by Tasha Suri
Ritual words. Strong words.
Jihan must be glad, thought Arwa. She had bound her loyalties to him, after all.
But Arwa could not yet be glad.
“Bahar’s son. Come here.”
Zahir came forward and bowed once more.
“Stand,” said the Emperor. He gave Zahir an assessing look, cold, clinical. “You look very like your mother. She was a beautiful woman. A shame you were not born a girl. You would have been easy to marry off, simpler to deal with.”
Zahir said nothing.
“She was a clever whore, your mother. Too clever. If she had invested less energy in heresy and more in being pleasing to me—well. I would not have had to put her to death, for one.”
The Emperor gestured, and a maidservant hurried over, offering him wine. He drank. Lowered the cup, which clattered in the tray.
“A shame that you are not simply like your mother in looks. In truth, Zahir, you are a problem,” the Emperor said bluntly, “that must be solved.”
He is going to die, Arwa thought. Her stomach was in knots.
“When your mother proved herself a heathen, you were spared by the soft-heartedness of women. But the imperial family do not acknowledge or keep bastard sons for a reason. I have enough sons. Strong sons. With good blood. And you make the case for your continued survival… difficult. You may speak,” the Emperor said, into the silence that swelled in response to his words.
“Everything I do, Emperor, I do for the sake of the Empire,” Zahir said.
“Yes. Bahar claimed something similar. But no one named her the Maha’s heir, for her work.”
Zahir’s head shot up. Eyes wide.
“Ah.” The Emperor’s voice was silken once more. “You did not know. I am relieved you did not encourage it.”
“I would never, Emperor. I know what I am.”
“And yet the rumors swell,” the Emperor said. “I am not the old fool my sons believe me to be, boy. Even now. When you were still young, your tutors boasted of your perception, your talent. Then one idiot claims you’d be fit for the next Maha. I dealt with him. But somehow the whispers spread. Servants have loose lips. Soon the common people are whispering about a Maha’s heir hidden away in my own palace. And my dear Parviz guts a fine throng of mystics who babble tales of a blessed boy who died with his whore mother and rose from the grave, the Maha’s spirit in him. Tale after tale, and you at the heart of all of them.”
That could not be true. Arwa knew it was not true. She had heard so many tales after the Maha’s death—tales claiming he still lived, or would return from the grave; tales hoping for a new Maha to be named from the royal sons, or to rise haloed from the masses. None had named Zahir.
But ah—she looked at Zahir’s blanched face, at the courtiers and guardsmen and servants listening intently beyond the gossamer walls surrounding the Emperor’s deathbed, and thought of the power of the Emperor’s words. All tales spoken from this moment onward would name Zahir. The Emperor had ensured it would be so.
Whether they named him a true heir or a false claimant awaited to be seen.
“Emperor,” said Zahir. “I am no heir to our illustrious Maha. I am sorry for this falsehood. It was not my doing.”
His voice was even, calm. His expression was resolute. Arwa saw the acceptance of death in it, the utter terror, and clenched her fingers so hard against her knees that her nails stung like dull blades.
The Emperor looked at him. “Bahar’s son. I find old age makes me soft. My daughter loves you. My wife thought fondly of you, in her time. You are a pretty thing. You inspire soft hearts. Therefore: Maha’s heir,” he said softly. “That is what I name you. Prove yourself fit for that title. Or my sons will do what I should have done many years ago, when my soft-hearted daughter begged for your life. Let it be recorded: Bahar’s son lives, and wears a new title. For now.”
A tide of noise moved through the room. Jihan made a choked sound, quickly cut off.
Parviz’s face was stone, his eyes murderous. A look of revulsion flickered across Akhtar’s face, for only a moment. Nasir merely looked between his brothers and Zahir in confusion. He had, perhaps, not known that Zahir existed at all.
