“Well, I’m very grateful,” Arwa said honestly, and took it from her. She tried not to yawn.
The tea was lukewarm, but not unpleasant. Still, Arwa couldn’t help but think of breakfast in Gulshera’s room: blisteringly hot tea and warm, spiced fritters. For all the opulence of the palace, she felt as if Gulshera had lost a precious measure of freedom she would not be able to regain.
“You’re well,” Gulshera said shortly.
It took a moment for Arwa to realize that Gulshera’s words had been a question, not a statement. She lowered her cup.
“Yes,” she said. Hesitated. “Lord Zahir was—”
“Best if you don’t tell me,” Gulshera cut in. Her gaze was distant, firm hands clasped in her lap. “I spoke to Princess Jihan. I was… concerned. The princess informed me I should not question or interfere. So I will not.”
“Questions are not exactly interference,” murmured Arwa.
“Perhaps.” Gulshera’s mouth thinned. “But Jihan tests the people she trusts. She has asked me not to pry. So I will not. But I am… very glad that you are well, Arwa.”
Arwa understood. Jihan had so clearly wanted Gulshera to know the influence she’d gained, in her absence: the changes she’d made to the Palace of Dusk, the tower her brother had built for her, in a reflection of his regard for her. Controlling what Gulshera knew was a further demonstration of her strength. It was a form of showing off, like a child demonstrating a newly learned poem or song. But Jihan was no child, and her newly honed skill lay in the hoarding of information, and with it, the hoarding of power.
What would she do to you, if you betrayed her? Failed her?
Judging by the tension in Gulshera’s shoulders, Arwa did not want to know the answer, and Gulshera would not provide it anyway. So Arwa took one more sip of cooling tea, then said, “I am glad you are well too, Aunt.”
Gulshera gave Arwa an unreadable look. Then she stood.
“Get dressed,” she said. “We must attend on the princess. The Emperor is holding audience.” She hesitated. “Jihan told me he has missed a number of audiences lately. She feels it is important her household attend his return to court in full force.”
“Asima told me the Emperor had been unwell,” Arwa said carefully.
“I’ve been assured his fever has passed.” Gulshera did not sound convinced. “Asima told you, did she?”
“She did.”
“Gossip travels very fast,” muttered Gulshera. “Let’s have no more of it now. Get dressed. The audience begins soon after dawn.”
Society was held together, warp and weft, by rituals and duties. Arwa understood the nature of duty. But she had never experienced imperial ritual before, in all its grand weight, immense and heart-stopping. The rituals of her life were a mere shadow by comparison.
Once every seven days, at dawn in the imperial palace, before his audience with his nobles, the Emperor stepped on the Balcony of Beholding and showed his face to the public. An endless crowd of pilgrims—city-dwellers from Jah Ambha, travelers from the Empire’s wide-flung provinces of Chand and Numriha, Hara and Irinah, even Durevi—bowed low to the ground before him. To gaze upon the Emperor’s face, mortal and endlessly glorious, was a blessing beyond compare. Arwa had heard poetry about that moment: the halo of rose-gold dawn illuminating the turn of his head; the way the sun shone through the pure, unveined marble of the balcony, filling it with light.
Although he had maintained the tradition of Beholding, the Emperor’s missed audiences had not gone unnoticed. The charity women of Jihan’s household—the widows and elders that Arwa now belonged among—spoke about it in low, anxious whispers as they dressed. He’s well now, of course. Entirely well. But it was his one missed Beholding, at the height of his illness, that had caused the most distress, and sent ripples of unease across the Empire.
But today, the Emperor walked to his balcony. As he was beheld, the members of his disparate satellite households assembled. The women of Prince Akhtar’s palace gathered together in the audience hall Arwa had seen only yesterday, through half-opened doors. Jihan awaited them upon her dais, surrounded by her closest noblewomen. She wore a shawl over her hair; a veil was swept back from her face, ready to be lowered.
Her eyes were fierce and bright.
“Are we prepared?” she asked, gaze sweeping over her women—over noblewomen young and old. There was a murmur of assent, a lowering of eyes. Jihan smiled in response and stood. She lowered her veil, concealing her face entirely beneath a length of soft gauze.
Her retinue mirrored her and lowered their own veils with a rustle of cloth. Jihan looked down upon them for a long moment, shrouded and utterly in control.
“We go,” she said.
Great doors opened before them, one by one, as they made their way from the women’s quarters of Prince Akhtar’s palace to one of the great bridges that joined the princely palaces to the World Palace, grand seat of the Emperor.
The dawn air was crisp and cold. Light reflected on the water beneath the bridge. Guardswomen lined their way. Ahead of them, a set of gates embellished in gold and obsidian were drawn open.
They entered the Hall of the World.
The Hall of the World was the Emperor’s audience hall, and Arwa—who had spent her early years in the opulence of the Governor of Irinah’s own court—had never seen a place of greater beauty. Through the intricate lattice screen that concealed everything but silhouettes of the women from the male court, Arwa could see pillars of marble, covered in bursts of inlay: flowers of emerald and carnelian, birds of lapis lazuli. The domed ceiling was lacquered in pure gold, with a sun whittled from mirrored glass in its center.
Upon the floor of the hall stood courtiers and nobles, organized in discrete clusters, intended to mimic the order of the universe: stars and planets alike, the most powerful courtiers set closest to the Emperor’s seat. Hall of the World, indeed.
“Follow me,” whispered Gulshera. It was an unnecessary order. Arwa would hardly have done anything else. She could barely think through her awe, only follow Gulshera as they kneeled down far behind Jihan, who sat to the left of the dais visible through the lattice. Golden, inlaid with gems carved to resemble constellations of stars, it was the Emperor’s throne.
To the right, another woman kneeled, mirroring Jihan’s posture. She wore an archaic style of dress: a high coned silk cap, and a voluminous robe, with a heavy sash of velvet at the waist. Her veil was long enough to pool at her waist. Her hands, lined with age, were demurely clasped and weighed down by jeweled rings.
“Princess Masuma,” murmured Gulshera. “The Emperor’s sister. She has been the highest lady in his household since the Empress’s death.”
Gulshera touched a hand to Arwa’s wrist. Arwa wondered if she could feel the rush of Arwa’s pulse, the sheer intensity of it.
“Be quiet and calm,” Gulshera counseled. “I will direct you. Do not fear.”
A conch was sounded, twice in succession. The courtiers bowed their heads as two men entered. One was slight, barely out of boyhood; the other tall and elegant, in a green embroidered jacket and a turban of silver cloth. They kneeled facing the throne.
The princes.
One, she realized, had to be Prince Akhtar. Strange to think that she belonged to his household, and yet knew nothing of him at all.