by Tasha Suri
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
She and Zahir returned to their quiet work. On her next visit, he handed over her shawl without comment. When she returned to her room, she found small stars sewn along the edges, discreet in white thread. It took her a few days longer to realize that their order accurately reflected the arrangement of constellations above Irinah at midsummer—one of the very maps they had perused together many nights past, when they began piecing together the veracity of scholarship on the realm of ash.
She said nothing to him, and he said nothing to her. But she wore the shawl often, and sometimes when they studied the problem of the bridge between worlds—the damnable bridge, as Arwa would often refer to it viciously, in the safety of her own head—she would trace the constellations with her fingertips in quiet comfort.
The pain—the result of that damnable, weak bridge—had stopped them from progressing any farther along the path of his soul. Arwa read his books on her own, selecting volumes that drew her interest. When she had questions—which was often—Zahir always answered her, no matter how preoccupied he was with his own research.
“There must be an alternative to incorporating cannibalism or starvation,” Arwa muttered, flicking swiftly through a thick tome.
Zahir laughed. When she looked up, he was smiling.
“If there is, I’m sure you’ll find it,” he said.
She paused. Finger upon the page.
“I expect,” she said, “that you cannot go to Irinah.”
“Ah. I wondered if you would question that.” He shut his own book. “It would be ideal. It has long been my preferred avenue of inquiry. But no. I cannot. Jihan has her spies, her women, but her power is constrained by her position.”
A daughter, no matter her power, was infinitely more constrained than a son. Arwa nodded in understanding.
“And Prince Akhtar…?”
“He understands the need for resources,” Zahir said. “For courtiers loyal to him. For administrators in his pocket. For a sister with political acumen and spies. But I have not yet proven myself useful, in his eyes, and heresy makes him uneasy. And it hurts his pride to need someone like me. A bastard, and a traitor’s son.” Bitter twist of Zahir’s mouth. “He tolerates me for Jihan’s sake, but he will not send me to Irinah.”
“Do you ever go beyond the palace walls?” Arwa asked.
“No, Lady Arwa.” He said it gently enough, but she thought she heard the pain of it, beneath the softness of his voice. “Jihan has not arranged me that privilege. But then, I have not asked for many years.”
There was a lump in her throat.
She lowered her head, breathing through it until it cleared, and she could find her words once more.
“If we can find no other answers in these books, then we’ll make our own theories,” said Arwa. “We will test them and we will break them, and then we will draw new theories from the breaking, and test those too. And we will continue, Lord Zahir, until we find a theory that does not break, and the bridge is strong enough to carry us directly into the Maha’s arms.”
Zahir stared at her for a long moment. Then his face broke into the warmest, sweetest smile she had ever seen. It stole her breath a little, to look upon it.
“Lady Arwa, that is by far the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”
“Well.” She touched one finger to the shorn ends of her hair. “I can be a scholar too when I try, my lord.”
“You are always a scholar,” Zahir said softly. “If I ever have suggested otherwise to you—well. I am often a fool. And cruel. But I will endeavor to learn to be better.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She began flicking through pages once more, gazing unseeing at the words. “I will be sure to evaluate your efforts honestly and fairly.”
“I can ask for no more.”
She grew used to her new routine. Sat with the widows and ate and prayed with them, just as she had done when she had lived in the hermitage. She slept in snatches often during the day. And at night, she worked with Zahir, continuing her apprenticeship.
She saw Gulshera only rarely. Gulshera was always in Jihan’s presence, at her salons for her favorites, or at her meetings with Prince Akhtar. Only once that week did Arwa find Gulshera alone. The older woman was seated in the front garden, her own eyes closed, face tilted up to the sun.
“Aunt,” Arwa said in greeting.
“Don’t ask me anything,” Gulshera said tiredly. “Only sit with me, if you like. Quietly.”
And that had been that.
It was the Emperor’s next public audience that shattered the order of Arwa’s new life.