The Emperor began coughing again and Masuma began speaking to him in the softest, most urgent voice. It was Akhtar who touched his hand to the end of his father’s bed, reverent, who then said, “Let us allow the Emperor to rest now. Father, with your leave…”
“Enough pronouncements,” the Emperor said tiredly. “I will rest now. No more.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Time passed interminably. For an endless stretch of hours Arwa sat behind Jihan and Gulshera as the women wept over the Emperor, as crying gave way to soft-whispered words of comfort, as Masuma gently fed him a tincture of poppies to lull him into an uneasy rest. Finally, the Emperor slept.
Slowly the men beyond the gauze began to drift away, until only the most stubborn courtiers remained. The guardsmen, not having the luxury of choice, continued to maintain their vigil, their gold-armored figures lining the walls.
Masuma rose to her feet, wincing with pain from having too long sat by her brother’s side. Jihan rose as well. With a respectful sweep of her head, Jihan veiled her face and turned to leave. Her women followed her, the briefly formed grand court of women cleaved in two once more.
It was deep night. As they entered Akhtar’s palace, Gulshera touched a hand to Arwa’s shoulder. Arwa drew away from her. She did not want to be comforted.
“I am sorry, Aunt,” said Arwa. “I want to be alone, to… to think.”
She began to walk away.
Arwa heard the rasp of embroidered silk behind her and felt a new hand on her arm, cold-fingered. Not Gulshera’s hand.
“Arwa,” said Jihan. “Come with me. You want to see him, don’t you?”
Jihan’s expression was utterly calm, but her eyes were red, her cheeks drawn. She wondered if Jihan had cried for her father or for Zahir, or for the both of them.
“Princess,” Arwa murmured. She followed in Jihan’s footsteps.
Jihan’s chambers were vast, lushly decorated with the scent of fresh flowers in the air. Usually Arwa would have stared about herself in awe at the beauty of the place, but she could not.
Zahir was standing in a stance Arwa recognized as the one he’d taken in Akhtar’s study: hands together, head slightly lowered and tilted.
He looked at Arwa. Looked at Jihan.
“She was searching for you,” Jihan said, nudging Arwa slightly forward, before sweeping farther into the room herself. “Worrying for you, Zahir.”
His mouth thinned. No doubt he was thinking of the last night they had entered the realm of ash together, just as Arwa was.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Leave us,” Jihan said to the maidservants tidying the room, the guardswoman at the door. “All of you. Quickly now.”
The servants were gone in a flash.
Jihan’s eyes narrowed. Her voice came out of her suddenly furious, lashing out like a whip.
“Tonight, Zahir. Find the Maha’s ash tonight. Do you understand me?”
“Is my execution so close?” Zahir asked.
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“I am never dramatic,” said Zahir, with that cutting edge of feeling to his voice that Arwa knew so well. “I am being factual.”
“Factual, factual,” Jihan repeated bitterly. “If you spent less time thinking and more time doing, perhaps we would not be in this position.”
“I have done nothing but study, try—”
“Enough.” Her voice quelled him to silence. “Zahir, don’t you see? I have protected you, often at the cost of my own reputation. I have done it for love of you, as the brother I have acknowledged, chosen no matter what others may say. And I have done it because I believe that what you can do—what your mother studied and sought to do—has the power to restore the Empire’s glory.”
Jihan crossed the room. She stood near h
im; her voice was no longer furious, only fierce, almost pleading.
“I have tried to make Akhtar believe it too. I succeeded for a time. But I can’t make Akhtar protect you now. He no longer thinks you are of use. You are a hindrance. So you must act quickly, Zahir. You must prove yourself the Maha’s heir.”
“Maha’s heir?” Zahir laughed tiredly. “I can’t prove myself to be a thing that I am not.”
“But, Zahir, you could be. Father has named you such.”
“As a death sentence, Jihan.”
“As a test, Zahir. And one at which you can succeed, I’m sure of it. You are no Maha now, but if you find his truth, his secrets, a part of him will live in you, won’t it? A part of you will be him.”
His gaze slid to Arwa. She held it and returned it.
She did not know what he saw in her face. But when he turned back to his sister he said, “We have discovered—something.”
“Tell me.”
“The Maha used the Amrithi to build our Empire,” Zahir said. “He enslaved those with a special form of magic. He used their gifts to compel the Gods. To dream the Empire’s strength and glory.” A beat. “Did you know this, sister?”
