“This was not witchcraft,” Eshara bit out. Then, “Zahir.”
He was looking down at Arwa, head bent, gaze thoughtful. Fool boy, her not-prince—as if he had time to think, now. She saw his eyes close, and a fine crease form between his brows.
There were no lies readily at hand that would explain what had happened before the widows’ eyes. She knew he was considering falsehoods, one by one, and discarding them. And he could not tell them the truth either. Not the whole of it: not what lay in Arwa’s blood, the spirits she’d called to her, the paths of death and ash they had walked together.
There was only one tale that would do. A tale that had grown into its own beast. A tale that would draw Parviz’s ire and drag Zahir out of hiding and into the blazing, dangerous light.
A tale that—once invoked—would set its teeth around his throat and never let go.
She saw him think. And she saw him make his choice.
He opened his eyes and his face smoothed. Before her, she saw a Zahir she both knew, and did not. His expression was serene, his eyes full of a cutting light.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” he said. His voice, ah—it was a rasp of silk, his father’s voice, rich enough to stop the heart. He raised his head. In the light, she saw that bringing her back from the realm of ash had marked him, at least for the moment, as it had marked her.
His eyes were gray from end to end. Liquid silver.
They had barely looked at him, these widows, when he’d first entered the House of Tears.
They looked at him now.
The lantern light flickered across him, framed the sharp loveliness of his bones. She remembered how she’d hungered when she’d first seen him, and was glad. There was power in that. He stood.
“My name is Zahir,” he said. “Son of the courtesan Bahar. Blessed scion of the departed Emperor. Brother of murdered princes. I have walked the Empire as a pilgrim. I have mourned and feared with you, I have saved this caravanserai from the Empire’s curse, and I…” He tilted his head back, haughty and pure, an effigy given flesh and face. “I am the Maha’s heir.”
It was Zahir who led the way, out into the courtyard.
In his pilgrim’s robes, his hair uncovered, no turban to give him status, he should not have been imposing. But he was impossible to ignore. For all that he was a bastard, a blessed, disgraced and hidden, he was still the Emperor’s blood. He’d been raised knowing what grace lay in his bloodline. He had seen the utter ease with which his siblings had held power. He wore a stitched costume of their confidence now—wore it as if it were his own.
The crowd responded to it. The widows had been shaken by fear, but now they were fierce with hope. They had witnessed a miracle. They would not be easily shaken, now.
She walked close to Zahir, mere footsteps behind him, Eshara holding her steady. Eshara kept grinding her teeth. Arwa didn’t have the heart—or the energy—to tell her to stop.
“I can’t believe this,” Eshara said, not for the first time. She kept her voice low. “Does he really believe they’ll simply let us leave?”
“What else can we hope for?” Arwa whispered in return. “You think we can fight imperial soldiers with broom handles?”
Eshara ground her teeth again, and said nothing more.
We could still die, Arwa thought. She did not say it. She knew Eshara thought it too. The guardswoman was holding her fast, staring unblinking at Zahir and the soldiers ahead of him.
The soldiers were at the gates. A crowd still stood about them, tense and silent. But they parted when the widows approached, and Arwa could not blame them for it. The widows were an eerie, silent sea of white, their heads covered with their shawls, their hands full of grave-tokens.
The grave-tokens had been Aunt Madhu’s suggestion. Gimlet-eyed, hands shaking as she ordered her women around her.
We need to remind them of what we are, she’d said.
“Let us go.” Diya’s voice. Clear as a bell. Her head was raised, her hands before her, full of soil and grief. “We are widows, my lord. Not heretics or bandits. We mourn the Maha’s memory. We are keepers of the Empire’s great grief, just as we keep our own. Let us go free, or may the Maha’s heir remember your ill deeds, and strike you down.”
Let us go. Let us go. Maha’s heir.
The call was taken up by the other widows. The chant spread from them to the watching pilgrims, who stood under the walls, their voices growing and swelling until Arwa could hear nothing but a press of noise, taste nothing but iron and ash and foolish, foolish hope.
Before them all, Zahir stood silent and unblinking. Eshara had once feared that his name had become a locus for all the Empire’s rage and hope. In that moment, his body was a talisman, a shield. They surrounded him and believed they would live, that he was their hope and their future, their Maha’s heir, and so he was.
He did not tremble. That was all right. She trembled enough for him.
Sohal stepped forward from the line of soldiers. She recognized his bald head; his tense shoulders. He walked slowly, shivering like a newborn animal. But his expression was resolute as he met Arwa’s eyes—one long, unblinking look—then bowed his head. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his scimitar to the ground. Reached into his sash, removed his dagger, and lowered that too.
There was no falter in the chanting, which grew and grew; against the tide of noise came another soldier, walking steadily forward. This one was a stranger to her, older and helmed. He lowered his weapon too. Placed a hand on Sohal’s arm.
The rest of the soldiers did not move.
“This will end in a bloodbath,” muttered Eshara.
It certainly will if we’re not free before the nightmare is, thought Arwa. She gripped Eshara tight in return, heart in her throat.
“Open the gates.” A voice, gruff with command. It was a leader’s voice: loud enough to echo through the air and cut through the desperate fury of the crowd. The chanting faltered. “Let them out.”
It was the old soldier Arwa had seen in the store. He walked slowly, with a pronounced limp she hadn’t seen before. Behind him was another soldier, cleaning a blade upon a rag.
“Where is the captain?” one soldier asked.
The older soldier said nothing. Arwa noticed—as surely the soldiers also did—that his sword wasn’t entirely clean either.
“Open the gates,” he repeated. His gaze was flat. “Now.”
There was a moment—a long moment—when Arwa was sure the men would not obey. But then she saw one move, then two. She heard the creak of gates being drawn wide, and felt the press of people surging forward around her.
“Don’t fall, now,” Eshara said, gripping her. “I’ve got you.”
They stumbled forward, following the pilgrims, and finally left the Grand Caravanserai—and its nightmare—behind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I don’t think there’s any doubt now,” said Arwa. She had one hand raised to shade her face, squinting against the fading sun. “We have a proper retinue.”
“Stop staring at them,” Eshara said, aggrieved.
“Do you think if I stop they’ll go away?” Arwa asked.
“Don’t joke with me,” said Eshara. “I am still not your friend, Lady Arwa.”