by Tasha Suri
There was a wave of noise beyond the prayer room. Voices shouting, and bells ringing, as the guards moved into frenzied life on the hermitage roof. Rabia had run, and Arwa was alone. She wouldn’t be so for long.
She thought of the daiva she saw at Darez Fort, held in the soldier’s lap, its teeth like terrible points of light. Surrounded by the scent of incense, Arwa was terribly sure they were not free of it. Not yet.
This, Arwa knew:
The daiva that came to Darez Fort, the daiva that was here at the hermitage—they were all here for her.
She tightened her jaw, resolute, and ran out of the room.
There were already guards inside the hermitage, and women who’d emerged from their own rooms and gathered in the hallways. Gods, their curiosity would truly be the death of them one day. Someone tried to grab Arwa as she strode forward with her bow still in her grip; she shook them off. She ran faster.
At some point she discarded the bow, and shrugged the quiver from her back. It was easier to move swiftly without them. Every thin slat of a window she passed revealed the daiva in snatches: a wing, an eye, the echo of its presence, that twined scent and sight of incense and smoke. She pushed open the doors of the hermitage, which led across the veranda to the great dip of the valley below.
The daiva was waiting for her.
It had no mortal shape, this daiva, and she was thankful for that. But it was crouched now upon the ground, and instead of claws, it now had great soft-pawed limbs, pressed to soil. She stopped before it, panting hard. She heard the creak of bowstrings behind her, of arrows being drawn. She heard a voice shouting for the guards to stay their hands.
Those sounds felt far, far from her. She reached for her sash, scrabbling for the leather sheath that held her dagger. One of the daiva’s pawed limbs stretched out as she did so, changing before her eyes into a delicate mortal hand.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. It stared at her uncomprehending, as she drew the dagger from its sheath. As she cut a line, deeper than she intended, into her opposite palm.
She lunged forward. The shadows of its body surrounded her.
The dagger sank hard and fast into the soil. Around her, over her, the daiva shattered into a dozen smaller birds. Wings battered her face and her hair—even her arms, as she raised them to protect herself. Her hand was still bleeding freely. She was light-headed with pain.
None of it mattered. The daiva was flying away from her, no matter what form it had taken. Most importantly of all, it was flying away from the hermitage.
One of the guards slammed Arwa to the ground. She felt the guardswoman’s hands on her arms, tightening and wrenching her back up to her knees. Arwa swore again, panting with exhilaration and something wild, a feeling she couldn’t name or suppress.
“Let her go,” a voice said. The authority in it was undeniable.
Gulshera had pushed past the other guardswomen. Arwa turned back, craning her neck. Gulshera’s eyes were flint.
“But, Lady—”
“Just release her.”
The guardswoman released Arwa, who fell back to the ground.
Arwa gave a groan, turning on her side. Gulshera kneeled down, still looming over her, and removed her own shawl. She grabbed Arwa’s wounded palm and wound the cloth around it, binding it tight enough to stem the bleeding.
“You’re coming with me,” Gulshera said. Her voice was savage iron. “Now.”
They went to Gulshera’s room. A guardswoman came with them, followed by Roshana, who shut the door on the crowd of panicked, curious onlookers in the corridor. The guardswoman was gray with fear, and her hand was altogether too tight on the hilt of her scimitar. Gulshera bade Arwa to sit on the bed, then leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed tight. By the door, Roshana wrung her hands together, eyes darting between them all. The room was far too crowded.
Arwa clutched her own wounded hand. Blood had left the cloth of Gulshera’s shawl sodden and red. Beneath the makeshift bandage, Arwa’s palm pulsed with a gnawing, throbbing ache. Her head felt light, faintly full of stars.
“I need my dagger,” Arwa said.
“Child,” Roshana whispered. Then she fell silent.
“It’s still out there, stuck in the dirt,” Arwa said. “I need it back.”
“No one is going to give you a weapon,” Gulshera snapped.
“Then at least find it,” Arwa said, through gritted teeth, “and put it somewhere safe.”
“Go,” Gulshera said to the guardswoman. “Get the dagger.”