The princes sat before their father, as always, in close proximity to his greatness. Petitions began. Another request for assistance for a scheme of cleansing was proposed, by an old nobleman serving in Haran governance. He was directed to seek assistance from Akhtar. As the next petitioner approached, Parviz stood, and raised his hand in a gesture that demanded stillness. A ripple—of fear and unease—ran through the surrounding nobles.
“I must speak,” he said.
Through the lattice and gauze, Parviz was a bulky, intimidating figure, carved from shadow and steel, his tunic and jacket an austere gray, his turban unadorned even by a jewel to mark his status. His voice was a signal of strength, booming and vast. His very presence seemed to draw the air from the room, just as it had on the night of the feast celebrating his return.
“I beg my gracious father’s indulgence,” Prince Parviz announced. “Father, your humble servant pleads for the right to plead before you.”
“My sons have the right to private audience,” the Emperor said, voice silken. Arwa could not tell if he was angry or simply curious. Either way, her heart was beating fast, her palms damp with sweat. The women around her were utterly, terribly silent. “What need have you to speak before these good assembled men?”
“This lowly servant does not deserve the comfort of private audience, to soften the weight of his crimes.” Arwa saw Parviz raise his head, his jaw all firm, noble angles. “Father, I will speak honestly before all these men: I have failed you.”
“There is no need for false humility. We have amply rewarded you for your service in Durevi. I have judged you. You have not been found wanting.”
“I served you loyally in Durevi,” Parviz agreed. “I quelled rebellion from barbarians and fools, who do not recognize the strength and glory of the Empire. Years of absence, Father, and I return to discover… whispers. Of heretics. Of people who do not respect your absolute right to master the law and faith of the Empire. Whispers of people who worship superstition and occult arts over your holy self.” He held his arms out before him, for all his booming voice, his straight-back stance, as if he were a supplicant before the Emperor. “Your sons are your hands, Father. We circle your light. We serve you and our line above all else. But we have not destroyed heresy.” There was real anguish in his voice. “Your sons have betrayed you, Father. We deserve any punishment you see fit to provide.”
A beat. The vast hall was utterly silent.
The Emperor said nothing. It was no invitation to continue. Nor was it a command to stop. To Parviz’s left, Nasir was wide-eyed; Akhtar, thin-lipped, sat still in his seat.
“Heretic mystics speak against you, Father,” Parviz continued. “They speak of a new Maha. They speak of evil arts, worship of demons, spells and sorcery that the Maha banished long ago, for the good of your Empire. We cannot focus our attentions on petty matters of sanitation, when such a threat faces you.”
“Brother,” said Akhtar. “Stop this.”
Parviz—to no one’s surprise—ignored him.
“I know my duty, Father. I know our duties. We are your tools. We preserve the Empire’s greatness and its future. But in allowing heresy to continue, we fail you.
“I have tried to remedy my failures,” continued Parviz. “My men—loyal soldiers who served me in Durevi—have apprehended a group of mystics who claim the Maha has been reborn amon
g their number. I hold them now in my own palace. Most High, I captured them for you. Order what you will of me: My hands are your hands. My will your will.”
Silence. How could a hall full of so many people be so silent? How could even the thunder of Arwa’s heartbeat go numb and still in her ears, as if she hung suspended out of time by her own fear?
Prince Parviz castigated himself by tone and deed—hands before him, face lowering in contrition—but his words were truly a condemnation of his brothers. He had, after all, been in Durevi. It was Akhtar and Nasir who had not weeded out heresy.
It was Akhtar who harbored Zahir—Zahir with his books and his poetry, his fire vessel, his realm of ash—within his own palace.
“You were always the most emotional of my children,” the Emperor said. “You think I do not know what happens in my own Empire? What heresy occurs? Step forward, Parviz.”
Parviz did. He stood directly before the dais, as many a noble and criminal had before him. He stared at the Emperor. From behind the lattice, blurred to shadows of gauze and bright clothing, the women stared back as one.
