Realm of Ash

by Tasha Suri

  “It can’t be,” Mehr whispered. “Little sister. What has become of you? Where are you?”

  “I’m here,” Arwa said. “I’m—home.”

  “I’m dreaming,” Mehr said numbly. And yet she took a step forward, grief and yearning written into her wide eyes. “I’m dreaming you again.”

  “I’m the one dreaming,” said Arwa. “You’re dead and gone and yet I want you alive so much I sicken with it. But how can you be alive, when I’ve grieved you so long, and I stand in the land of the dead?”

  Mehr made a sound—a wordless gasp, as if the air had been stolen from her lungs. She took a step forward, her hand before her, and Arwa stumbled back. Back.

  “I can’t,” Arwa said. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t watch what will become of you, don’t you see? I can’t watch you leave me.”

  “Don’t go. Arwa. My dear one. Don’t go. Stay with me.” Mehr’s hand was still before her. Held out like a hope. “Stay, my dear one. Please.”

  Arwa stopped. The ash was quiet around her.

  She held out her own hand.

  Arwa braced herself for Mehr to turn to dust before her: for all Mehr’s strange, bright ash to shatter and leave Arwa with nothing but grief and memory and the cruelly stolen promise of her sister, returned to her, whole and safe and alive.

  Their hands touched.

  Skin. Warm, callused. Grip of Mehr’s fingers, reaching between two worlds.

  Mehr met her eyes.

  “I’ll find you,” she said. “Wherever you may be, Arwa. I will.”

  The worlds shifted. The wheel turned. She fell back into the cold of the realm.

  She clutched her hand tight.

  She could not think of whether her sister lived after all. She could not think of her parents, and the cruelty those who loved you could inflict, for the sake of that same love. She could not think of what she’d seen: the hope of it, too rich to be borne. She could not think of anything but reaching her ash.

  She forced herself to keep on walking.

  Finally, she came to it. Her sea of dead.

  She kneeled upon the sand, between bones and limbs and shattered ghosts. The end of her path had come. Beyond it lay starry darkness, stricken with the shadow of dreamfire.

  A world of the Gods, perhaps, or of the daiva. But Arwa would not walk there today.

  Today, she pressed her forehead to the sand, a supplicant and a mourner. She could not weep here. Could not be as bodies were: soft and hurt and grieving.

  She thought of how it had felt at the House of Tears, when she had opened the door to all the ash within her. How much it had hurt her and scared her.

  She thought of the dovecote, where the fear had tasted sweet. Like fire.

  At least we can choose the shape of our death, she’d told Zahir then. It was still true.

  The choice of how she died—if that was all she had, then she would take it.

  She parted her mouth. Breathed in.

  She knew—everything.

  A thousand voices whispered in her ears at once.

  If we run fast they’ll notice, better to be slow—

  The same shape of a rite, raise your hands, here, just so—

  —Rukhsar, Rukhsar, your daughter is a lovestruck fool—

  hetookthebladehetookthebladehetook

  She focused on her blood roots. On her flesh. She struggled to keep the ash at bay.

  She still knew herself. That, at least, was a blessing. But the pressure within her skull was growing and growing, and soon enough what defenses her mind had constructed would shatter.

  She had very little time.

  Body and soul. For this, she needed both. She stood in the realm of ash. She stood on the solid ground of the tent, on legs that did not want to obey her.

  She moved her feet into the first stance of a rite.

  She had nothing to venerate the daiva with, as they deserved.

  She had never shown them the reverence they deserved. She had no kohl for her eyes or red to stain her hands. Her dagger was gone. She had only the will to perform a rite that would save her and Zahir both.

  And an arrow in her shoulder.

  At least the wound gave her the gift of blood.

  She forced her arms to move. White-hot agony in her skull. She gave a choked sob. Gritted her teeth. Kept on going.

  Sigils and stances. Her body moved without grace. Sigils fell from her fingers like splinters. Sigils for beckoning. Sigils for fear.

  Come. Kin. Blood.