Jihan said nothing.
“Ah,” Zahir said finally. “I see. Did you not think that information would be useful in my task?”
“Once you discovered the Maha’s ash, you would know anyway,” Jihan said. The fire was gone from her voice, which was suddenly, terribly cool. “So I thought. But you haven’t found the Maha’s ash yet, I take it?”
“Do not claim you were testing me,” Zahir shot back. “That is an excuse, and worse, a lie. It makes no sense, Jihan. You have trusted me with so much. Why not this?”
“Because you have a soft heart,” snapped Jihan. “You wept for weeks after your mother’s death.”
“I was a child.”
“You still feel far too much. You have no idea what it is like here at court, Zahir, the dangers I face, the spite my brothers hurl at one another and the world. You crumble when Akhtar shows you the smallest cruelty—you lack the skills to defend yourself. Lady Arwa had to save you last time.”
Arwa bit her tongue hard enough that she tasted iron. That is not what happened, not at all. She must have moved, must have flinched, because Zahir was turning toward her, mouth parted, a furrow between his brows—then Jihan touched his face, and held him still.
“Zahir. Look at me, dear one.” Her voice softened. She clasped his face, ever so gentle. “Ever since your mother passed, I have tried to protect you. I always have, have I not?”
“You have.”
“I have only ever wanted to protect you: from our father, from court, from yourself. In truth, I have kept secrets from you because I am soft too,” she confessed. “I couldn’t bear to see you—hurt. Or burdened. As I am burdened. I wanted to protect you from this as I have always protected you from all things.”
Arwa looked at Jihan’s glistening eyes, the softness of her face.
Oh, the princess was a politician in truth. She lied so very beautifully.
Zahir nodded, once. It was enough. Jihan lowered her hands.
“Besides,” she said. “The knowledge of how the Amrithi were utilized—that secret belongs to select people. The imperial family. The mystics. Our Maha. No one else.”
Zahir did not flinch.
“Not to the Maha’s heir, Jihan?”
“Find his ash, and then you’ll be his heir. I’ll lay all the knowledge you like in your hands, then.”
“I am curious,” Zahir said. Voice smooth as stone. “What if I find the Maha’s ash and discover he had nothing to preserve our Empire but Amrithi magic? What then, Jihan?”
“He knew everything,” she said. “He created the Empire from nothing. The Gods gave him the Amrithi. He was blessed. He will have answers for us, Zahir, you know it must be true. After all, who else is there, who can possibly save us?”
“That, I don’t know,” said Zahir.
“Please just find answers from him in the place beyond. Please.”
“Of course, Jihan. It has always been my goal.” He lowered his head, avoiding her gaze. His brow was still furrowed, jaw tight.
“Will you give your all to save the Empire, Lady Arwa?” Jihan asked.
Ah, you remember me, thought Arwa. But she did not allow herself to be viperous. She lowered her own eyes demurely.
“Princess, I will give everything.”
“Good.”
Jihan did not touch Arwa, but her voice was cold-fingered regardless, and made Arwa shiver as if a chill, proprietary hand had passed over her soul. “You should give everything, Lady Arwa. Your fate and Zahir’s are intertwined now, after all. Whatever befalls him, befalls you.”
It was a threat. And a promise.
Your fates are intertwined.
She should have realized the significance of the easy way Jihan had allowed her to see Akhtar’s furious ugliness, the cracks in his nature; her own drunken mirth; Zahir’s vulnerable throat.
She had never planned for Arwa to leave.
Arwa had not known. She had not considered it, in truth, only thrown herself headlong into her own destruction. Even now she could find nothing inside herself that called her to fear for herself. Instead she felt strangely hysterical, as if grief and horror had carved away what little good sense she had.
“All this time,” murmured Zahir. “All my study, and yet Jihan hid the truth from me. How did she expect me to save the Empire, when I worked with nothing but a shadow of knowledge?”
Arwa laughed. She couldn’t help but laugh.
This, at least, she could answer.
