by Tasha Suri
She closed her eyes. Listened to the shouts of the men, the tremor of her own heartbeat.
“I have been keeping secrets from you,” she said. “I survived Darez Fort because a daiva saved me from a creature—a nightmare, with a face like white bone. And I hope—although my hopes may be false, and foolish—that a daiva will save me again. Save us.”
He raised his head, staring at the many-eyed daiva watching them.
“So I’m not hallucinating, then,” he said shakily. “Ah, that’s good.”
“I am sorry,” said Arwa, apologizing for her lie of omission, although she did not regret it. She regretted only that they were here, that they had so few choices, that they were both so close to dying with nothing they’d hoped for done. No Empire saved. A worthless sacrifice indeed. Her face stung; her lips were wet with the salt of her own tears. She had not realized she was crying. “I can’t promise we will survive. But at least we can choose the shape of our death. At least that, Zahir.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he turned a little. Touched his forehead to her arm. His lips parted. His released a long, slow breath.
“You have me. I go with you.”
The despair of that act—and the trust—was staggering. She pressed her forehead to his hair, one moment of foolishness, one moment of touch. It could not hurt anyone anymore.
“I have marked you,” she whispered. “My blood is on you, and I hope—I hope that’s enough. The daiva—they. They protect their blood. That’s a promise, and they do not break their promises. They will not let us die.”
The daiva was watching them both. Waiting.
She held her hands out. Shaped the sigil for bird. She had no more time. A man burst up the stairs, blade before him. He stopped at the sight of the daiva, frozen by sudden terror.
Zahir turned and, wincing with pain, kneeled on the edge of the tower with her. They gripped each other tight.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“No.” He shook his head, eyes fever-bright and fierce. “Not at all.”
“Neither am I,” she told him. Touched her forehead to his own, face-to-face this time. Their breath mingled for a moment, terror-sweet. “Don’t let go of me,” she said.
“Arwa,” he whispered. “I won’t.”
The man had shaken off his fear. He was running toward them.
Holding her breath, insides a knot of terror, Arwa gripped Zahir tighter.
And jumped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
They were falling. She could feel her stomach lifting, her limbs abraded by the wind. They were falling…
And then abruptly they were not.
Zahir was still holding on to her, and around him—around both of them—were wings, great and glossy and black, the dawn light burnishing their edges with a sharp gleam like that of honed steel.
Ushan, she thought with relief. She had not been wrong to hope. She could feel the ash rising in her again, blotting her already tear-muddled vision. Ushan with his daiva progenitor. Ushan lifted by great wings. The memory was beating in her ears, pounding like her heart, like blood…
She was dizzy with ash. She closed her eyes, as the wings swept the air, as their bodies continued not to fall and saw—darkness.
“Come,” said Ushan. “Take my hand.”
Ushan held his hand out. Dark from the sun, lighter at the palms. She took it. Her own hand was small in his, truly a child’s hand. She walked on a child’s mildly unsteady limbs. She was young. She was, once again, not herself. She was Iria, Ushan’s child.
They walked for a time. There was sand beneath their feet, and a hot sun beating down on them from overhead. They were walking up a dune. Ahead of them, Iria could see figures surrounded by tents. Iria loved those tents. They were large and made of pale cloth, but their surfaces were etched with intricate designs in lush colors, swirling and twisting like the patterns created when wind disturbed sand. The tents were surrounded by a mass of people, all talking to one another, children yelping and running, their shadows shifting in strange shapes behind them. Iria wanted to play too, but her child legs were tired, and she could only stumble. Ushan let go of her hand.
“If you’re tired, I can carry you,” Ushan said, and Iria held her own arms up. Understanding, he laughed, and lifted her.
She was his child. She knew exactly the best way to rest her chin against the crook of his shoulder, to fist her hand in his tunic, as she stared off into the distance. There, she could see dark figures flitting through the air and beneath the sand, and felt comforted. This was home. And they were family.
Her jaw widened. She yawned.
