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 stones; 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—”