahir. I can still hear your Hidden Ones. And I hear the tale Aliye told me. A tale of a doe and an arrow and a sacrifice for the good of love, because the story lives inside me. And in you.”
The ink wrapped around their feet. Words upon words.
“We have been taught all our lives that we must destroy ourselves in order to be worthy. To have purpose. Have we not, Zahir?” She looked up at his face. The hewn glass of his soul, flayed open before her own. “Jihan taught you so. The Empress taught you so. Your mother. The Hidden Ones. So I was taught, by my mother too. But we don’t. We don’t. We do not have to lay ourselves at the Maha’s feet.”
He looked at her as if she had wounded him, as if she had his blood on her hands.
“There is no other way,” he said. “Arwa. You know there isn’t.”
“There is,” she said sharply. “There is. For all your logic and your precision, Zahir, you can’t see beyond the Maha. He is like—the sun. All this time we have loved him and hated him and chased him because we have been told he lies at the heart of everything, that he is all light and without his knowledge we will be left to die in the cold. But he isn’t the sun. He is dead, only dead, and we don’t need him. We have prayer. We have Amrithi rites. We have knowledge enough, knowledge we can share, and with it we can save the world.”
She stopped, her body’s heart racing, the air wavering about her.
“People will die this way,” he said, in a voice she did not recognize. Too hollow, too old. “The slow way may see so many, many people dead. We may fail them all.”
“I know,” she said. “And yet the slow way, perhaps, the world heals. Perhaps the slow way is the only way. The Maha broke the world. To heal the wound he made will take… time. And knowledge shared. And hope, even in the dark.”
He tried to turn from her, to blot her words out. She gripped his face.
“You’ve searched so long for the Maha’s ash. You listen to the Hidden Ones. You listen to your mother’s ghost. Now, please, listen to me,” she said softly, her fingertips points of light against his cheekbones. “You told me I have you. You gave yourself to me, Zahir. And I tell you now, if you walk this path you will not be mine anymore, and you will not be your own. You will be his creature, just as you feared, and I…”
She swallowed. It was hard. Hard to speak truthfully. Hard not to fear the effigy of ash behind her.
“You will think I am being selfish,” she whispered. “But I see another path, Zahir, for the first time. And it may not be the wisest route, or the swiftest. But it is not his path. You asked me once if I could even dream another world. I couldn’t then. But when I think of prayers and rites and the slow way through the dark, I can.”
He stopped holding her. Instead he raised a hand to his face, and pressed it over her own fingers. Light and glass, and the gentleness of his eyes.
“Arwa,” he said softly. “Let me go.”
She shook her head, wordless now.
“Please,” he said again. “Let me go.”
She had no words left. She’d tried everything she could.
She released him.
He stood once more before the Maha. He stood in ink that unfurled like silk around him. Their blood roots, wound together, held them bound. She watched him. Waited.
“I am the Maha’s heir,” he said finally. “So my father named me, binding me to the tale, whether I liked it or not. I am the Maha’s heir, and I cannot change that, but I…”
He faltered. He looked at the Maha. With hatred, with yearning. With knowledge of a fate he could not run from.
“I can decide what that means,” he said. His voice was thin, raw with feeling. “Because I am Bahar’s son too. Because I am myself. I know people will listen to the Maha’s heir. If he tells them, Pray and the nightmares will fade and leave you unharmed, they will pray. And if the Maha’s heir has the support of the Hidden Ones… his message will spread, with certainty.”
He turned to her.
“It will be a hard path. Parviz will hound me. He will want me dead, and one day he’ll no doubt succeed. But perhaps by the time he murders me, people will know how to worship the nightmares. That would be—enough.”
If he tries to murder you, I will gut him first, thought Arwa.
“The Amrithi-blooded will know the Rite of the Cage,” she said, with a tilt of her chin. “It belongs to them, after all. I’ll ensure it reaches their hands. We will save the world. And I promise you, Zahir: Your brother will never sit easy upon his throne.”
“No,” said Zahir grimly. “That, at least, I can make sure of. My father’s gift of a title gives me power enough for that, with or without the Maha’s ash. He has made an enemy of the Maha’s heir. He’ll never own the tale again.”
“You’ll do this with me, then,” Arwa blurted out. She curled her hands into fists, hopeful and terrified in equal measure. “You’ll walk away from the Maha’s ash. You’ll choose another path.”
“Yes,” he said. She saw the way the choice shattered something within him—and made him whole. His gaze was full of light. He straightened his shoulders, as if some invisible burden had been raised from them, as if he could breathe. “Yes. I’ll walk a new path with you.”
She could have wept then. Instead she clasped her hands over her face, overwhelmed, and felt his forehead once more against her own, his voice whispering her name with utter softness. He pried her fingers away and kissed her.
It was—strange—to kiss without flesh. She felt the tingle of her lips, her body alive with it, but here in the realm of ash she was only light and glass, clear and pure, and she felt him like blood and life through the roots that bound them.
“We should leave here,” he said.
“Yes,” she murmured, relieved. “Let’s go.”
He turned to stare at the Maha’s ash once more—the perfect shadow of it—before he let the blood roots take them home.