“Because you are a tool, Lord Zahir. A tool does not need to know why it does what it does. It need only—be used.”
Oh, Arwa knew all about being fashioned into a thing that had utility. A good noblewoman had to be useful, or so she had been taught, all her life. And she had embraced her utility, after the hermitage—embraced a soldier’s purpose, one that provided her direction without demanding thought from her.
“Too much knowledge gives a person power,” she added. “Too much knowledge forces people to think. And choose.”
“A tool,” he murmured. There was a long silence. She listened to his breath, the tread of his footsteps, as they walked across the gardens. “I suppose that is the price of a—home.”
Arwa laughed again. Soft, almost drunkenly. She felt dizzy with strangeness.
“You live in a tomb. That is not a home.”
“Don’t,” he said. “Please.”
Arwa fell silent. She could not say she was sorry. She wasn’t. She was still uneasy with him, after their last night in the realm of ash. But she had seen the way his father had treated him. She had seen how Jihan loved him. Used him.
You deserve more than this, she wanted to say. But she already knew he would not agree, and there was something brittle about his face and the turn of his head that kept the words from passing her lips.
“Jihan likes to use my tears as evidence of my softness,” said Zahir. “She doesn’t understand that I wept when my mother died not out of grief alone, but because I wanted the Empress to pity me. I needed her to consider me valuable, but I could not make the mistake of my mother and be too strong, you understand? I had to be weak enough to keep. And to love.”
“I understand that very well,” Arwa said.
“Jihan thinks I am soft-natured. Akhtar thinks I am a stain upon his name. My father thinks I am a pretty, troublesome trinket, like my mother was to him. But they do not know my nature as I do.” His voice was low now, almost contemplative. “I am nearly certain I could have found the Maha’s ash long ago, if I had allowed myself to take the logical steps that lay before me. All it would have taken was a handful of unwilling Amrithi. Jihan could have smuggled them in as servants. The bodies of the dead, to be consumed or burned, to build a bridge. Experiment after experiment, until the Maha’s ash was found. It would have been a swifter way,
albeit bloodier. But I would have told myself it was for the Empire’s good, and I would have slept well enough in time.”
He looked up at the sky. The dark of it reflected back in his eyes.
“But I kept my theories to myself. I only told Jihan that I would try starvation. She pressed for more. I told her an Amrithi-blooded apprentice, a person trustworthy and clever, would perhaps be of help to me. I told her, if you cannot trust my soul to them, they will not do. And I thought she would find nothing.”
But here I am, thought Arwa. She could not speak. Horror had stoppered her throat.
“You have shown me what the Maha is, Lady Arwa. All my life I have worshipped him, revered him. I thought he was greater than all of us—infinitely wiser in all ways. And now I know better. I fear…” He paused, holding his breath for a moment, as if he did not want to let the words go. “I fear how like him I am, in the precise and cruel part of me that I revile. I fear that in my nature, he and I are the same.”
“You are not,” Arwa said sharply.
He lowered his head and looked at her with an expression that was entirely vulnerable, entirely flayed open, as if he were the gentle child who had wept on his mother’s death, and not the sharp-edged not-prince he was, built for learning the world by paring it down to its bloodied bones.
“You don’t know that. You don’t know my heart.”
“When you indulge in slavery and cannibalism, I’ll rethink my assessment. Evidence, my lord. You know the value of it.”
“Experience of thought and feeling is evidence in its own right.”
“Do you want me to provide you forgiveness for your thoughts? Because I will not. You will need to make peace with your own heart, Lord Zahir. It’s no business of mine.”
Arwa was no stranger to dark thoughts, to fury and viciousness and bloodlust. But his confession should nonetheless have made her flinch. But she could not. She had read books at his side, worn a shawl embroidered by his hands. He had taught her and studied with her and held her when she woke screaming, the dead in her skull. And more than that—more than all of it—he had treated her as an equal. Apprentice, he called her, but in the white-gray expanse of the realm of ash, he had wound his soul’s roots with her own, and in the world of nighttime and lantern light he had listened to her theories with the respect due to a fellow scholar.