by Tasha Suri
She took hold of Arwa’s arm. Turned her.
“Stop, stop,” said the other widow. “Look at her hair.”
The widow lifted Arwa’s face to the brash daylight with a wrench of her fingers against Arwa’s chin.
“Ah,” said the widow. Her eyes narrowed, calculating, thoughtful. “Are you here looking for a home, sister?”
For a moment, Arwa could not talk. The House of Tears had stoppered her throat.
The moment was enough.
“Come with me, then,” said the woman. She led Arwa around to the back of the House of Tears, despite Arwa’s ineffectual protests, where a large group of widows sat under an awning. One, older than the rest, was holding court, seated on her own chair and smoking a pipe.
“Aunt Madhu,” said the woman. “There’s a new widow.”
Madhu beckoned them closer. Puffed out smoke.
“She’s young,” Madhu said shortly. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees. “There are worse places to stop than here,” she said to Arwa. “We’re established. Oh, there are plenty of charlatan visionaries here, but they keep the Governor’s soldiers distracted.”
“Do they,” Arwa said faintly.
“You’re young. Pretty. Can you cry on command? Never mind.” A waved hand. “You can learn. Show the pilgrims a sad face and they’ll give you any gift we ask for.”
“But you wouldn’t be expected to whore,” the first widow piped up.
“An added benefit,” agreed Madhu. “The House of Tears has a good reputation for a reason.”
“That is—I did not think—”
“You did not?” A grin. “My, you are a sheltered one.”
“I.” Arwa shook her head. “I am sorry, Aunt. I don’t think I should be here.”
Madhu pursed her lips. Sucked her teeth. Then she said, “Well, think on it. The world is becoming unsafe for women like us. We all feel the terror in the night. But widows have currency in such times. The world is mourning, and who knows better how to mourn than we do?”
Without conscious thought, Arwa removed one of her packages and placed it in the woman’s hands.
“This is all I have to offer as a pilgrim. I…” Words failed her. She did not know how she felt. “I am sorry, Aunt. I have to go.”
And she turned and fled.
Arwa returned to their makeshift room and handed out the food as Eshara dragged herself sluggishly to her elbows and began to eat. Zahir left his food untouched, a frown creasing his brow.
“You took a long time,” he said.
She didn’t want to explain where she had gone, or why she had given the widows her food. She didn’t want to explain how she had felt in the House of Tears: the way those bright candles had moved her heart like a star across the heavens. She did not want to tell them how the old widow had reminded her of Gulshera, and made her wonder what had become of Gulshera. Of Jihan. Of Bega. Of all the women, left in the massacre.
“I lost my way,” said Arwa. That at least was believable.
“You brought nothing for yourself?”
“I…” She shook her head, trying to clear the haze of grief and exhaustion. “I’m sorry. I am—tired, I think. That is for you.” She gestured at the parcel. “I misplaced my own food, not yours.”
“We can share, Arwa,” he said. His gaze was steady, assessing her. “There’s no need for sacrifice.”
She nodded, truly too tired to argue, and ate a little, chewing on spongy rice and gram flour, the sharp tang of chutney. Then she drank a little water and curled upon herself. Head on her arm. Comforted by the sound of humans—living, breathing humans—around her.
“We leave in the morning,” said Eshara. And Arwa, blackness already pulling her into sleep, did not respond.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
She was in Kamran’s study.
Papers lay before her. Dozens of missives. She sifted through them by rote, as was expected of her. She raised her eyes carefully to gauge his expression. He was seated in the corner, face resting on his knuckles, body in shadow.
“Husband,” she said. “What am I to do with these?”
He was silent. Biting her lip, she lowered her eyes once more. Perhaps he did not want to be disturbed.
She read the next page; neat script, terrifyingly small. She knew this hand.
A chill ran through her. She raised her eyes once more, and stood.
“Husband,” she said. Silence. Then: “Kamran.”
She stepped over to him. Stopped.
