“Arwa,” he said hoarsely. “They’re nearly here.”
“I know.”
“If you’re planning to jump…” He coughed, a hoarse rattle. “The fall from here will kill us.”
“It probably will,” she admitted. “But their knives are a certainty. Jumping from here—”
“Is also a certainty.”
“I know.” The daiva was looking at her, with all its prayer flame eyes, and Arwa…
She closed her eyes. Listened to the shouts of the men, the tremor of her own heartbeat.
“I have been keeping secrets from you,” she said. “I survived Darez Fort because a daiva saved me from a creature—a nightmare, with a face like white bone. And I hope—although my hopes may be false, and foolish—that a daiva will save me again. Save us.”
He raised his head, staring at the many-eyed daiva watching them.
“So I’m not hallucinating, then,” he said shakily. “Ah, that’s good.”
“I am sorry,” said Arwa, apologizing for her lie of omission, although she did not regret it. She regretted only that they were here, that they had so few choices, that they were both so close to dying with nothing they’d hoped for done. No Empire saved. A worthless sacrifice indeed. Her face stung; her lips were wet with the salt of her own tears. She had not realized she was crying. “I can’t promise we will survive. But at least we can choose the shape of our death. At least that, Zahir.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he turned a little. Touched his forehead to her arm. His lips parted. His released a long, slow breath.
“You have me. I go with you.”
The despair of that act—and the trust—was staggering. She pressed her forehead to his hair, one moment of foolishness, one moment of touch. It could not hurt anyone anymore.
“I have marked you,” she whispered. “My blood is on you, and I hope—I hope that’s enough. The daiva—they. They protect their blood. That’s a promise, and they do not break their promises. They will not let us die.”
The daiva was watching them both. Waiting.
She held her hands out. Shaped the sigil for bird. She had no more time. A man burst up the stairs, blade before him. He stopped at the sight of the daiva, frozen by sudden terror.
Zahir turned and, wincing with pain, kneeled on the edge of the tower with her. They gripped each other tight.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“No.” He shook his head, eyes fever-bright and fierce. “Not at all.”
“Neither am I,” she told him. Touched her forehead to his own, face-to-face this time. Their breath mingled for a moment, terror-sweet. “Don’t let go of me,” she said.
“Arwa,” he whispered. “I won’t.”
The man had shaken off his fear. He was running toward them.
Holding her breath, insides a knot of terror, Arwa gripped Zahir tighter.
And jumped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
They were falling. She could feel her stomach lifting, her limbs abraded by the wind. They were falling…
And then abruptly they were not.
Zahir was still holding on to her, and around him—around both of them—were wings, great and glossy and black, the dawn light burnishing their edges with a sharp gleam like that of honed steel.
Ushan, she thought with relief. She had not been wrong to hope. She could feel the ash rising in her again, blotting her already tear-muddled vision. Ushan with his daiva progenitor. Ushan lifted by great wings. The memory was beating in her ears, pounding like her heart, like blood…
She was dizzy with ash. She closed her eyes, as the wings swept the air, as their bodies continued not to fall and saw—darkness.
“Come,” said Ushan. “Take my hand.”
Ushan held his hand out. Dark from the sun, lighter at the palms. She took it. Her own hand was small in his, truly a child’s hand. She walked on a child’s mildly unsteady limbs. She was young. She was, once again, not herself. She was Iria, Ushan’s child.
They walked for a time. There was sand beneath their feet, and a hot sun beating down on them from overhead. They were walking up a dune. Ahead of them, Iria could see figures surrounded by tents. Iria loved those tents. They were large and made of pale cloth, but their surfaces were etched with intricate designs in lush colors, swirling and twisting like the patterns created when wind disturbed sand. The tents were surrounded by a mass of people, all talking to one another, children yelping and running, their shadows shifting in strange shapes behind them. Iria wanted to play too, but her child legs were tired, and she could only stumble. Ushan let go of her hand.
“If you’re tired, I can carry you,” Ushan said, and Iria held her own arms up. Understanding, he laughed, and lifted her.
She was his child. She knew exactly the best way to rest her chin against the crook of his shoulder, to fist her hand in his tunic, as she stared off into the distance. There, she could see dark figures flitting through the air and beneath the sand, and felt comforted. This was home. And they were family.
Her jaw widened. She yawned.
“Wake up,” he whispered, tender against her ear. “Don’t be a lazy thing, now.”
Iria was not asleep yet, but she was tired, and could only mumble something incomprehensible in response.
“You delved too deep into memories that aren’t your own,” he said. His voice was gently disapproving. “And it has worn you thin, hasn’t it? That does not surprise me. The ash is no place for a mortal, no matter her blood.”
Ash.
It was a cold-water shock.
He was not talking to the girl he held in his arms, once, many lifetimes ago.
He was talking to her. And she was…
She was—
“You need to leave here,” he said. “Or soon you will not be able to.”
She was not his child. She was not in Irinah, upon its sand, returning to the embrace of her home clan. She was—
She blinked, and she was a child no longer. The realm of ash surrounded her, gray and empty, all twisting storm, and within it a woman slept curled on her side, breathing soft and alive. Arwa made a choked noise, panicked and helpless, and the woman’s eyes snapped open. The woman raised her head, and Arwa saw a long braid, an achingly familiar face. Mehr met her eyes and—
“Arwa,” a voice called. Thin with pain. “Arwa, wake up, please. I can’t carry you any farther.”
“Wake up,” echoed Ushan. His voice in her ear, a susurration of ash. “Or you die.”
The heat of the sun was long gone. The air was gray. She felt cold hands on her shoulders. Flinched.
“Don’t shout,” he said hurriedly. “It is only me. Zahir.”
“Who am I?” she gasped, lungs working, the taste of iron in her throat. “Who—who am I?”
Zahir was looking at her through a haze of falling ash. But he was not glass-skinned, made of dream flesh. He was human and pale with pain, a bruise blossoming on his cheek.
He pressed a hand to her face. He stared at her, gaze steady. She could feel his hand tremble.
“You are Arwa,” he said. “Lady Arwa. Scholar. Daughter of Suren. Widow.” His lips thinned, holding in his pain. He gripped her under the arms. Lifted her to standing. “But right now,” he panted, “you need to think less, and simply walk.”