by Tasha Suri
She would seek out the nightmares with Zahir at her side. She, the widowed witch who was Amrithi and Ambhan both, who knew the secrets of the dead, and he the Emperor’s blessed son, who was called Maha’s heir by those who spun their hopes around him, and wore his knowledge like a blade. They would save what they could, she and him, one nightmare at a time. And they would see what new world awaited at the end of their path.
But first…
She stood still.
She waited.
A breath or two passed, and then the bird-spirits landed, surrounding her. Their eyes were bright in the dark. Careful of her shoulder, Arwa drew her hands together. A sigil for respect.
“Spirit. I’ve long wondered why you protected me, of all Amrithi-blooded people in this world. I have heard the whispers of the dead and now I think I know why you defend me.” She looked at it, soft-winged, dark and bright. “You were in Darez Fort with me, weren’t you?” she said, holding her arms out, her scarred hands outstretched, forming a question in her stance, a sigil on her hands. Follow? “You were there when the nightmare almost killed me. You were controlling it. You were its balance.”
Nightmare.
Lock?
A susurration of wings.
“The soldiers frightened you,” said Arwa. “Or perhaps the sight of me, at the lattice, shocked you. I only know you let the nightmare go, and very many people died.”
Hands turning. Unlock. Free.
“You made a vow to my birth mother’s people,” said Arwa. “To my sister’s people. And yet I was harmed. However unwittingly, you broke your word.”
Vow.
Hands against one another. Abrupt turn of them. Just so.
Broken.
The daiva splintered about her, smaller and smaller still, until the birds were like bursts of shadow against the greater night’s dark.
“Is that why you followed me from Darez Fort? Why you protected me there, and protect me still?” She shaped nothing. “Please,” she said. “Tell me.”
The birds wavered, drew together into one formless many-eyed being, as they had on the dovecote tower once before.
It shaped arms—hands like clawed spindles. The sigil for forgiveness formed in the air before her. There was a question in its stance, the wavering turn of its shadow.
It splintered back, once more, into birds.
It was like a creature cursed, she thought. Under a spell of its own grief, it could not leave her, and it could not be as it once was: ancient, child-shaped. A daiva of strange strength.
“You gave me wings at the imperial palace,” Arwa said, voice thick. “You saved my life time and time again. Of course I forgive you.”
How could she prove it? The whispers of the ash ran through her, roots and all. She swallowed. Steeled herself against the inevitable pain, as she aggravated her wounded shoulder once more.
The Rite of the Cage reversed. She would never be truly graceful, never truly know the rites in her bones. But she had learned them. She had thieved back from the abyss, and paid in blood and spirit and the life she’d been raised for. Every sigil she turned on its head, binding to freedom, hold to release.
When she reversed the lock the daiva chirruped. All its small birds chorused—then flew together, a flock that became a shadow, a shadow that became a child.
The child-daiva looked at her. Its eyes were soft prayer flames. Its hair curled around its face.
“Go,” she murmured. “Go with my love.”
It changed once more—this time into a bird of vast size. It rose into the air.
Arwa watched it. Her heart felt too big for her skin, at the sight of it.
Behind her waited her sister. Behind her waited Eshara, worn out and bruised, and almost-strangers who could become more in time, if they chose to.
Behind her waited Zahir. Her clever not-prince, her idealist, her fool. Her future.
She watched the daiva fly away, greater than any bird she’d ever seen, its great wings spreading shadows across the sand. Then she turned back, back across sand and ash, back to all her people, and began following the path that led her home.
Acknowledgments
Everyone told me that writing your second book is harder than writing your first. They weren’t lying. Thank you to my family for giving me endless, unflinching support despite the fact that I spent the better part of the year as a hissing gremlin hidden behind a laptop. Special thanks goes to my mum and to Carly, who had to suffer through living with me. I love you both. Also, thank you to my cat, Asami, who slept curled up next to me on the sofa every night that I stayed up late writing. When cats finally learn to read, I’m sure you’ll find this and appreciate the sentiment.
