I was proud of him, Arwa should have said. Or: I admired him. But neither would have been a true statement, and she did not have it in her to claim such things. So instead she said, “He died in Darez Fort. At the hands of a daiva, or something akin to it. He died as everyone in the fort died. Everyone but me.”
Here, she paused to breathe. It felt appropriate. Zahir had his head tilted to her, intent on her voice. He said nothing to fill the silence, merely waited, as Arwa found her words once more.
“It is a strange grief, Lord Zahir, to live when others die, for no reason but your blood, a thing quite beyond your control. Strange and… difficult. If I were a man, I would give my grief a purpose, and to the sword. I would fight for the sake of my Empire. But I am only a widow, and I have nothing to offer beyond my blood.” She held out her hand, scarred palm upraised. She wondered if he could see the new silver of her scar. “My blood is the only tool I have. Make use of it, my lord. I entreat you.”
He looked at her hand. She wondered if he was noting the pale scars on her fingertips; her calluses from archery; the faint curl of her fingers toward her wounded palm. She could almost see the thoughts flickering through his eyes, swift as birds.
“I see,” he said. “Thank you, Lady Arwa.”
“Perhaps you still think me a fool, my lord.”
“I don’t know what I think of you,” he said softly, slowly. His gaze was intent. He watched her lower her hand with all the focus of a hawk. “But I find I am not… averse to introducing you to my work.” The frown marring his forehead eased. “You should not have offered yourself up for this task, Lady Arwa, and I should not accept your help. But I am glad you are willing and here. I believe the help of someone of your blood will be invaluable to me. Now I have the opportunity to discover whether I am correct.”
“I will help you, my lord,” said Arwa. “You will see.”
“By the Emperor’s grace.” The smile that shaped his mouth was so lovely against his sharp bones.
“What will you have me do?” Arwa asked.
“Read.”
He turned from her abruptly and walked over to the shelves. Tracing the spines of his books with a finger, he paused, and plucked down a slim volume. He handed it to her.
“Before you are introduced to the practical work, you need to learn. You need to understand the shape of the world and the arts we will meddle with.”
“Arts?”
A pause.
“Occult arts,” said Zahir. “Forbidden arts.”
Arwa looked down at the book in her hands. Occult arts. Of course. She should have guessed, should have known, that any efforts to save the Empire that involved her birth mother’s blood would be forbidden art. No wonder Eshara refused to enter the tomb. No wonder Zahir had hesitated before he spoke, his gaze wary and sharp.
“You speak of heresy,” she whispered.
She could not imagine that any act sanctioned by the Emperor’s daughter would be heresy. But she remembered her suspicion that someone’s honor was at stake here, and felt a thrill of fear spill through her.
Heretics and Amrithi shared the same fate.
“Lady Arwa,” he said, after another pause that had stretched long and awkward between them. “What I do—what we will do—is a necessary evil. It is necessary in order to save the Empire from its unnatural ill luck. We must seek the only knowledge that can save us. The Maha’s knowledge.”
Arwa clutched the book tighter.
“Does this book contain his knowledge?” she asked in a small voice.
He shook his head. “No. The book is the foundations of our work. I have made notes that may help you within.”
“Notes,” she repeated.
“Guidance,” he added, as if that made anything clearer to her. “Consider this the start of your apprenticeship, Lady Arwa. When you have your bearings we are going to make use of your blood—and mine—together.”
CHAPTER NINE
She returned to her new room long before dawn. She did not see Eshara again, but she heard her tread on the corridor floor, her armored boots producing an unmistakable clang.
The book was small, almost ephemeral in Arwa’s hands. She felt as if it could easily fade to dust in her grip, as if it were barely real at all. But nothing about the night felt entirely real: the tomb that was no tomb; the not-prince reading in the shimmering lantern light; the tug of want in her, a thing that—if she were a proper noblewoman, a widow worth her salt, as she had so tried to be—should have died in her at Darez Fort.
Forbidden. That was what Zahir had called the arts she was to learn. Nothing about this path she had been set upon seemed right or proper. Any want in Arwa, even unspoken, and never acted upon, was a transgression—that, at least, was a simple truth. But Zahir’s mission—his occult arts—were true heresy. In a world where the Maha and Emperor were worshipped, where their lineage were glory and solace…
No wonder Zahir’s presence—and his work—were secret.
Arwa opened the book. To her surprise, it was full of poetry.
hollow are the eyes when ash is untasted / oh, beloved, my pyre knows / the shape of light born of flame—
Each poem was signed by the same author, in the same hand. The Hidden One. A false name, certainly. But between the careful, elegant script used for poetry were neat notes in another hand. Zahir’s hand.
Do not eat the ash.
She turned page after page, searching for his guidance.
Do not let go of your roots. This was heavily underlined.
Travel where the worlds break.
The answer is in—blood. (Lineage?)
His words were as cryptic as the poetry, she thought sourly. She read one final poem—the blazing eye sees the lamp of truth / the lamp of truth reveals the world—in a frustrated attempt to understand what on earth he wanted her to learn.
She snapped the book shut, and snuffed out her lantern.
She was already on the edge of sleep when she thought of bloodying her window. She rose from the bed and fumbled through her luggage. To her relief, her dagger was safe, still wrapped in its leather sheath. She used it to carefully mark the single latticed window to her room, before lying down once more.
She did not have the energy to keep her vigil, but she also found that her fear was curiously distant. She had fought and defeated a daiva. She had survived the journey through Numriha with nothing but a trace of blood on the palanquin wall. She could hold the daiva at bay, and no longer needed to fear discovery. That was a great weight lifted from her shoulders.
She was not safe, but this was the closest she had come since her widowhood. For now, while she was useful, a piece of good fortune, she could rest.
When she next opened her eyes it was hours later, but the dark was only beginning to fade from beyond her window. Her sleep had been deep, blissful, and empty of dreams. Waking left her disoriented, her mind still clouded with exhaustion. She would not have woken if she had not heard her name.
“Arwa,” a voice said again. “Time to get up.”
Gulshera was sitting on the edge of the bed, a cup of mint tea clasped between her hands.
“Take it,” Gulshera said. “I had to ask a girl to bring me tea three times this morning.” She shook her head. “They wouldn’t allow me to visit the kitchens.”