  A careful turn on her heel. She did not fall. Did not fall. In the realm of ash, the ash beneath her rippled, hard as a drumbeat.

  Death.

  Mercy.

  She knew, now. There were rites of worship. And there were rites that were furious prayers flung into the abyss. This was one of them.

  She was broken. She could not move as the rite deserved. And yet, she tried. And tried.

  The flutter of wings touched her ears. A dark bird flew in through the tent wall—turning to coils of smoke when it met canvas, then becoming whole once more. Another followed. Another.

  She gazed at the bird-spirits. They gazed back.

  “Ah, you,” Arwa whispered. Tears pricked her eyes. “It’s been so long.”

  The bird-spirits fluttered around her head. They settled on the table. Melded into the shadows along the walls.

  More shadows slithered toward her as she shaped sigils on her fingers. A new figure grew slowly from the ground beneath them.

  It was… ancient, she thought. Knew. Her ash spoke to her, all its voices telling her this was an ancient daiva, its flesh almost mortal, its eyes keen and knowing.

  The sigil for time. The sigil for silence.

  Sigil for life.

  Sigil for fire.

  It had been so long since it had heard a voice calling in fury.

  She clasped her hands together. Lowered her head. Gestures of respect and worship. Then with a rattling breath—with her blood roots wound about her soul self—she began to move.

  Will you help me? she asked it, in the only way she could: a rite for mercy. A rite for justice. Her body was hollow agony. She stumbled. Pressed on. Will you?

  The daiva’s hand moved. One smooth arc.

  Yes.

  Then all the shadows converged, surrounding her in a great ring. And swallowed her.

  Outside, under the glaring sun, the Emperor’s retinue—his guardsmen, his attendants, his scribes, his soldiers—were calm.

  At least until Arwa stepped out of the tent.

  She flickered in and out of the realm of ash as she walked, as the daiva surrounded her like a skin. One of the guards tried to use his sword on her.

  The daiva pointedly cleaved the blade in two.

  How strange it must be, she thought distantly, to see a woman walk surrounded by darkness, her eyes gray as the pyre, her hair a widow’s shorn hair, a broken arrow in her shoulder.

  No wonder they ran so swiftly.

  They must feel as if the curse has come for them.

  Good.

  Parviz’s court did not expect her to rip through the canvas and cross the carpet. The nobles stumbled back, yelling in horror. The guards reached for their scimitars, terror in their eyes.

  She raised a hand. The daiva flung them back.

  Beyond the partition screen, Jihan and Gulshera were both standing, Gulshera’s hand tight upon Jihan’s arm.

  On the ground, Zahir raised his head. He gazed at her not in horror but in heartbreak. He knew, as she knew, that she was already lost.

  But he was alive, still alive, and she was glad of that.

  “Zahir,” Arwa said, smiling. “An old daiva has granted me a kindness.”

  “Arwa,” he said shakily. His expression was shattered. “No.”

  She shook her head. Felt darkness waver about her. Then she raised her eyes, fixing the silver of her gaze upon Parviz, who stood now before his throne, his own dagger in hand.

  As if he could f
ight her. Fool. She had worlds within her.

  “You were wrong to take him from me, Parviz,” she said. She spoke in her own voice—soft and delicate, not a thing suited for instilling terror. And yet, Parviz recoiled as if she had struck him with it. “He is not yours to take. He is his own. And he is mine.”

  She kneeled by Zahir. The lantern light wavered. Blotted by her darkness. The dark encircled his wrists. Broke his chains, and set him free.

  “Monster,” said Parviz, in a voice that shook with rage and fear. “I will not be frightened and cowed by demons.”

  “I am no demon,” Arwa said. “I am the consequence of your crimes.”

  He had tried to take back control of the Empire’s faith by taking Zahir and the tale that surrounded him and putting them both to death. But he would not have Zahir’s death. He would not have his Empire’s heart.