Dark dust in the shape of an arm. The turn of a head.
He was dead. She remembered now. All that lay before her was ash.
She walked over to the window. A storm of ash raged outside.
Arwa swallowed. Placed her hand—the wrist heavy with a tangle of bloody roots—against the lattice.
The light poured through it.
Ah, she thought, her distant heart beating fast in her chest. I’m here again. I should have known.
The dream disintegrated around her, ruined as easily as wet paper. There was ash everywhere. Ash upon her hands, her face. She felt a memory rise in her mind that wasn’t her own, fresh fear mingling with the horror of Darez Fort, the dead maidservant at the imperial palace. She felt cold, brittle fingers set themselves on the back of her skull—a terrible, familiar sensation. She opened her mouth, breathless, struggling to scream—
Woke.
Zahir was kneeling beside her. Light broke into the darkness of their makeshift room as the curtains wavered around him. People were walking, moving. She heard voices.
“Do you know yourself?” he asked.
A strange question. And yet…
Jah Ambha after the royal massacre.
Who—who am I?
“Yes,” said Arwa, sitting up, throwing her shawl hastily over her hair. “I had a nightmare. What’s going on?”
“Get up,” hissed Eshara. She’d pulled the curtain of their makeshift room to the side and was peering outside. “Something’s happening.”
All three of them left the room, walking between the rows of curtains, out into the courtyard. They found a crowd already standing there, huddled together. Arwa couldn’t see over their heads, but she could hear their voices, mingled together.
“… came and surrounded the walls last night, no way in or out. Not even if you have gold…”
“… bandits, they say, but you know that’s just an excuse to root out the rest of us…”
“I’ve been speaking to people,” Eshara said in a low voice. “And listening. The local fort commander has sent some men here. They’re trying to weed out bandits and murderers. Apparently.”
Arwa peered between the sea of bodies. She could see a man shouting at the soldiers. One of the sullen guards who had waved them into the caravanserai was slumped on the ground, unmoving.
One of the soldiers backhanded the man around the face. He fell to the ground. She heard a woman shriek, and looked away.
“Come back inside,” urged Zahir. She felt his hand, a gentle touch at her back, and followed him. The press of people forced her to.
“It’s a small group of soldiers,” said Eshara, once they were back inside. “One patrol large, at most.” She shook her head. Huffed out a breath. “I don’t understand this,” she said. “If they’re searching for bandits, as they claim, this is a poor way to do so.”
“They may have gone rogue,” suggested Arwa. “Defied orders.”
“And what do you know of it?”
“Come now, Eshara, you know how she knows. Her husband was commander of a fort,” Zahir said. His expression—his voice—were grim. “Arwa, why do you think they would be here?”
Arwa shook her head.
“Men desert their duties for all sorts of reasons,” she said. “I couldn’t say.”
“If they’re here for me…” He paused, jaw tight. “Well,” he said. “There’s no need to place you both in danger.”
“There is no reason to bel
ieve they’re here for you,” Arwa said sharply.
“They could be,” Eshara said. “We heard tales in the last caravanserai. Too much interest in Zahir’s fate was bound to draw the Emperor’s attention eventually.”
“Regardless,” said Arwa, “we’re not leaving you, Zahir. And you’re not leaving us.” Me. She took his wrist. Held tight. “You stay,” she said. “Promise it.”
Zahir met her eyes. His own gaze was startled, expression strangely raw. He nodded. She could feel his pulse against her palm.
“I promise,” he said.
Eshara was looking at them both.
“Well,” she said. “I suppose we wait.”
The three of them sat and waited, as the sun rose in the sky. They waited to see if anyone would come for Zahir.
No one did.
If the soldiers were looking for him, they were doing a poor job of seeking him out. Instead they seemed content with keeping the pilgrims penned up and wound tight with fear. Sometimes they heard shouts from outside. Then silence. Eventually Eshara rose to her feet. She tucked a dagger into the sash of her tunic, and drew on a robe, to conceal it. When Zahir rose to his feet too, Eshara shook her head.