The guardswoman hesitated visibly. She looked between them. “But, my lady…”
Gulshera made an angry sound and leaned forward. She pulled the hilt of a small dagger from her boot. Then she sheathed it once more and straightened. “We’re hardly unarmed, and she is hardly in a position to snatch up another blade. Go.”
The guardswoman went. Roshana made sure the door was firmly shut behind her, keeping the three of them safe from prying eyes.
“Arwa,” Roshana said softly. “What happened? Can you explain what we saw?”
Arwa curled and uncurled the fingers of her hurting hand. She stayed silent.
“We don’t wish to cause you harm, dear,” Roshana continued. “Just speak to us. We can help you.”
Still leaning against the wall, Gulshera said nothing. Arwa looked at her. Gulshera’s expression was unmoving, her pale eyes blazing and fierce. Even if Roshana had not realized what Arwa had done—what Arwa was—Gulshera had.
“I’ll speak to you,” Arwa said to her. “No one else, Lady Gulshera.”
They met each other’s eyes, unflinching.
“Roshana,” Gulshera said finally. “Please go outside and encourage the others to get some rest. Thank you.”
Roshana nodded and left, glancing back at the both of them before shutting the door once more.
Arwa’s hand was still throbbing. She tried to ignore the pain, twisting the ends of the shawl tighter.
“You left the bow I gave you flung on the ground in a corridor,” Gulshera said. “And my arrows. You don’t fret about them.”
“The dagger was a gift from family. It has sentimental value.”
“More than sentimental value, I think,” Gulshera said. Her voice was unreadable. “I know something of the world, Arwa.”
“I don’t doubt that, Aunt.”
“I know the Amrithi people carry such daggers. I know they perform unnatural blood rites. Somewhat akin to what you did this night, Arwa.”
“Indeed,” Arwa said. Her voice came out of her like snowfall, winter cold, even as her heart crawled.
“Now we come to what I don’t understand,” said Gulshera. “The Amrithi are a barbaric people. They have no place in the Empire. They exist on the edges of civilization, begging for scraps of our glory. They do not walk on the same land where civilized people walk. They don’t marry people of the Empire. I gather in their lawless way, they don’t marry at all.” Gulshera’s voice was unrelenting, her eyes keen fire. “So explain to me: How does a noblewoman, a widow of apparent good blood and standing, despite her father’s disgrace, come to have an Amrithi dagger and knowledge of Amrithi heresy?”
“In the usual way,” said Arwa. “Irinah was the home of the Amrithi once. When my father was Governor, he had an Amrithi mistress. She gave him two children. I was one of them. But I am not Amrithi, Aunt. My father acknowledged me and raised me like a lawful daughter. My mother—the good noblewoman who married my father—raised me to be better than my blood. And I’ve always tried to be. Until…”
Arwa swallowed. Her throat was very dry. She was glad the faint, blinding dizziness in her head had faded somewhat. She was very conscious of the throb of her wounded hand, and her thirst, and her fear. She was conscious, too, that the daiva was gone, and that was her own doing. No one else’s. She could hold that like a new dagger, should she need to. She could hold it like a shield.
“I wasn’t entirely honest about Darez Fort,” Arwa said.
; Gulshera was silent. She waited, as Arwa sat straight, cradling her hand.
“Almost everything I told you was true. I truly don’t remember much, after the daiva arrived at the fort. But I remember reaching for my dagger. I remember—pieces.”
She told Gulshera, haltingly, what she could recall.
She remembered running and hiding, after the daiva had shattered to pieces, spreading terror across the fort. She remembered kneeling on the floor, panting in unnatural fear, nightmares swirling through her skull. Her vision had wavered, black around the edges, the ground tipping beneath her.
She’d felt a hand on her sleeve. A hand of smoke. A daiva before her. The hot metal of fear had filled her mouth; she’d flinched, wrenching her wrist back. She could still feel the echo of the smoke of its fingers, a strange brand upon her flesh.
She’d seen her blade on the floor.
“I must have picked it up, when the fear had me,” Arwa said. “And thank the Gods I did. It is the only thing I know of the Amrithi blood in me: It can banish daiva away. I reached for my dagger and bled on the ground. A circle of protection. It kept the daiva’s hands from me, and it saved my life.”
