by Tasha Suri
“It started,” she said, “when a patrol returned from a nearby village.”
Darez Fort had been a new military fort, built hastily like so many others to manage unrest in villages and towns distant from the imperial control of the great provincial cities. But it had been better equipped than most, properly fortified, with an experienced nobleman as its commander. Kamran had served in Durevi in his early youth—later, he’d fought the unrest brought on by the Maha’s death at the Haran border with Irinah, the blighted desert land where the Maha had met his end. He’d known how to manage a subdistrict boiling over with unrest: good pay for the soldiers to encourage obedience, and the instillation of regular patrols through all local villages.
“The patrol returned late,” said Arwa. “Hours late. My husband was less than pleased. He valued discipline in his men. And when they arrived…” She paused. Swallowed. “They had it with them.”
“The daiva?”
“Yes.”
Arwa hadn’t known it was a daiva at first. She’d been on the upper floor of the fort, in the women’s quarters. It had been deep midday, sweltering hot, and she’d been standing in the shade by the window lattice, watching the fort’s great doors as they opened to let the patrol enter. The men entered on horseback. One of them had been carrying a large bundle on the saddle in front of him.
She’d been relieved to see the patrol return. Kamran’s mood had grown blacker as each hour had passed, and she hadn’t been looking forward to trying to cajole him into a better one. She’d already sent a message to the kitchen asking for his favorite dish to be made for the evening meal, and advised one of the maids to bring up a tray of wine and sweets swiftly, should her husband choose to visit her quarters. It was tiring to be a good wife. When her husband was in an ill mood, the job became much harder. Arwa had learned it was best to be prepared.
She’d seen her husband stride out to meet the patrol, flanked by two of his best men. She could remember the grim line of his shoulders, the way they’d announced his displeasure far more loudly than words. She remembered how one of the patrollers had jumped down from his horse, and gestured frantically back at the bundle, as the doors clanged shut behind them.
Arwa remembered seeing the bundle move.
The cloth had slid back.
She’d seen a head. A neck curled forward. Skin like black smoke.
The smell of incense, sudden and overpowering, had filled her nose, her throat. She’d known, then, what it was.
She’d seen such flesh before, smelled that unnatural sweetness, sacred and strange. Some things were impossible to forget.
“I had seen a daiva before,” Arwa said. Her voice came out of her thin. “Before his—disgrace—my father was Governor of Irinah.” Arwa did not like to dwell on what her father had been before disgrace, but it was important. Irinah’s holy desert was the place where daiva lived, and the place where the Maha had died. “I thought they’d captured a child. For what reason, I couldn’t imagine. The cloth slid back, and I saw—a face. I think I saw a face. But it… its face moved, as if I were looking at a reflection on water. And its eyes…”
It had looked around the dusty yard, still swaddled in the soldier’s arms, and cocked its head to the side with the animal inquisitiveness of a bird or some loping, sleek-furred predator. It had looked human enough, with two eyes and two ears, a neat mouth and two dark hands bound before it, not quite concealed by cloth. But its eyes had reflected the light of the midday sun back, flecks of shattered glass in its wavering mirage of a face. As Kamran had taken a step back—as the soldier who had jumped down from his horse began to speak, swift and panicked—the daiva had looked about, for all the world like a feral thing caged. It had struggled. Twisted.
Its face had cracked, the jaw parted to reveal a thing that was all bone and howling teeth, brilliant and pointed as blades. An utter nightmare.
There had been horrified yells, down in the courtyard. Someone had drawn a blade.
“I don’t know why they brought it to the fort,” Arwa whispered. “Fool men. I think they thought it was harmless—a child of its kind. I think they sought my husband’s advice. They’d wrapped it up and chained its wrists, but it broke the chains as easily as paper. I saw it do so. And I remember… My husband, he looked up at the window where I stood, right before…”
Arwa stopped again, swallowing hard. She didn’t want to remember the way Kamran had turned, the tilt of his head, the sun turning his face to shadow, as the daiva had flung off its shackles and stretched itself free from its human form. She didn’t want to remember the screaming that had followed, or how she had turned from the window, running. How she had chosen not to watch him die.