To my agent, Laura Crockett: thank you for being such a champion. You’re the absolute best. Thank you also to Uwe Stender, the entire team at Triada US, and also to Tori Bovalino, my agency sister, who read an early draft of this book and helped me find my way through.
Sarah Guan, my editor—thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for making this book shine. Thank you also to the wonderful team at Orbit: Tim Holman and Anne Clarke; Paola Crespo, Laura Fitzgerald, Stephanie Hess, and Ellen Wright for all their work on publicity and marketing; Kelley Frodel and Bryn A. McDonald for their fantastic editorial insight; and Lauren Panepinto for another stunning cover. Big hugs to the glamorous UK Orbit team, too—my UK editor Jenni Hill, and publicist Nazia Khatun.
And finally, my warmest gratitude goes to the readers and bloggers who supported my first book and this one. I literally wouldn’t be writing this without your generosity, enthusiasm, and support. If I could hug you, I would, and if we’ve met in person, I probably have.
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meet the author
Photo Credit: Shekhar Bhatia
TASHA SURI was born in London to Punjabi parents. She studied English and creative writing at Warwick University and is now a cat-owning librarian in London. A love of period Bollywood films, history, and mythology led her to write South Asian–influenced fantasy. Find her on Twitter @tashadrinkstea.
if you enjoyed
REALM OF ASH
look out for
THE THRONE OF THE FIVE WINDS
HOSTAGE OF EMPIRE: BOOK ONE
by
S. C. Emmett
Two queens, two concubines, six princes. Innumerable secret agendas. A single hidden blade.
The imperial palace—full of ambitious royals, sly gossip, and unforeseen perils—is perhaps the most dangerous place in the empire of Zhaon. Komor Yala, lady-in-waiting to the princess of the vanquished kingdom of Khir, has only her wits and her hidden blade to protect herself and her charge, who was sacrificed in marriage to the enemy as a hostage for her conquered people’s good behavior, to secure a tenuous peace.
But the Emperor is aging, and the Khir princess and her lady-in-waiting soon find themselves to be pawns in the six princes’ deadly schemes for the throne—and a single spark could ignite fresh rebellion in Khir.
Then, the Emperor falls ill—and a far bloodier game begins…
Little Light
Above the Great Keep of Khir and the smoky bowl of its accreted city, tombs rose upon mountainside terraces. Only the royal and Second Families had the right to cut their names into stone here, and this small stone pailai1 was one of the very oldest. Hard, small pinpoints about to become white or pink blossoms starred the branches of ancient, twisted yeoyans;2 a young woman in blue, her black hair dressed simply but carefully with a single white-shell comb, stood before the newest marker. Incense smoked as she folded her hands for decorous prayer, a well-bred daughter performing a rare unchaperoned duty.
Below, the melt had begun and thin droplets scattered from tiled roofs both scarlet and slate, from almost-budding branches. Here snow still lingered in corners and upon sheltered sto
nes; winter-blasted grass slept underneath. No drip disturbed the silence of the ancestors.
A booted foot scraped stone. The girl’s head, bowed, did not move. There was only one person who would approach while she propitiated her ancestors, and she greeted him politely. “Your Highness.” But she did not raise her head.
“None of that, Yala.” The young man, his topknot caged and pierced with gold, wore ceremonial armor before the dead. His narrow-nosed face had paled, perhaps from the cold, and his gaze—grey as a winter sky, grey as any noble blood-pure Khir’s—lingered upon her nape. As usual, he dispensed with pleasantries. “You do not have to go.”
Of course he would think so. Her chin dropped a little farther. “If I do not, who will?” Other noble daughters, their fathers not so known for rectitude as the lord of Komori, were escaping the honor in droves.
“Others.” A contemptuous little word. “Servants. There is no shortage.”
Yala’s cloud-grey eyes opened. She said nothing, watching the gravestone as if she expected a shade to rise. Her offerings were made at her mother’s tomb already, but here was where she lingered. A simple stone marked the latest addition to the shades of her House—fine carving, but not ostentatious. The newly rich might display like fan-tailed baryo,3 but not those who had ridden to war with the Three Kings of the First Dynasty. Or so her father thought, though he did not say it.
