She was not—
“You’re stubborn,” Ushan said. “Just like your mother.”
Hands clasped on his knees. He was leaning against a rock, sun blistering overhead. “But you need to learn, Iria. You’ll thank me one day.”
She rose up onto her elbows. Spat out sand.
“Why,” she said, “is it always you?”
He was silent for a moment. The memory wavered. Then he straightened, and stood.
“One day,” he said, “you’re going to understand that not all daiva are as benevolent as my progenitor.”
“They’ve made vows,” Iria said. “I don’t see why—”
“Iria,” he sighed. “Darling. Not all people are blessed as we are.”
“I don’t see why that matters.”
“It matters because they matter,” he said gently. “If not to you, then to someone. And they need someone to help them survive when a death-spirit enters their village, or when a daiva takes more than people can bear to give. You will be needed then to protect them. And you’ll need a powerful rite. Something old and strong.”
“I don’t know see why it has to be me.”
“It may not be. Consider this a… broadening of your options.”
He kneeled down beside her.
“Father,” she said. “Must I?”
“It’s a simple rite,” he said gently. “Not difficult at all. Now, Iria. Let’s begin.”
She sat up. “Fine,” she said. “I’m ready, Father. Show me.”
“Its name,” he said, “is the Rite of the Cage.”
She rose out of the memory, was dragged, red roots drawing her home. She sucked in great gouts of air. The world spun around her, half-ash, half-mortal, but Zahir was holding her, clasping one of his hands tight against her. She realized he’d cut his hand and her own and clasped them together. The feel of their shared blood was terribly hot.
“I’d hoped it would be enough to draw you back somehow,” he said raggedly. “Blood and flame, if not—sleep.”
“Zahir,” she said shakily. “There is too much in my head.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. I keep forgetting. Forgetting who I am—”
“Arwa,” he said softly. “You are Arwa.” He held her tight, drawing her hand against his chest. “I’m holding you. My roots to yours. I’m trying to take some of the burden from you. Can you feel it?”
She nodded silently. The realm of ash was still so terribly close. In her mind’s eye she could see the way their roots were tangled together. Stronger than they would be alone. Between them the ash moved, flickering at the edges of his mind even as it filled her own, filtered through the conduit of their roots.
They were a mystical order of two. They were.
“Good,” he said. Smiled. He was sweating. Even in the dark, she could see how wan he was. “Because I certainly can.”
She blinked up at him. Ash. She could still feel the ash.
“Help me up,” she said hoarsely. “I need to perform a rite.”
He asked far fewer questions than she expected, helping her to her feet. He supported her body, holding her steady as she breathed deep and held her arms before her.
“What do you need from me?” he asked.
“Keep holding me up,” she said. “I know what I need to do.”
Once, long ago, Ushan had gripped his daughter’s forearms. Lifted them.
“Remember,” he’d said. “Back straight and strong. Legs at an angle—”
“I know.”
“Holding firm will be important, Iria,” he’d said patiently. “You must understand this rite isn’t—easily done.”
Arwa held herself as firm as she could, relying on Zahir’s strength. She held out her arms. Shaped sigils. One. Then another.
Hold. Strong.
“I need to move,” she said. “Just—don’t let me fall.”
He said nothing, but he held on as she moved, his breath sharp against her hair.
Blood.
Hands circling, mimicry of a knot.
Bind.
Fingers fanning. Arms shaping a winding circle, her thumbs catching together.
Lock.
“The daiva won’t thank you for demanding they cage one of their own,” said Ushan. “But they’ll do what’s needful. And that will give you time.”
“Time for what?”
“To tell people to run, of course. What else?” He shook his head. “Don’t let anyone tell you that you can fight the child of a God.”
The nightmare was not a daiva, to be caged by its own so that mortals would have time to flee. But it was an immortal creature, God-born, as immortal as a daiva, and daiva had the capacity to contain it. Or so Arwa hoped. She only had hope, and a theory. But Arwa had learned the value of testing a theory, and what better time than now, when lives depended upon it?
Hands interlocked. Fingers interlocked. Brought back against her chest, to her heart.
Cage.
There was a sound—awful, screeching, racing through her skull—and then—
Silence. Darkness.
The pale light of the nightmare had been snuffed out. Arwa heard Zahir release a ragged breath.
“The fear,” he said. “It’s gone.”
“The daiva will hold the nightmare for a while,” she slurred, crumpling. He held her steady, whispering an apology as he steadied her.
“How long?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Not long, Zahir. Balance. It will need to—let go. For balance. We need to get out while we can. Can you…?”
“Anything,” he said.
“Lower me,” she said. “My head. It hurts.”
He lowered her down. The world spun her, in lazy and vast circles.
“The captain may still not let us pass,” she said. “But now we…”
“Stop talking, Arwa,” he said softly. “Please.” He touched a hand to her face. “Your eyes…”
She wanted to laugh. “I know.”
The worry on his face only made her try to stand up once more. Her legs crumpled. Fool.
“We have a chance,” she said. “We have to take it.”
“We will. I promise it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
There was a pointed noise from the staircase. Arwa turned her head, as Zahir turned his. The widows were on the stairs once more. Eshara was in front of them, arms outstretched protectively, her mouth a thin line.
“For clarity, Zahir, these fine ladies just watched the Maha’s strange white effigy vanish into the air, consumed by dark spirits,” Eshara said tightly. “They’d like an explanation. You will remember, of course, that they have weapons.”
Arwa could not help him. She was exhausted beyond words, shaking with the weight of the realm of ash still clinging to her mind.
What had they seen? Zahir holding Arwa; the shadow of hands moving. The darkness swallowing the effigy—and the fear racing through their minds and their dreams—whole.
“What witchcraft was this?” one widow asked shakily. Another adjusted her hold on her weapon, knuckles visibly white.