Despite her words, she guided Arwa forward gently, supporting Arwa as she walked onward and onward on shaky legs. The worst of her fall into the realm of ash had faded, like a dream, to dust. For two days they’d walked from the Grand Caravanserai, Eshara and Zahir in turn holding Arwa steady, near carrying her as they’d followed the pilgrim route toward Irinah. At first Arwa had struggled to walk at all, but her strength was returning. She only saw the realm of ash when she slept; when she closed her eyes for too long, red roots bloomed.
But she was going to be fine. She told herself this. There was no option but for it to be true.
When they’d first left the Grand Caravanserai many of the pilgrims had dispersed. Some had chosen to travel to Demet Fort, to the relative safety of the local commander’s care. Others had turned home, or made their way to Irinah on more commonly used paths. Eshara had directed Zahir and Arwa on a lesser used, winding route. For concealment, she’d said.
But there were pilgrims who followed them. Two days on, and they were still following. There was a distressingly large handful of strangers, who murmured of the Maha’s heir and watched Zahir with hot, hopeful eyes; Sohal and his fellow soldier, the helmed one that had lowered his weapon; and a cluster of widows, noticeable in their widow whites.
A proper retinue indeed.
Zahir had only called himself Maha’s heir in the presence of the widows. Only in that dim prayer room, with Arwa on the floor beside him and a nightmare chained behind him. But tales had power, and this one had spread on swift wings.
“You know what I think,” Eshara muttered. “They make us too visible. Parviz is looking for us, that I don’t doubt. If we could just convince a few of them to leave, that would be something.”
“I don’t think we can control the pilgrims, or Zahir’s lie, or what the Emperor does or does not learn. We can only… keep on going.”
“Zahir’s lie,” Eshara muttered. Trudged forward. “I’m not sure I would call it a lie.”
“He’s nothing like the Maha,” Arwa said sharply. “He would hate to be called the Maha’s heir by you. You know he only claimed the title to save us.”
“It doesn’t change the truth,” Eshara said. “Miracle after miracle—”
“They’re my miracles,” said Arwa. “Born from my blood. My ash.” Arwa shook her head. “But ah, I know. You think I’m just his tool.”
But even that wasn’t true. It was not her knowledge that had saved them—not rites hard-won through years of study. She’d begged and scraped and stolen everything that had kept them alive, from the dark of her own soul, from the strength of her own ancestors. She was a hollow woman, a conduit for people of greater grace and strength than she possessed.
And yet in her heart she rebelled at the idea of being nothing but a puppet. She had made a tool of her own gifts; she was not one herself. She…
She did not know what she was.
“Those pilgrims can believe Zahir saved them,” said Arwa. “And they are not wrong, Eshara, I know that. Zahir is…” She paused, breath in her throat. She had no words for what he’d done, drawing her back from the realm of ash, walking to the caravanserai gates, head held high. I am the Maha’s heir. “Zahir is Zahir,” she said finally. “I don’t care what they think of me, only what they think of him. But what you think…”
“You don’t care what I think,” said Eshara flatly.
“Believe what you like,” said Arwa. “But somewhat against what little good judgment I have, I do. You faced the captain with me. You risked your life for me.”
“For Zahir’s sake, Arwa.”
“As you say,” Arwa said softly. “Just as you say.”
Zahir approached them then. His face was burnt dark by the sun; his brow was furrowed. He looked between them—clearly thought better of speaking—and placed his arm on Arwa’s.
“I’ll help her now, Eshara,”
Eshara let Arwa go.
“Best walk fast, if you can,” she said. “We need to stop soon. Night’s falling.”
Then she walked off.
“Where were you?” Arwa asked.
Zahir shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Lean on me properly.”
She locked her arm with his. Leaned against his shoulder, and kept on walking.
The pilgrims created a fire and sat close to its flames, as the bitter night’s chill crept in. As they neared Irinah, the weather had begun to alter. The days were hotter, the nights colder. But here, near a copse of trees and a thin river of running water, they had fish and birds to cook, and water to boil.
“There isn’t life like this in Irinah,” a pilgrim was telling some of the others. “It’s an arid place. Except when you move deep—which isn’t easy, of course. Then you can see strange things. Mountains and palaces growing out of the sand. Great monsters…”
Arwa walked away from his tale.
The widows sat farther back from the fire, clustered close together. Arwa drew her shawl tighter around her head and shoulders and walked over to them. It was Diya who caught sight of her first, and rose to her feet.
“Sister,” Diya said by way of greeting. “Are you going to tell us to leave?”
“Me? No.” Arwa looked at the other widows. Huddled. Straight-backed. Defiant. “Eshara spoke to you?”
“The tall woman you travel with? Yes.”
“You needn’t come with us, Diya. You, or any of the others. But you needn’t go either,” Arwa said, looking over Diya’s shoulder at the defiant gaggle of women behind her. “I am just…”
“Yes?”
“Sorry,” said Arwa finally. “That you have lost everything. The House of Tears. You, and Aunt Madhu, and all the others. It was—a good place.”
Diya’s mouth twisted into a strange smile.
“You have no reason to be sorry. And Aunt Madhu will start again, and she’ll do well enough. We are survivors, sister. You should know that.” Diya’s hands clenched and unclenched on her shawl, held close to keep away the bitter chill. “When my husband died, his family cast me out. They called me cursed. They said they should not have to feed and clothe a woman who had lost her purpose and duty, a woman who was dead. But I lived, and I found a grief-house where my mourning would be holy. I am well. So I lost my home. What of it? I’ll begin again. We all will. We are used to it.”
She looked over Arwa’s shoulder at the fire. At the men, at the other women. Then she spoke once more.
“The Maha’s heir saved us all, when I feared we would all die. He gave us a gift. He made me hope.” She gave Arwa a look that was all defiance. Mock me if you like, that look said. I will not be swayed. “No one else has offered that to us in a long, long time. What can we do but follow?”
“Nothing,” Arwa said, voice coming out of her thin. She swallowed. Said, “Rest if you can, sister. The day will be long tomorrow.”
With a nod of respect, Diya returned to the other widows. Arwa turned back to the fire.
There was no sign of Zahir. She heard prayers on the wind, pilgrims by the fire with their heads bowed.