A single tone, or glance, was enough to teach a lesson.
Ashani Daoyan, Crown Prince of Khir newly legitimized and battlefield-blooded, made a restless movement. Lean but broad-shouldered, with a slight roundness to his cheeks bespeaking his Narikh motherblood, he wore the imperial colors easily; a bastard son, like an unmarried aunt, learned to dress as the weather dictated. Leather creaked slightly, and his breath plumed in the chill. “If your brother were alive—”
“—I would be married to one of his friends, and perhaps widowed as well.” Now Komor Yala, the only surviving child of General Hai Komori Dasho, moved too, a slight swaying as if she wished to turn and halted just in time. “Please, Daoyan.” The habit of long friendship made it not only possible but necessary to address him so informally. “Not before my Elder Brother.”
“Yala…” Perhaps Dao’s half-armor, black chased with yellow, was not adequate for this particular encounter. The boy she had known, full of sparkstick4 pride and fierce silence when that pride was balked, had ridden to war; this young man returned in his place.
Did he regret being dragged from the field to preserve a dynasty while so many others stood and died honorably? She could not ask, merely suspect, so Yala shook her head. Her own words were white clouds, chosen carefully and given to the frigid morning. “Who will care for my princess, if I do not?”
“You cannot waste your life that way.” A slight sound—gauntlets creaking. Daoyan still clenched his fists. She should warn him against so open a display of emotion, but perhaps in a man it did not matter so much.
“And yet.” There is no other option, her tone replied, plainly. Not one I am willing to entertain. “I will take great care with your royal sister, Your Highness.”
Of course he could not leave the battlefield thus, a draw achieved but no victory in sight. “I will offer for you.”
“You already would have, if you thought your honored father would allow it.” She bowed, a graceful supple bending with her skirts brushing fresh-swept stone. “Please, Daoyan.” Her palms met, and her head dropped even farther when she straightened, the attitude of a filial daughter from a scroll’s illustrations.
Even a prince dared not interrupt prayers begun before a relative’s tomb. Daoyan turned, finally, boots ringing through thin snow to pavers she had not attended to with her small broom, and left the pailai with long, swinging strides.
Yala slipped her hands deeper inside her sleeves and regarded the memorial stone. Bai, of course, would have sniffed at the prospect of his little sister marrying a man with an honorless mother, no matter if he had proven himself in war and the Great Rider had legitimized him. Bai would also have forbidden her to accompany Mahara. He was not the clan-head, but since he came of age their father had let him take heavier duties and listened to his counsel. Bai’s refusal would have carried weight, and Yala could have bowed her head to accept it instead of insisting upon her duty as a noble daughter must before a distinguished parent.
Perhaps that would have been best. Was the cringing, creeping relief she would have felt cowardice? The other noble families were scurrying to keep their daughters from Mahara’s retinue, marriages contracted or health problems discovered with unseemly haste. The Great Rider, weakened as he was by the defeat at Three Rivers and the slow strangling of Khir’s southron trade, could not force noble daughters to accompany his own, he could only… request.
Other clans and families could treat it as a request, but Komori held to the ancient codes. It was a high honor to attend the princess of Khir, and Yala had done so since childhood. To cease in adversity was unworthy of a Komor daughter.
Burning incense sent lazy curls of scented smoke heavenward. If her brother was watching, he would have been fuming like the sticks themselves. A slow smolder and a hidden fire, that was Hai Komori Baiyan. She could only hope she was the same, and the conquering Zhaon would not smother her and her princess.
First things first. You are to pay your respects here, and then to comfort your father.
As if there could be any comfort to a Khir nobleman whose only son was dead. Hai Komori Dasho would be gladdened to be rid of a daughter and the need to find a dowry, that much was certain. Even if he was not, he would act as if he were, because that was the correct way to regard this situation.