She’d learned later that Kamran had died a hero, protecting the doors of the fort. He’d died trying to stop any of his men from leaving and taking their unnatural, nightmare-driven bloodlust with them. But Arwa had not seen it. She’d chosen not to.
“Go on,” prompted Gulshera.
“It only looked human for a short time,” Arwa managed to say, remembering the way its whole body had yawned, cracking open its child-form like a shell, or a closed jaw, peeling free to show the serrated teeth beneath. “When it changed—when it grew—something happened to me. Something happened to all of us.”
“Tell me what happened,” Gulshera prompted, soft now. “Tell me what you felt.”
“It took something from us. It… it changed us.” How to explain the feel of it—like cold claws had been set inside the base of her skull, ripping a seam in her soul, letting the dark within her spill out? “It was a nightmare. It felt like being trapped in a nightmare. I remember nothing but fear after that.”
“And then?”
“Nothing but fear,” Arwa repeated. “I can’t tell you anything more.”
“So you don’t know why you survived,” Gulshera said slowly.
The truth hovered on the tip of Arwa’s tongue. She ached to tell it.
She thought of the guardsman’s offhand comment about blood-worshipping heathens. She thought of the time one of her husband’s patrols had found an Amrithi family, hiding in a local village, and what had been done to them. She thought of the consequences of truth: for her disgraced family, her sick father, her heartbroken mother. For herself.
It was my fault. My fault.
“I told you so at the start,” snapped Arwa. She rubbed her hand across her face, angry with Gulshera, angry with herself. “I can tell you I saw a man run through by another man’s sword. I can tell you my husband was murdered by his own men. I can tell you what it sounds like when a man howls in agony as his arm is sawed through by his friend. I heard the maids—my maids—screaming and screaming and screaming. I can tell you what blood smells like, if you wish. But what I can’t tell you is why I lived, when so many others died. Now, are you satisfied, Lady Gulshera? May I go and mourn my horrors in peace?”
“Ah,” Gulshera breathed. It was a soft, sad sound.
Arwa was trembling, sickened. She was light-headed with a grief that felt more like fury than weakness. She felt like her skin was a size too small.
She saw Gulshera press a palm flat to the earth. The older woman’s hand was firm, her breathing steady and sure. Arwa found herself matching the pace of Gulshera’s breath instinctively, as if Gulshera were tethering them both to soil, and stopping the great red weight of Darez Fort from drawing them both under.
“Come with me again tomorrow,” Gulshera said.
“Haven’t I said enough?”
“Oh, you’ve said more than enough,” Gulshera said grimly. “I’ll keep to our agreement. There will be no more questions about Darez Fort.”
“Good.” Arwa let out a breath. “That’s good.”
“Arwa.” Gulshera’s voice was careful. “I won’t tell you I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered. My pity won’t help you. But discipline might. What you feel…” Gulshera trailed off, shaking her head. “I’ve seen soldiers who return from battle and forget how
to live beyond the blood. Their souls stay trapped within one dark moment and can’t escape from it. I see the look of that in your eyes. Come back here again and let me teach you discipline of a kind.”
Arwa laughed harshly.
“You think archery will fix me? No.”
“I think it will be better than nothing,” Gulshera said levelly. “Better than weeping in your room alone. Better than allowing your nightmares to eat you. But you are no longer a man’s wife, and you have no father here to guide you. I am not your mother. There is no one left to compel your obedience, Arwa. It’s your choice.”
Arwa shook her head, wordless now.
“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be waiting.”
Gulshera stood abruptly.
“Wait here,” she said. “I need to collect the arrows.”
Arwa stood too. “I’ll help you,” she said.
They collected the arrows together, cool wind catching the grass and the ends of their robes. Then they walked back toward the hermitage in silence.