“Wake up,” he whispered, tender against her ear. “Don’t be a lazy thing, now.”
Iria was not asleep yet, but she was tired, and could only mumble something incomprehensible in response.
“You delved too deep into memories that aren’t your own,” he said. His voice was gently disapproving. “And it has worn you thin, hasn’t it? That does not surprise me. The ash is no place for a mortal, no matter her blood.”
Ash.
It was a cold-water shock.
He was not talking to the girl he held in his arms, once, many lifetimes ago.
He was talking to her. And she was…
She was—
“You need to leave here,” he said. “Or soon you will not be able to.”
She was not his child. She was not in Irinah, upon its sand, returning to the embrace of her home clan. She was—
She blinked, and she was a child no longer. The realm of ash surrounded her, gray and empty, all twisting storm, and within it a woman slept curled on her side, breathing soft and alive. Arwa made a choked noise, panicked and helpless, and the woman’s eyes snapped open. The woman raised her head, and Arwa saw a long braid, an achingly familiar face. Mehr met her eyes and—
“Arwa,” a voice called. Thin with pain. “Arwa, wake up, please. I can’t carry you any farther.”
“Wake up,” echoed Ushan. His voice in her ear, a susurration of ash. “Or you die.”
The heat of the sun was long gone. The air was gray. She felt cold hands on her shoulders. Flinched.
“Don’t shout,” he said hurriedly. “It is only me. Zahir.”
“Who am I?” she gasped, lungs working, the taste of iron in her throat. “Who—who am I?”
Zahir was looking at her through a haze of falling ash. But he was not glass-skinned, made of dream flesh. He was human and pale with pain, a bruise blossoming on his cheek.
He pressed a hand to her face. He stared at her, gaze steady. She could feel his hand tremble.
“You are Arwa,” he said. “Lady Arwa. Scholar. Daughter of Suren. Widow.” His lips thinned, holding in his pain. He gripped her under the arms. Lifted her to standing. “But right now,” he panted, “you need to think less, and simply walk.”
“You’re not… strong enough to carry me,” she slurred out.
“That’s the woman I know,” he said. “One foot in front of the other. Come on now.”
Trembling, she rose from the wall she had been leaning on. As she found her footing, the ash began to recede, color returning to the world around her. It was daylight, but they were in a narrow street, walls near closing in on them. She could smell rotting food, animal shit, cooking fires. The window lattices above them had flowers or fabric laced through them, to cover cracks between the frameworks of wood and stone. They were not in the refined corridors of the imperial palace any longer.
“Where…?”
“Jah Ambha,” he said. “Your—spirit. Daiva. It lowered us to the ground just beyond the lake. We ran from there.”
Arwa could not remember running.
She looked down. Her clothes were caked in soil. Zahir’s own tunic was stained and ragged.
“You don’t remember,” he said. “Do you?”
She shook her head, and instantly regretted the action, as very real flesh-and-bone nausea made the world tilt around her. He grabbed h
er before she could fall, then swore; holding her up was aggravating his wounds. Biting her cheek, Arwa straightened up again, leaning the barest increment of her weight on him.
“I can walk. I—I think. For a little while.”
Not long, though. Not long.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know the city as I once did. But I think this is the way. I hope.”
She did not ask him where he was taking her. Her vision was fading once again. She was becoming a stranger to herself. The realm of ash had her in its grip, and she was older than flesh. Old as dreaming. She exhaled, one long pained breath, and black wings unfurled darkly around her.
“One foot in front of the other,” he said. “That’s it.”
Somehow, she obeyed.
Something soft beneath her head. The sound of someone humming, a lilting and melodious tune.
Vision returned to Arwa slowly. There was light coming in from a high window, its lattice shaped to resemble a tree with great swirling branches. The wall beneath it was faintly cracked; it made it appear, absurdly, as if roots were burrowing through the plain room. There was a woman at the other end of the room, bent over a steaming pot, head lowered.
