She swallowed. It was hard. Hard to speak truthfully. Hard not to fear the effigy of ash behind her.
“You will think I am being selfish,” she whispered. “But I see another path, Zahir, for the first time. And it may not be the wisest route, or the swiftest. But it is not his path. You asked me once if I could even dream another world. I couldn’t then. But when I think of prayers and rites and the slow way through the dark, I can.”
He stopped holding her. Instead he raised a hand to his face, and pressed it over her own fingers. Light and glass, and the gentleness of his eyes.
“Arwa,” he said softly. “Let me go.”
She shook her head, wordless now.
“Please,” he said again. “Let me go.”
She had no words left. She’d tried everything she could.
She released him.
He stood once more before the Maha. He stood in ink that unfurled like silk around him. Their blood roots, wound together, held them bound. She watched him. Waited.
“I am the Maha’s heir,” he said finally. “So my father named me, binding me to the tale, whether I liked it or not. I am the Maha’s heir, and I cannot change that, but I…”
He faltered. He looked at the Maha. With hatred, with yearning. With knowledge of a fate he could not run from.
“I can decide what that means,” he said. His voice was thin, raw with feeling. “Because I am Bahar’s son too. Because I am myself. I know people will listen to the Maha’s heir. If he tells them, Pray and the nightmares will fade and leave you unharmed, they will pray. And if the Maha’s heir has the support of the Hidden Ones… his message will spread, with certainty.”
He turned to her.
“It will be a hard path. Parviz will hound me. He will want me dead, and one day he’ll no doubt succeed. But perhaps by the time he murders me, people will know how to worship the nightmares. That would be—enough.”
If he tries to murder you, I will gut him first, thought Arwa.
“The Amrithi-blooded will know the Rite of the Cage,” she said, with a tilt of her chin. “It belongs to them, after all. I’ll ensure it reaches their hands. We will save the world. And I promise you, Zahir: Your brother will never sit easy upon his throne.”
“No,” said Zahir grimly. “That, at least, I can make sure of. My father’s gift of a title gives me power enough for that, with or without the Maha’s ash. He has made an enemy of the Maha’s heir. He’ll never own the tale again.”
“You’ll do this with me, then,” Arwa blurted out. She curled her hands into fists, hopeful and terrified in equal measure. “You’ll walk away from the Maha’s ash. You’ll choose another path.”
“Yes,” he said. She saw the way the choice shattered something within him—and made him whole. His gaze was full of light. He straightened his shoulders, as if some invisible burden had been raised from them, as if he could breathe. “Yes. I’ll walk a new path with you.”
She could have wept then. Instead she clasped her hands over her face, overwhelmed, and felt his forehead once more against her own, his voice whispering her name with utter softness. He pried her fingers away and kissed her.
It was—strange—to kiss without flesh. She felt the tingle of her lips, her body alive with it, but here in the realm of ash she was only light and glass, clear and pure, and she felt him like blood and life through the roots that bound them.
“We should leave here,” he said.
“Yes,” she murmured, relieved. “Let’s go.”
He turned to stare at the Maha’s ash once more—the perfect shadow of it—before he let the blood roots take them home.
She returned to her flesh, gave a rattling gasp—and immediately spat out the sand she’d somehow swallowed while unconscious. She rose up onto her elbows. The fire was still burning strong. Beyond it, she saw Zahir raise his head.
Then she heard a voice—a scream that echoed through the air, high and sharp.
“Run!”
“Zahir,” she said, scrambling to her feet.
“I hear it,” he said grimly, rising with her.
But they had neatly trapped themselves. They had no vision within the valley they’d settled in. They were surrounded by sloped sand on all sides. They could not run easily. They did not know where—or what—the enemy was. They ran regardless—and immediately found themselves facing a line of soldiers, who surrounded the valley on all sides.
There was no sign of Eshara. No sign of the pilgrims.
The two of them stood frozen. The line parted, just enough to allow a figure to pass between them. The figure was robed and hooded, and carrying a bow. They lifted their head.
Pale eyes met Arwa’s.
“Gulshera,” she said shakily. Stumbled forward, even as Zahir gripped her wrist. “Gulshera? You’re alive? You’re well?”
“Lord Zahir,” said Gulshera. “Your sister has been looking for you.”
“Lady Gulshera.” He cleared his throat, his voice shattered. “You—Jihan. Jihan is alive?”
“Come with me, and you can see her.”
“And Nasir? Is he alive also? Is he with her, and well?”
“Come with me, and Jihan will explain everything,” Gulshera said.
Zahir’s eyes traced the line of soldiers.
“Why so many soldiers?” he asked. “And where have our friends gone?”
“Soldiers have a tendency to die in this forsaken desert,” Gulshera replied. “I was required to bring spares. Now—come. We have little time.”
Zahir remained silent.
Gulshera sighed.
“I don’t have time for this, Lord Zahir.”
“Parviz sent you,” he said. “Jihan would have sent you alone. Or—a spy. She’s no warmonger.”
Gulshera shook her head. Took her bow from her shoulder, nocked the arrow, and raised it.
“I am sorry, Arwa,” said Gulshera.
She let the arrow loose.
Arwa heard a thud. Felt a blow that flung her off her feet and back onto the sand.
The pain came a second later.
She couldn’t scream. A thin, high wail escaped her mouth. The arrow—the arrow had hit her. She tried to reach for it. But her arm was numb fire, and she could not move it.
“Arwa!”
“Stay still, Lord Zahir.” Gulshera sounded tired. “I have had a long journey, and I have little interest in a boy’s hysterics. Come with us meekly, or the next blow will go through her leg. It’s an easy target to miss, but I have excellent aim. I expect she would not walk again.”
Pounding of her blood in her skull. She would not be able to stay conscious long. The air had gone white around Zahir, who loomed above her. White, and riven with ash.
He bowed his head.
“I’ll come quietly,” he said.
“Good,” said Gulshera. “You, pick Lady Arwa up. Gently.”
It was all darkness, after that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
She woke in agony.
“Stay still,” Zahir said in a low voice. “You have an arrow in your left shoulder.”
“Really?” she gasped. “I hadn’t noticed.”