CHAPTER FOUR
Arwa wished she hadn’t cried. But that was the way of grief, it seemed. She could never find it in herself to weep when she wanted to weep—when her tears could do her some good in garnering sympathy or banishing uneasy officials with too many questions to ask. She could only cry when it was most inconvenient to her, and when she desperately wanted to appear strong.
Her face was dry from the wind, the sun, the salt of her own ugly tears. When she returned to her room she washed her face clean. Her hands were shaking. She clasped them together, breathing deep and slow, and thought of the effigy of the Emperor. Timeless, its blank face the promise of eternity. There was comfort in that thought.
She wondered what Gulshera was doing right now. No doubt she was writing a message to the family she served, telling them all that she had learned from Arwa. There would be couriers passing the hermitage at some point, carrying messages from distant points across the Empire for the widows or for the guardswomen who protected them. One of those couriers would be able to carry Gulshera’s message to her masters swiftly, on horseback, unencumbered by the plodding weight of a retinue, or the necessity of a palanquin. After her long days of travel, Arwa could only envy their ease.
She wondered what Gulshera had written, wondered what message some old, venerable lord would be reading in the weeks to come.
Lady Arwa’s experience in Darez Fort was as expected.
Or perhaps: Lady Arwa has a secret. And I intend to uncover it.
She shuddered anew, and hoped she’d hidden the absences in her story, the lies, well enough to fool Gulshera, just like she’d fooled all her other interrogators. She’d spoken to Gulshera to win herself some peace, not to draw herself back into the tangled world of men and politics once more.
It hadn’t escaped Arwa’s notice that Gulshera had kept the noble family’s identity secret. Canny woman. She’d peeled Arwa’s tale and her tears out of her, all the while keeping her own confidences. Who Gulshera served, and why she served—tucked away within the hermitage as she was, far from the political heartbeat of the Empire—all remained a mystery. Oh, Arwa knew Gulshera had access to a wealth of knowledge here, spilled from the mouths of the widows. But information was never gathered without purpose. What was the goal of the family she served? What did they intend to use the knowledge of the widows for?
Without answers, Arwa would have to remain watchful and wary. She had given Gulshera her tale of Darez Fort, but no doubt there were other things that Gulshera wanted from her—or would take and offer up to her patrons, if Arwa allowed her defenses to fall and said something foolish, all unwitting and unwary.
Gulshera had claimed to want to help her. But a woman could have many wants at once. And Arwa…
Well. Arwa had complex wants too.
She wanted to avoid Gulshera and hide like a wounded animal. She wanted to adhere close to Gulshera’s side, where she could watch her in return and eviscerate her secrets and learn exactly how much of a risk the older woman was to her safety. She wanted the weight of the bow in her hands again, a channel for her rage, and she wanted to feel nothing at all.
Gulshera had claimed that Arwa reminded her of soldiers who remained trapped in one dark moment of suffering, long after their bodies had escaped it. The truth was that Gulshera was not wrong. Part of Arwa was still trapped in Darez Fort. Part of her always would be.
No wonder she hungered for a weapon. She turned her hands over—her faintly scarred fingers, her right thumb scraped raw from contact with the bowstring—and felt the itch in them. The need. She didn’t want to be frightened ever again.
Oh, that want was the strongest of all.
Arwa squeezed her eyes shut. She clenched her hands together. Ah, pride be damned. She knew what she wanted to do. Worse, she knew what she needed to do.
She didn’t go that evening or on the day that followed. But the day after that, when her heart felt less raw and her pride less bruised, she made her way over to Gulshera’s room and waited for the older woman to return from breakfast.
Gulshera had the grace to look surprised to see Arwa, which was kind of her. Her expression smoothed quickly.
“Lady Arwa,” she said. “I’m glad to see you here.”
Arwa nodded, once, in return. Then she said, carefully, “I’ve decided I would like to learn archery after all. That is… I assume you’ll still have me.”
Gulshera nodded, unsmiling.
“I have a bow for you,” she said. “And your own quiver of arrows. But this time you’ll eat before we go.”
“As you say, Aunt,” said Arwa.