Arwa’s mouth was dry. Her entire body hurt. It was hard to stay conscious. She blinked. Blinked again. When she opened her mouth, nothing but an embarrassing croak came out.
The woman turned.
She was an older woman, with a sharp nose and full mouth, full-figured in a plain robe bound with a sash covered in bright flowers. She walked over to Arwa cautiously.
“Are you awake?” she asked. Arwa managed to blink—answer enough, it seemed for the woman to continue. “Do you know who you are?”
Arwa had a faint memory of Zahir’s voice, sharp with the grit of pain. She doesn’t know herself. I think she’s sick. You know what I can offer you in return for your help. Please—
“Where is Lord Zahir?” Arwa asked. Her own voice hurt.
The woman’s face creased with worry. She took a step closer, and Arwa’s hands curled into involuntary fists.
The woman stopped.
“Ah, not confusion, then. You just don’t trust me. Well, that’s fine, dear,” the woman said. She held her hands up and open, in a placating manner. “He is well, I promise you.”
Arwa said nothing.
For a long moment the woman was silent. Then she crouched down, hands clasped, and said, “He tells me you’re a scholar.”
“I am,” said Arwa.
“Perhaps you know this, then,” said the woman. And then she began to recite one of the Hidden One’s poems, low and mellifluous, her voice made for music.
“I know it,” Arwa admitted, when the woman went silent.
“His mother was a sister in my order,” said the woman. “My name is Aliye, and I have known Zahir since… ah, since he was only a small boy. I have not seen his face for many years, but we’ve exchanged letters for a long, long time.”
Zahir had told her he had connections beyond the palace. Arwa swallowed, throat sore, and said, “I know who I am, Lady Aliye.”
“I am not a lady, dear. But you may call me aunt, if you wish.” She rose back to her feet. “You should rest. I have water. Medicine, too, in the pot.”
For all that her throat hurt and her body ached, Arwa did not want water or medicine. She was not so trusting yet, hurt or no, ash or no.
“Zahir,” said Arwa. “Is he well? He was—wounded.”
“Yes,” Aliye said. But there was a waver in her voice, a sound leeched of color.
She urged Arwa to have some water again, but Arwa shook her head, dizzy and sick with it.
“I want to see him. Please.”
The woman hesitated, then turned.
“I will bring him to you.” A mutter. “Better he sees you’re well for himself, anyway.”
There was a long wait, and Arwa was not sure she would be able to stay awake. She closed her eyes for a moment, wrung out with exhaustion. In the distance, she could hear singing—a faint, warbling song about lovers and their amorous games. If she’d had the energy, she would have blushed.
Zahir walked in. He wore no turban, and his hair was longer than she had expected, pin straight where it touched his jaw. He was wan, and he walked carefully, his tunic loose enough to accommodate a bandage. But he was whole.
“Lady Arwa,” he said. “I’m glad you’re awake. And you—remember yourself?”
“Your wound,” she murmured. “Is it paining you?”
A faint smile. “We will see if it heals clean. But I hope it will.”
She wanted to ask him many things—of the palace, of daiva, of their flight that hung in shards in the storm of her memory. Of the soldiers and his blood and her own. But instead she said, “Can I trust…?”
Could she trust Aliye? Could she trust this place—trust anyone but him?
It was terrifying to realize how much weight she placed upon his answer. She trusted Zahir, at least, implicitly. In the panic of that bloody night, she had not even considered leaving him behind.
“I trust her,” said Zahir. “You can also, if you wish.”
“You promised her something.”
“Nothing I can’t afford to give.”
Aliye cleared her throat. Zahir looked down and said, “Drink a little. You have a fever.” A line of worry knitted his brow.
If he trusted Aliye, it would have to be enough.
Arwa drank, clumsy. Zahir helped her, carefully holding the cup.
Arwa closed her eyes then, resisting the urge to ask him not to go. All well and good. When she next opened her eyes, he was gone.
