Papers lay before her. Dozens of missives. She sifted through them by rote, as was expected of her. She raised her eyes carefully to gauge his expression. He was seated in the corner, face resting on his knuckles, body in shadow.
“Husband,” she said. “What am I to do with these?”
He was silent. Biting her lip, she lowered her eyes once more. Perhaps he did not want to be disturbed.
She read the next page; neat script, terrifyingly small. She knew this hand.
A chill ran through her. She raised her eyes once more, and stood.
“Husband,” she said. Silence. Then: “Kamran.”
She stepped over to him. Stopped.
Dark dust in the shape of an arm. The turn of a head.
He was dead. She remembered now. All that lay before her was ash.
She walked over to the window. A storm of ash raged outside.
Arwa swallowed. Placed her hand—the wrist heavy with a tangle of bloody roots—against the lattice.
The light poured through it.
Ah, she thought, her distant heart beating fast in her chest. I’m here again. I should have known.
The dream disintegrated around her, ruined as easily as wet paper. There was ash everywhere. Ash upon her hands, her face. She felt a memory rise in her mind that wasn’t her own, fresh fear mingling with the horror of Darez Fort, the dead maidservant at the imperial palace. She felt cold, brittle fingers set themselves on the back of her skull—a terrible, familiar sensation. She opened her mouth, breathless, struggling to scream—
Woke.
Zahir was kneeling beside her. Light broke into the darkness of their makeshift room as the curtains wavered around him. People were walking, moving. She heard voices.
“Do you know yourself?” he asked.
A strange question. And yet…
Jah Ambha after the royal massacre.
Who—who am I?
“Yes,” said Arwa, sitting up, throwing her shawl hastily over her hair. “I had a nightmare. What’s going on?”
“Get up,” hissed Eshara. She’d pulled the curtain of their makeshift room to the side and was peering outside. “Something’s happening.”
All three of them left the room, walking between the rows of curtains, out into the courtyard. They found a crowd already standing there, huddled together. Arwa couldn’t see over their heads, but she could hear their voices, mingled together.
“… came and surrounded the walls last night, no way in or out. Not even if you have gold…”
“… bandits, they say, but you know that’s just an excuse to root out the rest of us…”
“I’ve been speaking to people,” Eshara said in a low voice. “And listening. The local fort commander has sent some men here. They’re trying to weed out bandits and murderers. Apparently.”
Arwa peered between the sea of bodies. She could see a man shouting at the soldiers. One of the sullen guards who had waved them into the caravanserai was slumped on the ground, unmoving.
One of the soldiers backhanded the man around the face. He fell to the ground. She heard a woman shriek, and looked away.
“Come back inside,” urged Zahir. She felt his hand, a gentle touch at her back, and followed him. The press of people forced her to.
“It’s a small group of soldiers,” said Eshara, once they were back inside. “One patrol large, at most.” She shook her head. Huffed out a breath. “I don’t understand this,” she said. “If they’re searching for bandits, as they claim, this is a poor way to do so.”
“They may have gone rogue,” suggested Arwa. “Defied orders.”
“And what do you know of it?”
“Come now, Eshara, you know how she knows. Her husband was commander of a fort,” Zahir said. His expression—his voice—were grim. “Arwa, why do you think they would be here?”
Arwa shook her head.
“Men desert their duties for all sorts of reasons,” she said. “I couldn’t say.”
“If they’re here for me…” He paused, jaw tight. “Well,” he said. “There’s no need to place you both in danger.”
“There is no reason to believe they’re here for you,” Arwa said sharply.
“They could be,” Eshara said. “We heard tales in the last caravanserai. Too much interest in Zahir’s fate was bound to draw the Emperor’s attention eventually.”
“Regardless,” said Arwa, “we’re not leaving you, Zahir. And you’re not leaving us.” Me. She took his wrist. Held tight. “You stay,” she said. “Promise it.”
Zahir met her eyes. His own gaze was startled, expression strangely raw. He nodded. She could feel his pulse against her palm.
“I promise,” he said.
Eshara was looking at them both.
“Well,” she said. “I suppose we wait.”
The three of them sat and waited, as the sun rose in the sky. They waited to see if anyone would come for Zahir.
No one did.
If the soldiers were looking for him, they were doing a poor job of seeking him out. Instead they seemed content with keeping the pilgrims penned up and wound tight with fear. Sometimes they heard shouts from outside. Then silence. Eventually Eshara rose to her feet. She tucked a dagger into the sash of her tunic, and drew on a robe, to conceal it. When Zahir rose to his feet too, Eshara shook her head.
“No, you’re staying here.”
“Eshara—”
“Zahir,” Arwa cut in. He went silent. Looked at her.
She said no more. She didn’t need to. Her face said enough. His mouth thinned, and he sat.
“I’ll be back soon,” said Eshara. And she strode off.
She returned an hour later, no worse for wear.
“They’ve taken some of the traders,” she said. “The ones selling talismans and relics. The ones who claim to be visionaries.”
“I thought they were here in search of bandits,” said Arwa.
Eshara smiled thinly.
“I expect the bandits are just an excuse. It’s the heretics they’re after.”
“Parviz hates his heresy, true enough,” Zahir said quietly. “And yet, I hoped the Hidden Ones would succeed. I hoped the disquiet surrounding his rise to the throne would—delay him.”
“That was optimistic of you,” said Eshara. She sounded bitter. “He is still the Emperor. He still has more power than any of us.”
Zahir said nothing to that.
“We can’t remain here hiding,” Arwa said, filling his silence.
“No,” Zahir said then. “I don’t think we can. But what do you think we should do, Arwa?”
“Why do you assume I have a plan?”
The partition curtains wavered around them as a child ran between them.
“You were gone a long time yesterday,” Zahir said.
So he hadn’t accepted her excuses at face value after all. Or perhaps a night’s rest had sharpened his mind. Arwa gave him a look, which he returned unblinking, something fierce in the furrow of his brow.
“Your secrets are your own, Arwa,” he said. “But if you know something that may help…”
“If you have any ideas, Arwa, tell us,” said Eshara impatiently. “Or simply stare at one another, if you prefer.”