Dappled light fell on his form, concealing his face. But she heard him exhale and saw his hand move for his scimitar.
“Well then,” he said. Began to draw his sword.
The shadowed light, coming from the branches above him, moved.
A figure jumped down, arm hooking around the soldier’s neck, drawing him brutally down to the earth. They hit the soil hard. A strangled yelp came from the soldier’s throat. He scrabbled for his scimitar, fist around the hilt. But the figure at his back was drawing his neck back, back, choking the air out of him with a fierce wrench of their arm.
Arwa should have run. But she could not. She knew that figure, the face half buried in the dirt, flushed and narrow-eyed.
Zahir.
He should have been a comical sight, fighting an armed man much greater in strength and size than himself. But he was using what upper hand he possessed to full effect, pinning the guard’s scrabbling arm with his knee, his own arm still around the guard’s throat. He fumbled—clumsy, pale with pain—then lifted his own dagger up. Wrenched the guard’s head back.
Without finesse, he jammed his blade into the guard’s throat.
There was a wet, gargling sound. Zahir jammed the dagger in again. And once more.
Silence.
Arwa felt dizzy. For a moment, she feared she would faint. Then her good sense returned to her, and she stumbled over to Zahir, and heaved the heavy weight of the body off him.
Zahir was breathing unevenly. He looked almost as shocked as she felt. His hands were trembling. The dagger dropped from his hand.
“Is he dead?”
Arwa nodded. She did not need to look at the guard to make sure. She had watched him die, after all.
“Good.”
Zahir exhaled, winced. Still trembling, he clambered to his feet. His tunic was ripped. He wore no turban, his black hair bare and bloodstained.
“I thought you were dead,” Arwa managed to say. She looked him over. He was hunched, one hand hovering over but not quite touching his side. “Are you… did he injure you?”
“I was already wounded.” His voice was raw. “Had to run. One almost caught me.” He took a step forward. Winced. “I escaped—the fire grate. But they’re searching. Still.”
They would be milling about the women’s gardens then, among the trees and the wide-open paths across the water, under citrus and fruit trees outside the wing for widows. There would be no easy way to run from them.
She took his arm.
“Lean on me,” she said. “We’re getting away from here.”
“And where,” he said, “do you suggest we go?”
They could not go back to the women’s quarters. Could not reach the palace.
“The dovecote,” said Arwa.
There were voices somewhere. Shouting.
“I know the way,” said Zahir.
They made it to the entrance, miracle of miracles. Not the door from Jihan’s palace, but an entrance for servants, set at the base of the tower. The stairs were narrow and dark.
“If anyone is on the staircase, we will be trapped,” Zahir pointed out. There was a sheen of sweat on his face that worried her.
“What a change from our current circumstances that would be,” said Arwa. “Come on now.”
They climbed.
He leaned his weight on the wall, on her shoulder. She heard his breath, ragged with pain. It was a relief when they reached the dovecote, and she heard the soft flutter of wings, and felt the cold dawn air on her face.
Zahir gave a hollow gasp. Lowered himself carefully down against the wall. His side was dark with blood.
Arwa kneeled on the ground, sucking in gouts of air. Her relief was short-lived. She heard the distant thud of footsteps.
“They’re here, I think,” said Zahir.
Arwa swore colorfully, and Zahir laughed, a helpless out-of-place laugh.
“How did they find us?” It was a foolish question, but she had been foolish to think they could run. To think they could live.
“Ah,” said Zahir. “The trail of blood I left behind us probably didn’t help. Besides, where else did we have to go?”
She watched the rise and fall of his chest. The dark spread of his blood.
This blessed, this not-prince, had murdered a man. She had not thought he was capable of that. He was more than what he appeared.
Well, so was she.
She took her own dagger from her sash. Zahir followed her with his eyes, as she rose to her feet.
“You can’t fight them.”
“I could try.”
“Arwa.” His voice was hoarse. “Why were you in the garden?”
“You’re asking me now?”
“You should be safe.”
Safe.
She thought of her sister. Her father. Her mother, disappointed and terrified, always terrified. She thought of her husband, dead against the gates of Darez Fort.
“Yes,” she said. “But I’m not. I never have been.”
She could hear the footsteps drawing closer. The rustle of wings. She stepped over to him, her shadow swallowing him whole.
“I told you to make a tool of me,” she said shakily. “And you did, Lord Zahir. But I… I think it’s time for me to make a weapon of myself.”
She placed the blade to her finger. Made a cut—small, only enough to bring blood to the skin.
She placed her finger against his brow. Left her mark, invisible in the grime and guard’s blood marking his face. He looked up at her, his gaze watchful. Waiting.
She touched her own forehead. Turned, ash in her soul, her mouth. With trembling fingers, she began to shape a rite.
She moved through clumsy motions, no magic in her, no faith, no music. Still, it was a rite. It was a rite for beckoning family, a thing Ushan had used dust-blood generations before her, to call his own daiva parent to him, on Irinah’s sands.
Before her, darkness. Birds flocked together, their shadows merging into one. The daiva was one creature now and large, impossibly large, with dozens of eyes, disparate lambent stars. It did not seem surprised that she had beckoned it. She felt—in her blood and her bones—that it had been waiting.
She heard the distant yelling of men.
Instinct took over. She reached for it, touching her blood to its shadow-skin. She felt the softness of its flesh, silken as water.
“Please,” she said, voice trembling. “You vowed to protect people like me. Your descendants. Your—family. Didn’t you?”
The daiva did not respond. How could it? She was not speaking in its language, but oh—her hands, she could not hold them steady for the shape of sigils. She could not. The men were getting closer.
“I am not the kind of kin you hoped for, perhaps. I—do not know what you expect of me, or what it means to be Amrithi. But I am still one of your own, I think. Please. Forgive me for mistrusting you. Save me.”
Silence, still.
She kneeled down.
Zahir was looking at the daiva. Wonder and terror mingled on his wan face.
“I am dying,” he whispered. “Aren’t I? I cannot be seeing what I am seeing.”
“You’re not dying.” I hope. “Hold on to me. We need to stand.”
He held on to her. She helped him to his feet. The edge of the tower wall was narrow, but Arwa managed to climb on it, balanced precariously. She sat, Zahir leaning against her. She could not help but think of the fall beneath her—the sheer empty drop to black water.