The Komori, especially the clan heads, were known for their probity.
Her fingertips worried at her knuckles, and she sighed. “Oh, damoi,5 my much-blessed Bai,” she whispered. It was not quite meet to pronounce the name of the dead, but she could be forgiven a single use of such a precious item. “How I wish you were here.”
She bent before her brother’s grave one last time, and her fingers found a sharp-edged, triangular pebble among the flat pavers, blasted grass, and iron-cold dirt. They could not plow quite yet, but the monjok6 and yeoyan blossoms were out. Spring would come early this year, but she would not see the swallows returning. The care of the pailai would fall to more distant kin from a junior branch of the clan.
Yala tucked the pebble in a sleeve-pocket, carefully. She could wrap it with red silken thread, decorate a hairstick with falling beads, and wear a part of both Bai and her homeland daily. A small piece of grit in the conqueror’s court, hopefully accreting nacre instead of dishonor.
There were none left to care for her father in his aging. Perhaps he would marry again. If Bai were still alive…
“Stop,” she murmured, and since there were none to see her, Yala’s face could contort under a lash of pain, a horse shying at the whip. “He is not.”
Khir had ridden to face Zhaon’s great general at Three Rivers, and the eldest son of a proud Second Family would not be left behind. The battle had made Daoyan a hero and Bai a corpse, but it was useless to Khir. The conquerors had dictated their terms; war took its measure, reaping a rich harvest, and Zhaon was the scythe.
Khir would rise again, certainly, but not soon enough to save a pair of women. Even a cursory study of history showed that a farm could change hands, and he who reaped yesterday might be fertilizer for the next scythe-swinger. There was little comfort in the observation, even if it was meant to ease the pain of the defeated.
For the last time, Yala bowed before her brother’s stone. If she walked slowly upon her return, the evidence of tears would be erased by the time she reached the foot of the pailai’s smooth-worn stairs and the single maidservant waiting, holding her mistress’s horse and bundled against the cold as Yala disdained to be.
A noblewoman suffered ice without a murmur. Inside, and out.
Hai Komori’s blackened bulk rested within the wa
lls of the Old City. It frowned in the old style, stone walls and sharply pitched slate-tiled roof; its great hall was high and gloomy. The longtable, crowded with retainers at dinners twice every tenday, was a blackened piece of old wood; it stood empty now, with the lord’s low chair upon the dais watching its oiled, gleaming surface. Mirrorlight drifted, brought through holes in the roof and bounced between polished discs, crisscrossing the high space.
Dusty cloth rustled overhead, standards and pennons taken in battle. There were many, and their sibilance was the song of a Second Family. The men rode to war, the women to hunt, and between them the whole world was ordered. Or so the classics, both the canonical Hundreds and supplements, said. Strong hunters made strong sons, and Yala had sometimes wondered why her mother, who could whisper a hawk out of the sky, had not given her father more than two. Bai the eldest was ash upon the wind and a name upon a tablet; the second son had not even reached his naming-day.
And Komor Madwha, a daughter of the Jehng family and high in the regard of the Great Rider and her husband as well, died shortly after her only daughter’s birth.
Komori Dasho was here instead of in his study. Straight-backed, only a few thin threads of frost woven into his topknot, a vigorous man almost into the status of elder sat upon the dais steps, gazing at the table and the great hearth. When a side door opened and blue silk made its subtle sweet sound, he closed his eyes.
Yala, as ever, bowed properly to her father though he was not looking. “Your daughter greets you, pai.”
He acknowledged with a nod. She waited, her hands folded in her sleeves again, faintly uneasy. Her father was a tall man, his shoulders still hard from daily practice with saber and spear; his face was pure Khir. Piercing grey eyes, straight black hair topknotted as a Second Dynasty lord’s, a narrow high prow of a nose, a thin mouth, and bladed cheekbones harsh as the sword-mountains themselves. Age settled more firmly upon him with each passing winter, drawing skin tighter and bone-angles sharper. His house robe was spare and dark, subtly patterned but free of excessive ornamentation.