“No, you’re staying here.”
“Eshara—”
“Zahir,” Arwa cut in. He went silent. Looked at her.
She said no more. She didn’t need to. Her face said enough. His mouth thinned, and he sat.
“I’ll be back soon,” said Eshara. And she strode off.
She returned an hour later, no worse for wear.
“They’ve taken some of the traders,” she said. “The ones selling talismans and relics. The ones who claim to be visionaries.”
“I thought they were here in search of bandits,” said Arwa.
Eshara smiled thinly.
“I expect the bandits are just an excuse. It’s the heretics they’re after.”
“Parviz hates his heresy, true enough,” Zahir said quietly. “And yet, I hoped the Hidden Ones would succeed. I hoped the disquiet surrounding his rise to the throne would—delay him.”
“That was optimistic of you,” said Eshara. She sounded bitter. “He is still the Emperor. He still has more power than any of us.”
Zahir said nothing to that.
“We can’t remain here hiding,” Arwa said, filling his silence.
“No,” Zahir said then. “I don’t think we can. But what do you think we should do, Arwa?”
“Why do you assume I have a plan?”
The partition curtains wavered around them as a child ran between them.
“You were gone a long time yesterday,” Zahir said.
So he hadn’t accepted her excuses at face value after all. Or perhaps a night’s rest had sharpened his mind. Arwa gave him a look, which he returned unblinking, something fierce in the furrow of his brow.
“Your secrets are your own, Arwa,” he said. “But if you know something that may help…”
“If you have any ideas, Arwa, tell us,” said Eshara impatiently. “Or simply stare at one another, if you prefer.”
Zahir blinked. Looked away.
“Go on, Arwa,” he said. “Please.”
She looked at Zahir. The flush of his cheekbones, the curl of his hands. She was not sure if she was angry at him or… something else. She swallowed, and looked away from him.
“I do think I know where we might get some information,” Arwa admitted. “But I’ll need to go alone.”
The walk to the House of Tears was tense and silent. There were pilgrims hiding in the stores that lined the courtyard, peering nervously through windows, and huddled under awnings and in shade, trying desperately to vanish from sight. Walking across the courtyard made Arwa feel horribly exposed, her skin hot with sweat, as she skirted close to market stalls and tried to ignore the fear pressing down on her skull.
There was a young widow outside the House of Tears, weaving a grave-token, her shoulders hunched and tense. She wore her shawl low over her face, but when she raised her head it tipped back, revealing a line of smooth hair and sharp eyes.
“I am sorry to disturb you, sister,” Arwa said.
“I know you,” said the woman slowly. “You’re the widow that Aunt Madhu offered a place here.”
“She did.”
“You gave her an offering of food. But we could have bought better on our own.”
“It was all I had,” Arwa said.
“Well.” The young widow shrugged. “Are you here to beg a place after all?”
Arwa shook her head.
“My name is Arwa, sister. And what is yours?”
“Diya,” the widow said shortly. “What do you want?”
“I was hoping for information. Please. For the sake of my kin. We’re… afraid.”
“Aren’t we all,” said Diya. “And what do you think a few old widows know?”
More than I do, thought Arwa. And that will have to be enough.
“Can the guards be bribed?” Arwa asked.
“You think we widows have the money to bribe guards?” Diya laughed. “Don’t be foolish.”
“I’m not speaking of money only, sister,” Arwa said, trying to keep her voice even, trying to think only of necessity. “So: Can the guards be bribed?”
Diya’s eyes narrowed.
“Aunt Madhu told you. We aren’t whores.”
The silence grew. Then Diya huffed out a breath.
“No. They can’t be bribed. They’re too afraid of their captain.”
“Captain?”
“Capitan Argeb. He serves under the commander at Demet Fort, to the northeast,” Diya said, picking at the edge of the grave-token until it frayed. “He’s good at dealing with rebels, the commander keeps him busy, traveling the pilgrim roads, plucking out the worst heretics like weeds.”