She returned to her flesh, gave a rattling gasp—and immediately spat out the sand she’d somehow swallowed while unconscious. She rose up onto her elbows. The fire was still burning strong. Beyond it, she saw Zahir raise his head.
Then she heard a voice—a scream that echoed through the air, high and sharp.
“Run!”
“Zahir,” she said, scrambling to her feet.
“I hear it,” he said grimly, rising with her.
But they had neatly trapped themselves. They had no vision within the valley they’d settled in. They were surrounded by sloped sand on all sides. They could not run easily. They did not know where—or what—the enemy was. They ran regardless—and immediately found themselves facing a line of soldiers, who surrounded the valley on all sides.
There was no sign of Eshara. No sign of the pilgrims.
The two of them stood frozen. The line parted, just enough to allow a figure to pass between them. The figure was robed and hooded, and carrying a bow. They lifted their head.
Pale eyes met Arwa’s.
“Gulshera,” she said shakily. Stumbled forward, even as Zahir gripped her wrist. “Gulshera? You’re alive? You’re well?”
“Lord Zahir,” said Gulshera. “Your sister has been looking for you.”
“Lady Gulshera.” He cleared his throat, his voice shattered. “You—Jihan. Jihan is alive?”
“Come with me, and you can see her.”
“And Nasir? Is he alive also? Is he with her, and well?”
“Come with me, an
d Jihan will explain everything,” Gulshera said.
Zahir’s eyes traced the line of soldiers.
“Why so many soldiers?” he asked. “And where have our friends gone?”
“Soldiers have a tendency to die in this forsaken desert,” Gulshera replied. “I was required to bring spares. Now—come. We have little time.”
Zahir remained silent.
Gulshera sighed.
“I don’t have time for this, Lord Zahir.”
“Parviz sent you,” he said. “Jihan would have sent you alone. Or—a spy. She’s no warmonger.”
Gulshera shook her head. Took her bow from her shoulder, nocked the arrow, and raised it.
“I am sorry, Arwa,” said Gulshera.
She let the arrow loose.
Arwa heard a thud. Felt a blow that flung her off her feet and back onto the sand.
The pain came a second later.
She couldn’t scream. A thin, high wail escaped her mouth. The arrow—the arrow had hit her. She tried to reach for it. But her arm was numb fire, and she could not move it.
“Arwa!”
“Stay still, Lord Zahir.” Gulshera sounded tired. “I have had a long journey, and I have little interest in a boy’s hysterics. Come with us meekly, or the next blow will go through her leg. It’s an easy target to miss, but I have excellent aim. I expect she would not walk again.”
Pounding of her blood in her skull. She would not be able to stay conscious long. The air had gone white around Zahir, who loomed above her. White, and riven with ash.
He bowed his head.
“I’ll come quietly,” he said.
“Good,” said Gulshera. “You, pick Lady Arwa up. Gently.”
It was all darkness, after that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
She woke in agony.
“Stay still,” Zahir said in a low voice. “You have an arrow in your left shoulder.”
“Really?” she gasped. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He brushed her hair back from her face. His fingers were blessedly cool.
“Don’t try to move again,” he said.
“Where are we?”
“A tent,” he said. “We walked through the city. We’re as far from the desert as one can be without leaving Irinah entirely.”
It was larger than any tent Arwa had seen before, with a great domed ceiling and a lantern upon the table. Neither of them was chained, but Arwa supposed there was no need. Arwa could not run, not as she was, and Zahir would not leave her.
The tent flap was drawn back. A woman walked in. She wore a plain gown, but her shawl was richly beaded, her earrings heavy with pearls. She raised her head, looked at Zahir.
“Zahir.”
“Jihan,” Zahir said. “Ah, Jihan.”
“You’re alive,” whispered Jihan. She crossed the room and cupped his face in her hands. She was weeping openly, her eyes red. “Ah, Zahir. I didn’t know what had become of you. I saw… I arranged Akhtar’s funeral. They told me it was a brother’s duty to bury a brother, but I did not care. I told them I cared for his household. That he was my dearest kin. So I buried him, Zahir, but you—I did not know what the Emperor had done with you, and he refused to tell me, no matter how I wept. I could not mourn you.”
“Nasir, what of Nasir?”
“Masuma stole him away,” said Jihan. “I know nothing more than that. But you, Zahir. What became of you?”
He stared up at his sister, and said, “Please, Jihan. Lady Arwa needs a physician. She’s gravely hurt.”
“Of course,” Jihan said softly. “Of course, dear heart.”
She kneeled down, her great skirt fanned around her.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “What became of you?”
“I survived,” said Zahir. “And then you found me.”
“That is no answer, Zahir.”
“Forgive me,” he said. “I am somewhat distracted by Arwa bleeding to death on the floor beside me. Perhaps if you find her a physician, I’ll be more amenable to talking.”
“I’ve just missed you,” said Jihan. “Worried for you.”
“Jihan.” Tired. He sounded so tried. “I know Parviz sent you here.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“His name?”
“He is the Emperor,” Jihan said. “All old names discarded. He is Emperor as much as our father was Emperor. However he may have risen to the title, we must accept the way things are.”
