Rabia stared back at her, eyes wide. Judging by the sweets clutched in her hand, she’d made an ill-advised late-night visit to the kitchen, heard noise from the prayer room, and turned her head at the wrong moment as she’d made her way down the corridor. Now she was frozen by the sight of Arwa holding a bow and arrow. By the sight of the daiva.
Don’t move, Arwa tried to communicate with her eyes. Don’t make a sound.
The widow’s mouth opened. A helpless choked noise came out of her that rose inexorably into a scream.
“Help! Someone help!”
The daiva took flight, swooping toward the valley; the sudden movement of its wings made the wind rise around Arwa. She lowered her bow with a swear on her lips, fury and terror bubbling in her blood.
There was a wave of noise beyond the prayer room. Voices shouting, and bells ringing, as the guards moved into frenzied life on the hermitage roof. Rabia had run, and Arwa was alone. She wouldn’t be so for long.
She thought of the daiva she saw at Darez Fort, held in the soldier’s lap, its teeth like terrible points of light. Surrounded by the scent of incense, Arwa was terribly sure they were not free of it. Not yet.
This, Arwa knew:
The daiva that came to Darez Fort, the daiva that was here at the hermitage—they were all here for her.
She tightened her jaw, resolute, and ran out of the room.
There were already guards inside the hermitage, and women who’d emerged from their own rooms and gathered in the hallways. Gods, their curiosity would truly be the death of them one day. Someone tried to grab Arwa as she strode forward with her bow still in her grip; she shook them off. She ran faster.
At some point she discarded the bow, and shrugged the quiver from her back. It was easier to move swiftly without them. Every thin slat of a window she passed revealed the daiva in snatches: a wing, an eye, the echo of its presence, that twined scent and sight of incense and smoke. She pushed open the doors of the hermitage, which led across the veranda to the great dip of the valley below.
The daiva was waiting for her.
It had no mortal shape, this daiva, and she was thankful for that. But it was crouched now upon the ground, and instead of claws, it now had great soft-pawed limbs, pressed to soil. She stopped before it, panting hard. She heard the creak of bowstrings behind her, of arrows being drawn. She heard a voice shouting for the guards to stay their hands.
Those sounds felt far, far from her. She reached for her sash, scrabbling for the leather sheath that held her dagger. One of the daiva’s pawed limbs stretched out as she did so, changing before her eyes into a delicate mortal hand.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. It stared at her uncomprehending, as she drew the dagger from its sheath. As she cut a line, deeper than she intended, into her opposite palm.
She lunged forward. The shadows of its body surrounded her.
The dagger sank hard and fast into the soil. Around her, over her, the daiva shattered into a dozen smaller birds. Wings battered her face and her hair—even her arms, as she raised them to protect herself. Her hand was still bleeding freely. She was light-headed with pain.
None of it mattered. The daiva was flying away from her, no matter what form it had taken. Most importantly of all, it was flying away from the hermitage.
One of the guards slammed Arwa to the ground. She felt the guardswoman’s hands on her arms, tightening and wrenching her back up to her knees. Arwa swore again, panting with exhilaration and something wild, a feeling she couldn’t name or suppress.
“Let her go,” a voice said. The authority in it was undeniable.
Gulshera had pushed past the other guardswomen. Arwa turned back, craning her neck. Gulshera’s eyes were flint.
“But, Lady—”
“Just release her.”
The guardswoman released Arwa, who fell back to the ground.
Arwa gave a groan, turning on her side. Gulshera kneeled down, still looming over her, and removed her own shawl. She grabbed Arwa’s wounded palm and wound the cloth around it, binding it tight enough to stem the bleeding.
“You’re coming with me,” Gulshera said. Her voice was savage iron. “Now.”
They went to Gulshera’s room. A guardswoman came with them, followed by Roshana, who shut the door on the crowd of panicked, curious onlookers in the corridor. The guardswoman was gray with fear, and her hand was altogether too tight on the hilt of her scimitar. Gulshera bade Arwa to sit on the bed, then leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed tight. By the door, Roshana wrung her hands together, eyes darting between them all. The room was far too crowded.
Arwa clutched her own wounded hand. Blood had left the cloth of Gulshera’s shawl sodden and red. Beneath the makeshift bandage, Arwa’s palm pulsed with a gnawing, throbbing ache. Her head felt light, faintly full of stars.
“I need my dagger,” Arwa said.
“Child,” Roshana whispered. Then she fell silent.
“It’s still out there, stuck in the dirt,” Arwa said. “I need it back.”
“No one is going to give you a weapon,” Gulshera snapped.
“Then at least find it,” Arwa said, through gritted teeth, “and put it somewhere safe.”
“Go,” Gulshera said to the guardswoman. “Get the dagger.”
The guardswoman hesitated visibly. She looked between them. “But, my lady…”
Gulshera made an angry sound and leaned forward. She pulled the hilt of a small dagger from her boot. Then she sheathed it once more and straightened. “We’re hardly unarmed, and she is hardly in a position to snatch up another blade. Go.”
The guardswoman went. Roshana made sure the door was firmly shut behind her, keeping the three of them safe from prying eyes.
“Arwa,” Roshana said softly. “What happened? Can you explain what we saw?”
Arwa curled and uncurled the fingers of her hurting hand. She stayed silent.
“We don’t wish to cause you harm, dear,” Roshana continued. “Just speak to us. We can help you.”
Still leaning against the wall, Gulshera said nothing. Arwa looked at her. Gulshera’s expression was unmoving, her pale eyes blazing and fierce. Even if Roshana had not realized what Arwa had done—what Arwa was—Gulshera had.
“I’ll speak to you,” Arwa said to her. “No one else, Lady Gulshera.”
They met each other’s eyes, unflinching.
“Roshana,” Gulshera said finally. “Please go outside and encourage the others to get some rest. Thank you.”
Roshana nodded and left, glancing back at the both of them before shutting the door once more.
Arwa’s hand was still throbbing. She tried to ignore the pain, twisting the ends of the shawl tighter.
“You left the bow I gave you flung on the ground in a corridor,” Gulshera said. “And my arrows. You don’t fret about them.”
“The dagger was a gift from family. It has sentimental value.”
“More than sentimental value, I think,” Gulshera said. Her voice was unreadable. “I know something of the world, Arwa.”
“I don’t doubt that, Aunt.”
“I know the Amrithi people carry such daggers. I know they perform unnatural blood rites. Somewhat akin to what you did this night, Arwa.”
“Indeed,” Arwa said. Her voice came out of her like snowfall, winter cold, even as her heart crawled.