Arwa did not ask how Diya knew such things. The widow was not looking at her, shoulders tense and defiant, head bowed.
“If I wanted to meet this captain…”
“You don’t.”
“If I did,” Arwa went on, “how would I arrange to do so?”
Diya stared at the ground in stony silence. Arwa took a step closer. The caravanserai was far too quiet around them. It was a waiting silence, tense, breath held.
“Please,” Arwa whispered. “I’m sorry I have nothing to offer. But I’m desperate. I can’t stay here.”
“You think any of the other pilgrims want to be trapped here either?” Diya shook her head. “No, sister. Go and hide with your kin. This will be over soon enough, I’m sure.”
There was a firmness to Diya’s voice and to the line of her mouth that suggested she would not easily be swayed. And Arwa did not have ease with honeyed words. She had nothing to bribe the widow with. Nothing, in fact, to offer at all.
What could Arwa say? What could she do?
She closed her eyes. She could feel the heat of the sun on her face. Hear the silence around her, a painful stillness born from fear. She sucked in a breath. Released it.
Spoke.
“I dreamed last night of a monster. It had a face like bone that had never known flesh, and when I looked at it I felt fear. Nothing but fear, pure and uncomplicated and… terrible. I dreamed that it placed its hands on the back of my neck. And then I couldn’t breathe, sister, through the fear. A fear that sat in my skull. Just so.”
“You had a nightmare,” Diya said. Her voice was shaking faintly. “That’s all.”
“Yes,” Arwa agreed. “Perhaps. But I am still afraid, sister. I can feel its head, even though I am awake. And I am afraid…”
She placed her own fingertips lightly to the back of her neck. She saw Diya’s fingers, still upon the edge of the grave-token, twitch.
Arwa had her. And oh, how she wished she didn’t. Darez Fort was close, far too close.
“I am afraid that something worse than heresy waits within this caravanserai. And if we cannot leave…”
Arwa allowed her words to trail off.
; Diya swallowed. Laid the grave-token down on the ground.
“Come closer,” she said, and Arwa did, crossing the dust of the courtyard and kneeling down by her.
“There are soldiers you can speak to,” said Diya. “If they’re here, they’ll take you to him. If you can convince them, of course.”
“Convince…?”
“They’re nice boys,” snapped Diya. “A tall one. Bald. The other will be with him. They’re called Aran and Sohal. Their patrol comes here often. They always bring offerings, they know the way things should be. But they know their captain, they won’t want to take you.”
Arwa’s stomach roiled. They knew their captain.
“Their captain,” she murmured. “What is wrong with him?”
“He does what his commander tells him.”
“Some would say that is positive.”
“Well,” Diya said, “It isn’t. He enjoys it. The capturing of heretics; the killing of them. We’re lucky Demet’s commander usually sends his other patrols around here. Most soldiers can be bribed to leave pilgrims alone, if you know their price. But him…” Diya leaned forward. “Once, he caught a man who claimed the Maha spoke to him in his dreams. Oh, lots of men claim foolish things, sister, and soldiers know when to ignore the sick. But Argeb—he didn’t ignore it. He had the man’s tongue out, and then had his head staked outside the caravanserai. It was a blessing when an animal finally took it.”
Arwa shuddered. Drew her shawl tighter around herself, despite the heat of the day.
She thought of the men who had served under Kamran, at Darez Fort. She had only ever seen them through the lattice of her quarters’ windows. They hadn’t been quite real to her. Only Kamran’s stories had given them flesh. But he’d told her of one patrol captain who had committed crimes against the women of a local village. He had only alluded to the crimes, of course—he would not have dreamed of soiling her ears with the full, unvarnished truth—but Arwa had understood.
The fool. What can I do with him now? Kamran had said, gruff and irritated.
It had not been a real question, of course. Arwa had known what was expected of her. To soothe him. Eyes lowered. Demure. Whatever my husband wills, will be for the best.