“If one of my nobles had brought news of heretics before me in such a manner, I would have had them stripped of their titles and wealth. I would have cast them from court for their sheer gall.”
“If I have overstepped, Father, then I accept any punishment I have earned. I humbly—”
“Enough.”
The Emperor sounded angry—and suddenly, undeniably, exhausted. Arwa heard the tremor of the Emperor’s voice, and felt something twist in her chest, clutch painfully at her heart. The Emperor was frail. An old man. No more than mortal. She thought of the statue of the Maha and Emperor both, timeless and strong; she thought of ash, crumbling. She twisted her hands together tight.
“My sons have no need for humility. You are a descendant of the Maha, Prince Parviz. You carry within you greatness beyond compare. I recognize your zeal.” Soft. His voice carried, but oh it was soft. “After our great ancestor passed, I dealt with many heretics. I meted out death for the sake of the Empire. I had hoped such ill belief had been snuffed out entirely. But I am an old man. I do not have the fire of the young.”
The Emperor leaned forward, just slightly, upon his golden dais. He stared down at Parviz. The women could not see his expression. All that was visible to Arwa was the curve of his spine, his wrinkled hand forming a fist, and then relaxing.
“Mark in the records,” he said to the court scribes. “The heretics in Prince Parviz’s possession will be put to death, their heads displayed upon the city’s walls.”
Arwa saw Jihan stand, then crouch by her aunt’s side, whispering furiously to Masuma. Despite her veil, none of Jihan’s feelings were concealed. Fury and urgency radiated off her skin. Masuma placed a hand upon Jihan’s own. With her free hand she touched the lattice with trembling fingers. For once, the imperial women were united.
Arwa did not know what Masuma whispered to her brother. Only that he sagged back; only that he shook, a little, as if her words had thrown him.
“So many voices,” the Emperor. His voice creaked like old wood, its silken edge frayed. “And I find I no longer have the will to heed them. This audience is done. Go.”
A ripple ran through the hall. This was no ordinary end to an audience. The Emperor had not risen to his feet and departed. The business of the court was not yet complete.
“Leave me,” the Emperor said. “Now.”
Belatedly, a conch sounded. The courtiers began to uneasily depart.
Before his father, Prince Parviz stood straight and tall. There was something triumphant about his stillness. Something watchful.
Arwa thought of Zahir and his occult arts. The arts Jihan, and by extension Akhtar, had invested in to save the Empire. She thought of the Emperor’s words, his age and frailty, and the flame of Parviz’s eyes, as he stared up at his father’s throne.
Her mouth was full of the taste of iron.
Nothing good will come of this.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The walk back to Akhtar’s palace was tense.
“Come with us,” one widow said gently. She steered Arwa toward the wing for elders, and away from Jihan’s closest women, who were whispering to one another urgently.
The elders settled on the floor. To Arwa’s surprise, she saw Gulshera standing by the lattice, her back to all of them. Every line of her body screamed her desire to be left alone. Arwa, for all her propensity toward foolishness, knew better than to disturb her. Instead, Arwa sat on the floor cushions with the other women. From here, she could see Gulshera’s profile. Gulshera’s jaw was tight, her pale eyes flint.
She looked like a soldier preparing for battle.
A maidservant brought in refreshments. The cups and pastries went notably untouched. Lady Bega drummed her fingers against her knee, the clink of her jeweled rings the only noise to break the weight of silence.
“Heads staked upon walls,” she said finally. “It’s been years.”
“Oh, don’t speak of it,” said another. She drew her shawl around her face.
“And what shall we speak of, then?” Bega rolled her eyes and cursed under her breath. “Soft woman, you are. If Parviz pours more honeyed apologies into his father’s ears, there may be many more heads upon walls, you mark me.”
“Bega.”
“The commoners will love it at least,” said Bega, clearly relishing the drama. “They love a spectacle.”
“Some of them found solace in charlatans, Lady Bega.” Gulshera’s voice was leaden. “I would be surprised if the people of Jah Ambha are entirely celebratory.”