  Aliye had tried to ensure Parviz would sit uneasy on his throne. Zahir had done the same. But Arwa wanted more. He had killed his brothers. He had staked heads upon walls. He had tried to take Zahir, and take the world, and she was ash-fierce and hollow with the rage of the dead. She would allow him none of it. She was heir to an old injustice, and she would have her due.

  “I speak for Prince Akhtar, the Emperor-who-should-have-been. I speak for the Maha’s heir, who is. I speak for heretics falsely accused. I speak for the Empire that dies under your rule. I am grief, and I speak for the dead.”

  She looked at the terrified faces of the nobility. He would need them to rule—their loyalty, their obedience, their strength. And if they were not already lost to him, they would be now.

  “I have a prophecy for you, not-Emperor,” she said. “You stole what was not yours. Your reign will be a blight. When the nightmares come, your people will pray and they will be saved, but they will know you did not save them. You will find no love and no peace. You will be called Emperor, but the name will be ash in the mouths of your people, because it belongs to one who is dead. You will sit upon a throne of dust, and when your end comes—and it will come, Parviz, in ruin and shame—your legacy will be nothing but dust also. That is my prophecy, Parviz. My prophecy. And your curse.”

  The nobility recoiled. Parviz recoiled.

  Her work was almost done.

  Daiva birds flew in great circles overhead.

  She took Zahir’s face in her hands. He did not flinch at the feel of a daiva’s sharp claws on his neck, or his brother’s blood. He looked at her with grief and with utter trust.

  “Will you come with me?” she said.

  “I told you long ago,” he said. “I go with you. Always.”

  She drew back from him. Held her hands before her. With great care, she shaped a new sigil. It was all she had left within her.

  The sigil for flight.

  As she felt the darkness unfurl and change around her, she embraced Zahir. Held him tight.

  She thought how it must look to the nobles: the ghostly widow embracing Zahir, the great dark wings around him. They would remember the tale of how he flew from his father’s palace. They would remember his power. And Parviz—cursed, weakened, sitting upon a dais in a shattered tent—would no longer have the power to see Zahir dead. She felt that in her bones. And she was glad.

  “I love you,” she said. “I thought, maybe, that you should know.”

  For the second time in their lives, they flew.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  They landed on a vast expanse of sand beneath a blistering hot sky. Arwa felt the daiva release her and uncoil. She made a sigil of thanks on shaking hands—and collapsed to the ground.

  The bird-spirits remained, circling overhead, uncomfortably reminiscent of carrion birds. Zahir said her name, his voice hoarse and shaken, and lifted her up in his arms.

  “How—?”

  “I didn’t want to die there,” Arwa said fiercely. Whispers were pouring through her. Whispers and ash. “Not there.”

  “You’re not dying,” he said. “You’re not.”

  “I thought you hated—inaccuracy.”

  He made a choked sound. One breath. Another. He said, “You asked me not to make a sacrifice of myself. I expect you to extend me the same courtesy.”

  Then he was lifting her up, up. She bit off a scream.

  “Your shoulder,” he said.

  “Just move me carefully,” she told him.

  “I will,” he said. Slung her good arm over his shoulder, stooping to hold her weight. “We’re getting help,” he said. “I promise it.”

  She tasted blood on her lips. Ash. She nodded, and stumbled along with him.

  He walked, and time moved strangely, swimming in and out of focus. She dreamed a dozen dreams, that flickered through her mind, fractures of shadows.

  “Arwa.”

  “Yes.” She remembered. How strange, how the name fit. Her self fit her like an old familiar skin. “I am.”

  “Arwa,” he said, aggrieved. He lowered her down. Collapsed beside her, flat upon the sand. She breathed in and out. The tide had ebbed. She knew herself again.

  She was Arwa. She was.

  “I am sorry,” Arwa managed to say, “about Jihan.”

  “Don’t be,” he said.

  “But you love her.”

  “I do,” said Zahir. “But she’s made her choice. And I, mine.”

  Arwa rolled her head to the side. She saw falling ash and a pale white sky.

