“Now we come to what I don’t understand,” said Gulshera. “The Amrithi are a barbaric people. They have no place in the Empire. They exist on the edges of civilization, begging for scraps of our glory. They do not walk on the same land where civilized people walk. They don’t marry people of the Empire. I gather in their lawless way, they don’t marry at all.” Gulshera’s voice was unrelenting, her eyes keen fire. “So explain to me: How does a noblewoman, a widow of apparent good blood and standing, despite her father’s disgrace, come to have an Amrithi dagger and knowledge of Amrithi heresy?”
“In the usual way,” said Arwa. “Irinah was the home of the Amrithi once. When my father was Governor, he had an Amrithi mistress. She gave him two children. I was one of them. But I am not Amrithi, Aunt. My father acknowledged me and raised me like a lawful daughter. My mother—the good noblewoman who married my father—raised me to be better than my blood. And I’ve always tried to be. Until…”
Arwa swallowed. Her throat was very dry. She was glad the faint, blinding dizziness in her head had faded somewhat. She was very conscious of the throb of her wounded hand, and her thirst, and her fear. She was conscious, too, that the daiva was gone, and that was her own doing. No one else’s. She could hold that like a new dagger, should she need to. She could hold it like a shield.
“I wasn’t entirely honest about Darez Fort,” Arwa said.
Gulshera was silent. She waited, as Arwa sat straight, cradling her hand.
“Almost everything I told you was true. I truly don’t remember much, after the daiva arrived at the fort. But I remember reaching for my dagger. I remember—pieces.”
She told Gulshera, haltingly, what she could recall.
She remembered running and hiding, after the daiva had shattered to pieces, spreading terror across the fort. She remembered kneeling on the floor, panting in unnatural fear, nightmares swirling through her skull. Her vision had wavered, black around the edges, the ground tipping beneath her.
She’d felt a hand on her sleeve. A hand of smoke. A daiva before her. The hot metal of fear had filled her mouth; she’d flinched, wrenching her wrist back. She could still feel the echo of the smoke of its fingers, a strange brand upon her flesh.
She’d seen her blade on the floor.
“I must have picked it up, when the fear had me,” Arwa said. “And thank the Gods I did. It is the only thing I know of the Amrithi blood in me: It can banish daiva away. I reached for my dagger and bled on the ground. A circle of protection. It kept the daiva’s hands from me, and it saved my life.”
“Your blood,” Gulshera said, disbelieving, “saved you from the demon. Your Amrithi blood.”
“There truly is so much I can’t remember anymore, Aunt. I’ve tried, and I’ve tried. But I know my blood saved me. That, I have no doubts about.”
Arwa pushed Darez Fort away. She focused on the room, on Gulshera, and on her own wounded hand. On the sound of the women still hovering in the corridor, fueled by fear and curiosity. It wouldn’t take much for that rage to turn. Only words. Only one muttered mention of blood rites, of Amrithi. She had to make Gulshera understand.
“I am Ambhan,” said Arwa. “My blood doesn’t change that. I worship the Emperor and Maha; I married an Ambhan man, and I mourn him. I know nothing about being Amrithi. I don’t want to be Amrithi.”
“You don’t need to justify yourself to me.”
Arwa barked out a laugh. “Of course I do. You think I don’t know what is done with Amrithi? You think I don’t know what you could do to me, if this interrogation ends with me marked a heathen, good only for slaughter?”
“This is not an interrogation,” Gulshera said grimly. “This is a very polite conversation. You know nothing of interrogations.”
Arwa fixed her eyes on Gulshera again. Gulshera, whose long-dead husband had a mother-of-pearl lacquered court bow; who came from a noble family of high repute; who knew something of Amrithi and interrogations. Gulshera, with her letters.
“I know you serve the Emperor’s family,” Arwa said.
“And how,” Gulshera said, deadly soft, “do you know that?”
“You left me alone in your room when Dina saw the daiva. Akhtar and Parviz. I’ve heard the names of the Emperor’s sons, Aunt.” Gulshera was silent. “What I don’t understand is why one favored by the imperial family would live within this hermitage,” Arwa continued. “You could have so much power. And yet you’re—here.”
“Power under the heel of court can feel very much like helplessness,” Gulshera murmured. She stared at Arwa as if she were a viper that had only just shown her venom. “I asked my mistress to give me leave to have something akin to my own court. Control, as governors and commanders do, while still serving their Empire. She allowed it.”
“And you gather information for her,” Arwa said. “From the widows. Things they would not reveal if they did not think themselves—safe.”
“Yes,” Gulshera said shortly. “I do.”
“Then there’s no need to properly interrogate me. Don’t fear. I am loyal to the Emperor, heart and soul.” She curled her pained fingers again. Uncurled. “You told me the family you serve are trying to end the curse on the Empire. Perhaps they will have some use for a loyal Ambhan noblewoman, with strange blood to hold the nightmares at bay.”
“They may,” Gulshera acknowledged. Then she laughed, a tired and bitter sound. “My mistress asks for many things. Knowledge, information, my return. You would be a worthy gift to take back with me. She has an interest in—magic. In daiva. In the Empire’s curse. I knew she would want me to find out what you knew of Darez Fort, of course. But I did not expect…” Gulshera paused. Assessed Arwa once again, coldly, carefully, with the tilt of her head. “You do not have an Amrithi look.”
She meant that Arwa was light-skinned and straight-haired and had the sharp features of her father’s family. She meant that Arwa dressed and spoke like an Ambhan noblewoman, born and bred.
Arwa thought of her sister. Dark-skinned. The curve of her cheekbones. Her hair always in its long braid, oiled and curling free.
Her wound throbbed.
“I know.” Deep breath in. Out. “My blood—my Amrithi blood in this loyal Ambhan body—is part of the curse. But it’s also part of the cure. I just don’t know how. But the Emperor’s family, your mistress… they might. Perhaps they’ll find answers in my blood that I can’t. You should send me to them, if they’ll have me.”
A beat. Two. Three.
“No, Arwa.” Gulshera shook her head, mouth thin. As if she’d already considered the option and discarded it. “Widow though you may be, you still have a noblewoman’s honor. That must be protected. Your place is here, or in your father’s care.”
“I can’t stay here,” Arwa said. “I came here for peace, but now the widows know what I am—you think they will allow me to stay?”
“Of course not.”
“The daiva follow me. Darez Fort follows me. I can’t run any farther from what lies in my blood. Send me to your mistress. Let me offer my cursed blood to her curiosity and her cause. As for my family… You think I wish to carry this darkness home with me, to my mother and father?”