There was no time for rest. The widows gossiped and whispered, and Arwa listened and learned how the world had changed since grief had swallowed her. There was a fresh famine in Durevi, a new sickness in a cluster of villages in Hara. Although shadow spirits roamed the Empire, and people spoke of unnatural terror and walking nightmares with faces of bone, there had been no repeat of Darez Fort. That was a blessing, at least.
When the widows slept, Arwa sat with her dagger and her blood and learned how long she could go without rest. Once, she thought she heard it again: a beat of noise like wings beyond the window. Her candle flickered like a baleful eye, and she stumbled to the lattice, her heart racing, terror a knife in her ribs, and saw—nothing. The night dark. The candle’s smoke.
She forced herself to sleep after that.
From Gulshera, she learned nothing but the bow and arrow. Gulshera was frustratingly good at keeping her own secrets close to her chest, but she did not ask about Darez Fort again, and for that at least Arwa was grateful. Instead, Gulshera showed Arwa how to string the bow—a job far better suited to two people working in tandem than one alone, as bending the bow against its natural inclination was a treacherous task—and tried to teach her how to shoot and actually hit her target.
“It’s lucky no one is relying on me to hunt for dinner,” Arwa grumbled, when she failed yet again to hit the easiest target. “We’d all starve.”
“You’ll manage it eventually,” Gulshera said, unruffled. “You just need time.”
Time. Everyone claimed that what Arwa needed was time. She was not so sure. Time was eroding her strength. Time was leading her further and further away from hope, as the dead haunted her sleep, as she bloodied her window and waited for the inevitable. There were no answers in the hermitage’s library, or the gossip of the widows, or the sharp barb of an arrow through the air.
She found Rabia alone, once, in the prayer room. She stood in the doorway, holding herself still until Rabia raised her head. Rabia froze at the sight of her.
“Arwa,” she said. Swallowed.
“Please,” said Arwa. “May I sit with you?”
Hesitantly, Rabia gestured for her to join her. Arwa kneeled down. Apart from the two of them, the prayer room was empty.
“I hadn’t expected anyone else to be here,” Rabia said quietly, into the silence.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Aunt.”
“Oh no, you’re not disturbing me at all,” Rabia said, even though that was clearly a lie. “This is your place too.”
Rabia sat very still and alert, as if she were a child who feared being scolded. Arwa lowered her head as if in prayer. She looked at the flicker of shadows upon the floor in the lantern light.
“I am sorry for being unkind to you,” Arwa said. “You’re my elder. It was wrong.”
“Oh.” A beat. “Thank you.”
“But I won’t talk about my husband’s death,” Arwa said, still staring at the shadows upon the floor. Refusing to raise her head. “Not with you. Not with anyone. I can’t.”
She kept her eyes lowered, hoping it would hide the fire in them. She kept her hands soft and loose in her lap, so she would appear soft herself, and not like a bow strung so tight that its body was all trembling fury turned upon itself, ready to be unleashed. She had no veil, no long curtain of hair, so she was glad her shawl hung loose enough around her face to hide her features, which she feared were like a mirror for her heart.
Being sharp to Rabia had been an error. She’d exposed too much of herself—worn her nature too lightly. She had to put that right.
See, she tried to say—with her lowered eyes and the tilt of her head, her unfurled hands—you need not fear me. I am soft and meek and gentle. There is no taint upon me at all.
I have nothing to hide from you.
She heard Rabia huff, rising up from her knees. She flinched when Rabia inched closer to her.
“I lost my husband eleven years ago,” Rabia said. “Last week was the anniversary of his death. Do you know, I quite forgot, until today? I only remembered a few hours ago. Foolish of me.” Rabia went silent. She reached out and took one of Arwa’s hands in her own. Her touch was tentative. “Don’t believe I fail to understand your suffering, my dear.”
Arwa looked at Rabia’s hand. She wanted to pull away. She remained exactly where she was.
“Your husband was a brave man,” Rabia said. “I meant it, when I told you that. A good Ambhan soldier. You must hold on to that.”