“Your blood,” Gulshera said, disbelieving, “saved you from the demon. Your Amrithi blood.”
“There truly is so much I can’t remember anymore, Aunt. I’ve tried, and I’ve tried. But I know my blood saved me. That, I have no doubts about.”
Arwa pushed Darez Fort away. She focused on the room, on Gulshera, and on her own wounded hand. On the sound of the women still hovering in the corridor, fueled by fear and curiosity. It wouldn’t take much for that rage to turn. Only words. Only one muttered mention of blood rites, of Amrithi. She had to make Gulshera understand.
“I am Ambhan,” said Arwa. “My blood doesn’t change that. I worship the Emperor and Maha; I married an Ambhan man, and I mourn him. I know nothing about being Amrithi. I don’t want to be Amrithi.”
“You don’t need to justify yourself to me.”
Arwa barked out a laugh. “Of course I do. You think I don’t know what is done with Amrithi? You think I don’t know what you could do to me, if this interrogation ends with me marked a heathen, good only for slaughter?”
“This is not an interrogation,” Gulshera said grimly. “This is a very polite conversation. You know nothing of interrogations.”
Arwa fixed her eyes on Gulshera again. Gulshera, whose long-dead husband had a mother-of-pearl lacquered court bow; who came from a noble family of high repute; who knew something of Amrithi and interrogations. Gulshera, with her letters.
“I know you serve the Emperor’s family,” Arwa said.
“And how,” Gulshera said, deadly soft, “do you know that?”
“You left me alone in your room when Dina saw the daiva. Akhtar and Parviz. I’ve heard the names of the Emperor’s sons, Aunt.” Gulshera was silent. “What I don’t understand is why one favored by the imperial family would live within this hermitage,” Arwa continued. “You could have so much power. And yet you’re—here.”
“Power under the heel of court can feel very much like helplessness,” Gulshera murmured. She stared at Arwa as if she were a viper that had only just shown her venom. “I asked my mistress to give me leave to have something akin to my own court. Control, as governors and commanders do, while still serving their Empire. She allowed it.”
“And you gather information for her,” Arwa said. “From the widows. Things they would not reveal if they did not think themselves—safe.”
“Yes,” Gulshera said shortly. “I do.”
“Then there’s no need to properly interrogate me. Don’t fear. I am loyal to the Emperor, heart and soul.” She curled her pained fingers again. Uncurled. “You told me the family you serve are trying to end the curse on the Empire. Perhaps they will have some use for a loyal Ambhan noblewoman, with strange blood to hold the nightmares at bay.”
“They may,” Gulshera acknowledged. Then she laughed, a tired and bitter sound. “My mistress asks for many things. Knowledge, information, my return. You would be a worthy gift to take back with me. She has an interest in—magic. In daiva. In the Empire’s curse. I knew she would want me to find out what you knew of Darez Fort, of course. But I did not expect…” Gulshera paused. Assessed Arwa once again, coldly, carefully, with the tilt of her head. “You do not have an Amrithi look.”
She meant that Arwa was light-skinned and straight-haired and had the sharp features of her father’s family. She meant that Arwa dressed and spoke like an Ambhan noblewoman, born and bred.
Arwa thought of her sister. Dark-skinned. The curve of her cheekbones. Her hair always in its long braid, oiled and curling free.
Her wound throbbed.
“I know.” Deep breath in. Out. “My blood—my Amrithi blood in this loyal Ambhan body—is part of the curse. But it’s also part of the cure. I just don’t know how. But the Emperor’s family, your mistress… they might. Perhaps they’ll find answers in my blood that I can’t. You should send me to them, if they’ll have me.”
A beat. Two. Three.
“No, Arwa.” Gulshera shook her head, mouth thin. As if she’d already considered the option and discarded it. “Widow though you may be, you still have a noblewoman’s honor. That must be protected. Your place is here, or in your father’s care.”
“I can’t stay here,” Arwa said. “I came here for peace, but now the widows know what I am—you think they will allow me to stay?”
“Of course not.”
