“You do not need to take me,” Zahir said. “Only take them.”
“We survive together or not at all,” said Arwa. “Please.”
Silence. Nothing. Nothing.
Somewhere, distantly, she could hear wailing.
The door opened.
“Quickly now, before I change my mind.”
They needed no further encouragement. The three of them tumbled in, and the doors of the House of Tears closed behind them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
As soon as they were through the door, Arwa felt as if she could breathe more easily. The terror eased, just enough for her to take in the sight before her with clear eyes. The widows were all crowded at the top of the stairs, which led to the prayer room. They had no proper weapons—no scimitars, no bows, no handheld daggers—but they had makeshift tools of defense. Cooking knives. A broom, broken, the end sharpened. One was holding, of all things, a bucket.
Zahir lowered his head and made a gesture of respect.
“You have our gratitude,” he said. “My apologies for intruding.”
Eshara didn’t bother with such niceties. She gave the door a critical look and said, “Do you have any more wood? Any more brooms like that one?” She gestured at the broken wooden shaft in one woman’s hands.
“Yes,” the woman said cautiously. “Some.”
“Bring it here, then,” said Eshara. “We’re going to strengthen this door.”
As a few of the women moved to obey, Arwa crossed the room. Aunt Madhu was seated in the corner, wrapped in a thick shawl. Her mouth was pursed. Diya stood beside her, arms crossed. She gave Arwa a curt nod.
“Aunt,” said Arwa. “Thank you for giving us sanctuary.”
Aunt Madhu snorted. “What else could we say to all that groveling?” She turned her gaze on Eshara. “Your friend. Can she really protect us?”
Arwa could hear Eshara ordering the widows about.
“She’ll certainly try,” said Arwa. “She told no lies.”
“And the man. Can he fight?” A frown. “He’s pretty enough, but he doesn’t look like much.”
Arwa thought of the night at the imperial palace when Zahir had cut a man’s throat. Absurdly, she found herself smiling.
“Oh, he can,” she said.
“And you,” one of the widows said shortly. “What good are you?”
“I do what I can,” Arwa said.
She helped Eshara and Zahir and the widows try to secure the door, but it was a futile task. The House of Tears was far more ramshackle than Arwa had realized on her first visit, when it had been cloaked in careful candlelit darkness. Without the careful veil of shadow and oil lamps, under the blaze of fully lit lanterns, the state of disrepair the grief-house was in was readily apparent.
She and Diya stood together under a hole in the roof. When Arwa tilted her head just so, she could see the sky.
“This may be a problem,” Arwa said.
“We do well here,” Diya said defensively. “But we cannot afford better than we have. Besides.” Voice lowered. “I’m not convinced the door will protect us. I think your friend is merely trying to make us feel better.”
Arwa had thought the same. But she didn’t want to say so.
“You must have had more generous donors, once,” she said instead. “You may yet again.”
Diya snorted. “No. Why on earth would you think that?”
“Your grave-tokens. Clay and lacquered—”
The widow waved a dismissive hand. “Prayers from visitors, no more. We prefer coin. It’s truly the hawkers who benefit from selling them, preying on pilgrims and mourners. If anything, we should be the ones selling such things…”
As she spoke, Arwa felt a terrible pressure build behind her eyes. This was not the unnatural, clawed thing resting at the base of her skull. No. It was only natural, dawning understanding, and terrible for it.
“Your holy effigy,” she said haltingly.
“What of it?”
“It is expensive. Isn’t it? Marble or—ivory.”
Diya gave her a perplexed look, frown line forming between her eyebrows.
“It is wood, girl. Plain wood. Your eyes must have deceived you.”
Flesh like white bone. A faceless thing. No, Arwa’s eyes hadn’t been deceived. Not at all.
She swallowed. Said, “Diya. Sister. Why are all sitting up here? Why is nobody hiding in the prayer room?”
Diya gave her an odd look. Blinked, as if confused. Then haltingly she said, “I… I don’t know.”
Arwa nodded. She rose to her feet, walked over to Zahir, and placed her hand on his shoulder. He looked at her.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Please come with me,” she said. “I know where the nightmare is.”
They left Eshara behind to watch the widows—and the door.
“If you’re not back soon, Zahir,” Eshara said, voice low, “I’ll follow. The fact you’re leaving me here…”
“I know,” he said. “But needs must, Eshara.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed look, but said nothing more.
They walked down the stairs, a lamp in Zahir’s hands. The prayer room was not entirely dark. Some of the clay lamps on the floor were still giving off a faint light. But the dark around the light was somehow too rich, and far too alive.
“It feels wrong here,” Zahir murmured. “The air is too heavy. My skin… my body knows something isn’t right. And yet, I’m not as afraid as I was, beyond the grief-house’s walls.”
“Please don’t tell me you find this fascinating,” Arwa murmured in return.
“I won’t, if that’s what you wish.”
“But you do. Don’t you?”
“Fear and curiosity can coexist,” he said. “You know that very well.”
He raised the lamp. In the flickering light, the effigy was clearly visible. Its surface was still smooth ivory, inhumanly pale. It remained faceless, palm upraised with the world grasped inside it. Awe flickered to life inside her. She resisted the urge to fall once again to her knees.
“Strange,” whispered Zahir. He lowered the lamp carefully to the floor, and moved to stand beside her.
“Do you feel it?” she asked. “The—awe?”
“Of course.”
She released a breath. Steadied herself, grounding herself as if she were beginning a rite. Held her hands before her. Stopped.
“What is it?” Zahir asked. He turned to her, shadow and light reflecting in his eyes.
“There are daiva here,” said Arwa. She swept one hand through the air. “Look.”
The rich darkness—too rich, too complete, she’d been right to think it was—was moving. Eyes flickered in and out of sight, mingling with the light of the lamps. They were not bird-spirits, nothing akin to animals. They were amorphous darkness.
The effigy glowed all the brighter between them.
Her hands were shaking. She lowered them.
She could think of nothing but the spirit she’d seen at Darez Fort. Cloaked in shadow. Darkness peeling away to reveal its face of white bone.
“Ah, Gods,” she whispered. Shaking. She’d thought herself prepared for this, willing to be brave, to try, no matter the consequences. She’d thought she knew what she was facing. But of course, she did not.