There was knowing in Gulshera’s voice.
Arwa thought of the days Gulshera had spent at Jihan’s side. Jihan, who saw and heard everything, who had far-flung eyes, who received regular missives from across the Empire and consumed knowledge with the same ease and intensity that Zahir sought to consume ash.
Oh, Gulshera knew something of the fractures in the Empire’s faith. Of that, Arwa was certain. Even Arwa, tucked in the shell of her own grief and circumstance, knew the people sought to fill the void left by the Maha’s death in any way they could. Executing mystics and heretics would not heal the wound in the Empire. The rift left in the Empire’s faith, in its hope, was not one that could be healed by force of arms alone.
A guardswoman entered. Heads turned as she crossed the room, as she kneeled down by Arwa’s side, and in a soft voice said, “Lady, you are wanted. The princess has called for you.”
Gulshera had turned. Gaze sharp. But there was no opportunity to speak to her now, if indeed she wanted to speak. The elders were staring at Arwa. The guardswoman was waiting. All she could do was swallow, and straighten, and nod in acknowledgment.
The guardswoman led her out into the corridor, then said, “Lady, you will need to lower your veil.”
“What need is there for that?”
“We are attending the prince,” the guardswoman said. Her gaze flickered to Arwa, then back again.
No more needed to be said. Arwa hastily lowered her veil, as instructed.
They walked through the pale corridors of the women’s quarters, to doors Arwa had never acknowledged, and had never seen unbarred. The doors were drawn open. Arwa walked through them, and entered the halls of Akhtar’s palace that lay beyond the women’s quarters. The world of men.
It was the past that haunted Arwa, as she walked toward Prince Akhtar’s study, hands clasped demurely in front of her, face veiled, hair shorn, a widow in all the ways she could muster. Beneath the mask of her widowhood, though, the memory of her marriage rose up. Haunting her.
Kamran’s study. She thought of it, even as the guardswoman announced her, even as she crossed the threshold into a space where she did not belong. The inescapable, sticky heat of Chand; how his ledgers and his maps, the tools of his command, grew mold when the rains came, a fact that had driven him mad. He’d had officials to help him manage his papers, but often when he’d worked
through the midday heat, Arwa had sat with him as he worked, and sifted carefully through his letters, adding to his ledgers, listening when he paced and worked his way through one thorny knot of imperial administration after another. She remembered the feel of his eyes on her. The sound of his soldiers in the courtyard below.
“You are a great help to me,” he’d told her, once. And Arwa had felt relieved. She was a thing that was useful after all. A thing she had worked very hard to be. She had not failed her family after all.
She bowed low as she entered the study. Jihan stood before her, her veil thrown back. Prince Akhtar was facing his sister, his head tilted down to meet her eyes. His mouth was thin.
And there, standing by the far wall, arms clasped behind him, was Zahir.
It was a cold-water shock, seeing him here. She had never seen Zahir in daylight before. He was still oddly unreal, still sharp-boned and pale from lack of sunlight. But he also looked… different. Somehow, in the light of day, he loomed larger. His sharp bones were somehow more severe, his gaze more cutting. Although his hands were clasped behind his back, there was something unnerving about him—something that drew the eye and held it, pinned like a moth by lantern light.
In that moment, he reminded her of Parviz. His presence drew the air from the room, molded the world to his will. Then he looked at her, one flicker of his gaze, a darkening of his eyes, and he was only Zahir again.
Arwa felt a shiver of dread run through her. Why had they both been brought here?
Jihan and Akhtar did not seem to have yet noticed Arwa’s arrival.
“He’s met with Father’s favorite courtiers,” Akhtar was saying to Jihan, face mottled tight with fury and feeling. “After all my years of slowly winning their favor and hoarding their secrets, they’re going to fall for his propaganda. The military already love him. They like his brute idiocy—strength they call it, as if hacking off heads is a virtue he’s cultivated—”