“The daiva follow me. Darez Fort follows me. I can’t run any farther from what lies in my blood. Send me to your mistress. Let me offer my cursed blood to her curiosity and her cause. As for my family… You think I wish to carry this darkness home with me, to my mother and father?”
“I imagine not,” said Gulshera. “That makes your offer no less foolish.”
“I am not being foolish,” Arwa said. For once, for once, she was not. “I am attempting to be useful. Is that not what we are taught from birth, Aunt? To serve the Empire—to be loyal and dutiful, to offer our service to the Empire’s glory—there is no higher purpose, surely?”
Gulshera laughed. A strange, helpless sound, full of bitterness. She looked over Arwa’s head, at something in the distance that Arwa could not see—a memory, an image beyond her reach.
“They will eat you alive, and spit out your bones. They will take everything you offer and they will feel nothing for you,” Gulshera said. “That is their way. More than that, that is their right.”
“It is better than being useless,” Arwa said softly. She meant it.
To be of no use to the Empire was to be discarded. She had seen what became of her family, when Mehr exposed them to disgrace. She had seen what had become of her father, denied his inherited governorship, his daughter, his health. She had felt her mother’s horror as their old friends and old power withered away from them, leaving them utterly alone.
If her father had been well, perhaps in time he would have restored their lost glory. If he had been ill, but still Governor, he would have had the right to retire with honor, respected and feted. But in a world where all his use was gone, when the Empire could not benefit from him, he had been erased.
Arwa had no hope of restoring her family’s glory, not now that she was widowed. But she could avoid heaping further disgrace upon them. She could take her cursed blood and lay it out before Gulshera as a priceless gift, a weapon and a tool that could be bartered or sold, instead of a reason to destroy what little position and reputation she had left. She could be useful.
“This is the first time I’ve seen a chance for the possibilities in my blood to be put to good use,” Arwa said quietly, letting something other than anger infuse her voice for once. “All my life, I’ve been ashamed of it. I have kept my blood a secret. Even after Darez Fort I knew it would do me no good—do no one any good, only harm—if I shared the truth. But now the truth may serve a use. Now my blood may help the Empire, may be a cure
, and…” She released a breath. “That is a relief, Aunt. I can’t deny it.”
The idea was insidious. She didn’t need to hold on to her rage; this awful thing turned both inward and outward, hungry and hurt. She could throw herself to the mercy of larger forces. Instead of being a victim of the Empire’s curse, she could be its cure.
“Ah, fool child,” Gulshera said. There was despair in her voice. Then she was abruptly silent, passing a hand over her face, as if she could grasp her feelings and draw them away in her palm.
Arwa closed her eyes. The dark behind them felt like it was enfolding her; she was held up by it, distant from her flesh, distant as stars. She could hear something like whispers.
“I think,” she said faintly, “that I am going to need a physician very soon.”
“Ah,” Gulshera said. “Yes.”
Arwa heard her footsteps. She took Arwa’s wounded hand and held it gently up, cursing in a short whisper. Then she spoke again, her voice its normal tone and cadence.
“I will write to my mistress,” said Gulshera. “If she wants you… well.”
“She will,” Arwa insisted. “You know she will.”
“I expect you’re correct,” said Gulshera. She placed a hand against Arwa’s forehead. Her touch was soft. “I am sorry, child.”
“Don’t be,” Arwa said, not knowing if Gulshera apologized in sympathy for Arwa’s pain, or for the fate that lay before her. “This is all my own doing.”
CHAPTER SIX
Gulshera wrote a letter to her mistress that night, as Arwa’s hand was cleaned and bandaged by one of the servants who refused to meet her eyes. The next morning, Arwa found her dagger by her door, wrapped in cloth and cleaned so that no soil marked it any longer. A terse message lay beside it:
I have sent your offer.
After that, the waiting began.
In this hermitage of widows, Arwa had begun to find a way to survive. She’d found the promise of comfort in her walks with Asima, in the quiet solace of worship and even the gossip that filled the widows’ evenings. Most of all, she had found a safe outlet for her anger: a weapon shaped to let her rage fly free. Now all that had to be put away. Her new life had to be folded up, peeled away from her skin. It did not belong here any longer.