“You accept the man who killed your brother—your maidservants?”
“I don’t have my birds or my letters or my women any longer,” she said, voice taut. “He denied me all of that. Denied it wholly. What am I to do, but obey him and prove my loyalty? Prove my worth?”
“And you have proven it,” Zahir said. “You have me. But please. A physician, Jihan.”
“Lady Arwa will have a physician when I have the truth,” Jihan said. Her voice was hard. “You entered Irinah. You went to the realm of ash. You returned. What did you find?”
“You could have captured us earlier,” Zahir said. He lowered his head. “Of course. You waited.”
“It is not hard to follow a tale,” said Jihan. “Especially when it concerns a widow and a man who calls himself the Maha’s heir. So what did you find, Maha’s heir? Hm?”
A pause.
“Nothing.”
“I cannot save you with nothing.” She leaned forward, staring into his eyes fiercely. “The Emperor is furious, Zahir. He’s heard all those tales about you. He wants to shame you before all his greatest lords and then kill you. He wants to make an example of you, which means a terrible death. Give me the Maha’s knowledge, Zahir. I know you have it. Then, perhaps, I can save you.”
“Or at least ensure me a swift execution?”
“I wish you’d had the good sense to fade away, Zahir,” said Jihan. “After Father’s death, after we buried Akhtar… I liked to imagine that you and Nasir were both safe somewhere. Living good, happy lives.” She inhaled and exhaled slowly, deeply. “More fool me.”
She leaned back and rose smoothly to her feet.
“The Emperor is coming,” said Jihan, walking over to the table where the lantern sat. “I am glad I’ve wept today, Zahir. He will be pleased with me for giving you to him, and when he kills you I will be able to watch without weeping. My tears will be done. That will please him. Perhaps he will allow me some of my old privileges. Another opportunity to prove what Akhtar knew I could do.”
“It is a pity you were not born a boy, Jihan,” Zahir said. “We would have died peacefully in our sleep, every last one of us, before you wore our father’s title.”
She flinched.
“You think so little of me?”
“Ah, no. I think you love all your brothers fiercely.” Zahir’s voice was wretched with grief. “But I think you will always place the Empire first.”
“Protecting the Empire is everything,” Jihan said. “It is worth any price. Even love.”
“Yes,” Zahir said softly. “So you always taught me.”
“So my mother taught me in turn,” Jihan said sharply. Then her face crumpled into tears once more. “Zahir,” she said. “Please. Do you have nothing I can take to the Emperor? No knowledge from the realm that could spare your life or grant you a merciful death?”
“I have nothing for him,” Zahir said. “Nothing at all.”
“Then he will condemn you as a heretic and take your head. You will condemn me to witnessing that.” Jihan’s face trembled. Then she tensed her jaw. She took a stoppered flask from the table and opened it. “Take this, at least,” she said. “It is all I can offer you now.”
“What is it?”
“Opium water,” she said.
He shook his head sharply. “No, Jihan. So much of it—no.”
She nodded. Then she said, “Guards.”
Two guardswomen entered immediately. They pinned Zahir. Wrenched back his head. Arwa tried to scramble toward him—failed. As she lay
gasping, Jihan walked over to him. For all her tears, her arm did not tremble as she poured the liquid down his throat. She stroked his hair, lowered him to the floor, and left him there. Arwa heard her footsteps. Then silence.
Arwa could not even go to him.
He barely moved, after that. Only lay still, where they’d let him fall.
She spoke poetry to him, the soft cadences of the Hidden One’s poetry as he lay in a stupor on the floor, eyes glazed and distant.
Hours passed. Two guards entered and lifted Zahir up, dragging him away.
“Where are you taking him?” Arwa called out. “Please—please tell me!”
They didn’t respond. She was alone.
She was hallucinating. She was sure of it.
Shadows flickered on the walls. The lantern was guttering. The pain was so constant that she was beginning to believe she had always been in pain, and always would be.
I am going to die, she thought. She squeezed her eyes shut. Felt ash upon her face. When she turned her head, she saw the arrow impaled through her shoulder. But her shoulder was all mirror and glass. Through it she could see the shaft of the arrow; upon it she could see the reflection of her pained face, surrounded by a halo of blood and black hair.
Then she opened her eyes and saw nothing but her own skin once more.
The tent flap opened.
Gulshera strode in, bow and arrow still over her shoulder. Gone were her widow whites, her veil. She was dressed like a guardswoman, with nothing but a shawl wound about her hair to protect her modesty.
“Come to kill me?” Arwa asked.
“I don’t want you dead,” Gulshera said. “I’m trying to convince Jihan to arrange you a physician. For now, you will have to be patient.”
“I might… be dead. Before then.”
“Try not to be,” said Gulshera. She kneeled down. Offered Arwa a cloth. “Bite on this.”
Arwa did not want to take it, but when she turned her head, Gulshera merely stuffed the cloth into her mouth. Then she took hold of the shaft of the arrow, and snapped it clean.
Arwa bit down hard, screaming. Gulshera waited a moment, then pulled the cloth from Arwa’s lips.