  “You should leave me,” she said. “I won’t… be me for long.”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “Zahir…”

  Zahir swore, hefting her up once more. “Come on now,” he said.

  They made it only a few steps before Arwa stumbled. Something had changed within her. Something had severed.

  She raised her hurt arm. Slow.

  “Arwa, please,” he said shakily. “Stop trying to move it.”

  But she couldn’t. She raised her hand to the light. In the realm of ash, she watched the glass of her skin cloud with darkness.

  “It’s too late,” she told Zahir. Mouth moving. She remembered how flesh worked, still. “I’m losing myself.”

  She turned her hands once more. Her roots were withering, the bond between her and her flesh decaying to dust.

  He lowered her once more.

  It took her soul a second to follow her flesh back to the ground: a dizzying second of blankness, where her soul was suspended in nothing, a constellation of ash burning its edges smooth.

  “The tale,” she whispered, touching his flesh with her hands of mirror-glass, his soul with her trembling, bloodied fingertips. She did not know where she was anymore. She was undone. “Aliye’s tale. Of the doe. I thought—I could escape it. But I took the arrow, I think. Does that make me the doe? The willing sacrifice?”

  “Gods, Arwa. It is just a tale.”

  “They’re never just tales.”

  “Look at me.” He held her face in his hands. “I’m going to help you as I did in the caravanserai. Let me share the burden of your ash.”

  “It won’t be enough.”

  “It can be. It will be.”

  “There’s too much,” she said helplessly.

  He touched his forehead to her own. “You are in the realm of ash, even now, aren’t you?”

  Ash. Sunlight. The gold of sand. The black and white of an ash sky.

  “Yes.”

  “Well then,” he said. “Well. There must be a trick to it.”

  He closed his eyes, and then he was there in the realm with her, all gossamer and glass, holding her still. Expression grim, he wound his blood roots around her own, lifting them to grace her fingers, her ash-dark wrists.

  “Let me take the weight of the ash,” he said. “Let me share it with you again.”

  “It won’t be enough.”

  “Arwa. Let me try.”

  She said nothing more, as he drew the weight of the ash between them, through the bond of their twined roots, said nothing as the clamor of voices grew and grew. B
ut when she saw gray darkness begin to cloud his hands, his arms, she swore and tried to draw back.

  He held her fast.

  “Zahir, no.”

  “What are blood roots, Arwa?” he said softly. “We studied them together, didn’t we? A bond between body and soul. A conduit allowing the one to feed the other. The soul is shaped by the realm of ash. The soul shapes the body. But when mystics enter the realm together, when they share the strength of their roots… Arwa, that strength. What is that strength?”

  “Stop thinking,” she told him. “Stop thinking before you get yourself hurt.”

  “That really isn’t my nature,” he replied.

  “Zahir,” she said. Winced, something climbing within her, a scream, a memory that wasn’t her own. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “I told you, in the caravanserai, that if you were taken by the realm I’d do anything to bring you back.” He said it as if it were fact: a simple line from a book, indelible ink that could not be undone. “I told you it was fear that spoke, and it was. But it was true also, Arwa.”

  He was still close. Clouded with the weight of her own dreams.

  “The roots,” he said. “They share the body’s strength. Blood, heartbeat, life. And through them, I can share mine with you.” His hand curled tighter against her own, the roots furled between them.

  “You can’t.”

  “I can,” he said. “If there is one thing I know, Arwa—one thing at all—it is the nature of the soul and of sacrifice.”

  “Those are two things.”

  “You already sound more like yourself,” he said gently. He brushed his fingers over her face, the roots wavering between them.

  “You don’t know what it will do to you,” she told him.

  “Shorten my life, I imagine. We’ll keep a record of the outcome.”

  “I saved your life,” she said furiously, “and now you want to part with it?”

  “We know better than most that death isn’t an end,” he murmured. “And no. I want us both to live. That’s all.” His voice was so soft. “Arwa, if I am yours, then don’t leave me behind. Let me try to save you. If we are partners in this work, then trust me. Trust my will. Let us go together.”