“What is his name? His status?”
“Suren, my lady. Son of Karan.” Her father’s name was a simple enough answer. As for status…
She swallowed, then said: “My father was Governor of Irinah—once.”
“Ah.” Jihan’s voice was an alto, rich and soft. She was the Emperor’s daughter. No doubt she knew the history of the Governor of Irinah’s fall from imperial favor. Her expression was gentle, her gaze shrewd. “And now?”
“My father has been unwell,” said Arwa. “Very unwell, my lady. By the Emperor’s grace, he survives. But he has been unable to restore the family’s fortunes, or regain imperial favor, although he ardently desires it.”
“And your mother?”
A beat. The knife in Arwa’s lungs turned, slow and inexorable, bleeding the breath from her.
What could she say here—before a room of watchful noblewomen, before imperial guards and a musician, before a deferential serving girl pouring fresh wine—about her mother?
Jihan knew the truth of Arwa’s blood. She had received all of Gulshera’s careful letters; she had summoned Arwa on the basis of that blood alone. She knew Arwa’s mother was some long-gone Amrithi woman, a barbarian who consorted with spirits and made no vows or contracts, a woman with no place in the Ambhan Empire. She knew the wife of Arwa’s father was not Arwa’s birth mother, for all that she had raised her and molded her and taught her how to survive, tainted blood or no.
But Arwa could not bring herself to speak of her Amrithi mother before the women of court. She touched a finger to her lip. Lowered it. Said, “Lady Maryam. She has raised me with… great generosity and kindness.”
“You have a good lineage, my dear,” said Jihan. “A shame about your husband. Gulshera told me he passed away at Darez Fort. You have my most sincere sympathies.”
A rustle of unease ran through the reclining noblewomen. One of them drew her shawl over her face, as if she could not bear to look at Arwa a moment longer. Jihan gazed at Arwa unwavering. Then she smiled.
“I have a mind to go for a walk, while the day is still pleasant and cool,” said Jihan. “Gulshera, you may accompany me. I have missed our talks.”
“Princess,” Gulshera acknowledged.
“Bring your young friend,” said Jihan.
A guardswoman trailed after them as they walked along the corridor. Jihan’s skirt whispered against the floor as she walked, gossamer and beads trailing gently against marble.
“Walk next to me, Gulshera,” said Jihan. “Let me lean on you.”
Gulshera moved closer to the princess, who clasped her arm with great tenderness. Arwa trailed after them awkwardly. Her palms were damp with sweat. She felt foolishly, thrillingly anxious.
She was in the imperial palace. She was following the Emperor’s daughter. She had thrown herself headlong into the service of an imperial scion without thought, without cleverness or reason, but for all her fear—for all that her skin felt tight and her lungs too small—she regretted none of it.
“A tour for you, Arwa,” said Jihan. “My brother Akhtar trusts me to care for his household, and I have done my best to make it a pleasurable home. This palace does not compare to my father’s, of course, but humble though it is, it is my pride.”
Humble was not a word Arwa would have applied to the opulence around her, but she murmured an acknowledgment regardless. Jihan described the changes she had made in the years of Gulshera’s absence: the swathes of silk to soften the austere marble of the walls; new mosaics set in the floor, deep green and turquoise. She spoke of the artisans she’d cultivated, the musicians one of her women, a niece of the Governor of Hara, had brought into her household as a gift.
She was no longer the woman new to her position and power that Gulshera had described during their journey from Numriha. Now Jihan was the established head of her brother’s household, with her own retinue of noblewomen and a sharp elegance to her carriage that reminded Arwa—as if she could forget—that Jihan was the Emperor’s own blood.
Her words were clearly calculated to make Arwa and Gulshera both aware of that reality. This is my household now, her tales said. And here, everything is under my control.
“He is generous, my brother, and he has improved his palace extensively at my request,” Jihan finished. She looked at Gulshera. “You remember my mother’s passion for pigeon breeding?”
“Yes,” Gulshera said slowly. When Jihan stared at her, Gulshera shook her head. “Oh, my lady, no. They’re vermin.”
“Your hermitage would have benefited from its own dovecote, Aunt,” Jihan said. “I know how you hate my birds, but think how much more easily we could have exchanged our letters by carrier.”
“Hawking is a much more respectable hobby,” said Gulshera.
Jihan laughed. “Oh, Aunt,” she said fondly. “Perhaps, but it is far less useful. Come. Let me show you my brother’s gift to me.”
A set of winding steps led them up to the highest point of a tower. Pale-bricked, open to the sky and air, the tower was covered in miniature structures of tessellated bricks, small dovecotes with nooks for pigeons to roost in.
Arwa resisted the urge to bring her shawl to her nose. Everything smelled faintly of bird shit.
Jihan did not seem to have noticed the smell. She led Gulshera around the dovecote tower with genuine pleasure, cooing over the pigeons, expanding volubly on Akhtar’s efforts to build a dovecote tower befitting his sister. She seemed to have forgotten Arwa, so Arwa took the chance to move to the tower’s edge. Even the walls had nooks for the birds. One, plump and raisin-eyed, with feathers a mixture of brilliant green and ash gray, rested serenely on the edge of the wall. It didn’t even rustle its feathers when Arwa leaned on the wall beside it and stared over the tower’s edge.
Set on the edge of Prince Akhtar’s minor palace as it was, the dovecote tower gave Arwa an unimpeded view of both the vast imperial gardens of the women’s quarters and the world beyond the palace’s walls. It was that great world that drew Arwa’s attention. She gazed down at the fortified walls of the imperial palace and the water that lay beyond them. She stared at the city of Jah Ambha. Arwa could only stare at it in astonishment. She had never seen a city so large or so strange.
“… unrest again,” Jihan was murmuring. “You were right about your Lady Roshana’s nephew. His mistress claims he’s too deep in his cups to collect tax revenue from Demet, no matter how well he’s hoodwinked the Governor into trusting his word. I’ll speak to Akhtar, and see what can be done.”
Gulshera’s gaze slid to Arwa, and in response Jihan went silent. Then she smiled once more.
“Ah, Arwa,” she said. “We’re talking of the Empire’s ills—there are so many of them, my dear, too many to enumerate now.” She walked toward Arwa, a kernel of pity in her voice when she next spoke. “But you will be familiar with such things.”
Jihan placed a hand on Arwa’s shoulder.
“I was so pleased when Gulshera offered you to me,” she said, voice gentle. “The offer felt like a piece of good fortune, a change in the Empire’s ill fate. You are something we can use, Arwa. I am glad to have you.”