She fell in and out of slumber and fever over and over again. Sometimes she saw ash before her eyes. Other times she simply dreamed. Sometimes Aliye was there, sometimes not. Once, in something like a dream, Arwa thought she saw a new woman watching her from the doorway, her long shadow reaching across the floor. But that was only once, and fever lied.
Aliye brought her food fit for an invalid, and showed her where to bathe and relieve herself. She was a kind nursemaid, but Arwa had a sense she was consuming time that Aliye did not readily have available. Sometimes the older woman appeared with rouged lips and a brocade gown, hurrying in and out of the room, leaving the scent of perfume behind her. At night, Arwa heard not just singers but distant male voices and women’s laughter.
“You say you are a Hidden One,” Arwa said tiredly one morning. The noise and ill dreams had left her restless.
She had asked after Zahir—as she often did—to no avail. He is also recovering, Aliye would tell her, as if that were answer enough. Better, Arwa had decided in the end, to ask different questions. Perhaps she’d eventually receive some helpful answers.
“I am.” Aliye was wetting a cloth for Arwa’s forehead. The coolness, she claimed, would fight the weight of the fever. Arwa accepted this, although she had always had fevers sweated out of her as a child, swaddled in blankets, banking the heat until the sickness passed.
“And you are a courtesan, too?”
“Courtesan, dancing girl, brothel madame,” said Aliye with a shrug. “Call it what you like. A woman must make a living. Well,” she amended. “Most women. I know ladies do not.” She gave Arwa a shrewd look. “But perhaps the world would be better if you ladies were allowed to give more to the Empire. And if we were also.”
Arwa did not know if the we Aliye spoke of were the Hidden Ones or courtesans, but she supposed it made little difference. All people in the Empire had their service. All had boundaries they could not cross, for fear of the punishment that would face them on the other side.
The thought quelled Arwa to silence. She looked past Aliye to the lattice window facing—she assumed—the household’s courtyard. Light was pouring through its roots and its leaves, casting winding shadows upon the floor.
“You like the decorations?” asked Aliye, clearly having followed the direction of Arwa’s gaze.
“I spent time in a hermitage,”
Arwa said hoarsely. She needed more water. Her throat burned. “There was a similar lattice there. In the prayer room.”
She remembered the daiva rising on wings beyond it.
Tasted ash.
She heard the cool sound of water being wrung from cloth.
“Do you know the tale of the tree and the doe?”
Arwa mutely shook her head. Aliye smiled.
“It isn’t a tale commonly told anymore. But once it was a tale mothers granted their daughters.” She turned the cloth between her hands once, twice. The pause stretched between them. “I’ll tell it to you now,” she said eventually. “Perhaps it will entertain you while you recover.”
She placed the cool cloth against Arwa’s forehead, then returned with a pile of sewing, and sat cross-legged on the floor mat by Arwa’s bedding.
“There was a man, long ago,” she began. “A boy, but also a prince, who lost his first throne and sought another. He walked with his family and his soldiers across the world: from beyond even Kirat, which lies untouchable beyond the mountains. His family loved him dearly, and followed him uncomplaining, even as their hunger grew, and their old and their young perished. Still, they would have died, had the boy not met the woman.”
“You’re telling me a love story,” murmured Arwa.
“You are listening,” Aliye said, pleased. “Good. Well, you’re correct. He loved her. He came upon her when he reached a bitter mountain-ringed valley, arid and colorless. But she—ah—was beautiful beyond compare.”
They always were, in such tales.
“Skin like the heart of a tree, hair like black smoke,” Aliye went on. “Oh, it was clear she was no normal woman. The prince had gone hunting when he stumbled upon her instead of the prey he had hoped for. It was her beauty that felled him instead, struck him just like an arrow to the heart. He fell in love with her instantly, and she with him. They wed. It should have been a happy time, but alas—his family and his soldiers were dying. Hunger and sickness both had them in their grasp.”
Aliye drew the needle through cloth. Snapped the end of the thread, deft and neat, with her teeth. Then she continued.