He brushed her hair back from her face. His fingers were blessedly cool.
“Don’t try to move again,” he said.
“Where are we?”
“A tent,” he said. “We walked through the city. We’re as far from the desert as one can be without leaving Irinah entirely.”
It was larger than any tent Arwa had seen before, with a great domed ceiling and a lantern upon the table. Neither of them was chained, but Arwa supposed there was no need. Arwa could not run, not as she was, and Zahir would not leave her.
The tent flap was drawn back. A woman walked in. She wore a plain gown, but her shawl was richly beaded, her earrings heavy with pearls. She raised her head, looked at Zahir.
“Zahir.”
“Jihan,” Zahir said. “Ah, Jihan.”
“You’re alive,” whispered Jihan. She crossed the room and cupped his face in her hands. She was weeping openly, her eyes red. “Ah, Zahir. I didn’t know what had become of you. I saw… I arranged Akhtar’s funeral. They told me it was a brother’s duty to bury a brother, but I did not care. I told them I cared for his household. That he was my dearest kin. So I buried him, Zahir, but you—I did not know what the Emperor had done with you, and he refused to tell me, no matter how I wept. I could not mourn you.”
“Nasir, what of Nasir?”
“Masuma stole him away,” said Jihan. “I know nothing more than that. But you, Zahir. What became of you?”
He stared up at his sister, and said, “Please, Jihan. Lady Arwa needs a physician. She’s gravely hurt.”
“Of course,” Jihan said softly. “Of course, dear heart.”
She kneeled down, her great skirt fanned around her.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “What became of you?”
“I survived,” said Zahir. “And then you found me.”
“That is no answer, Zahir.”
“Forgive me,” he said. “I am somewhat distracted by Arwa bleeding to death on the floor beside me. Perhaps if you find her a physician, I’ll be more amenable to talking.”
“I’ve just missed you,” said Jihan. “Worried for you.”
“Jihan.” Tired. He sounded so tried. “I know Parviz sent you here.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“His name?”
“He is the Emperor,” Jihan said. “All old names discarded. He is Emperor as much as our father was Emperor. However he may have risen to the title, we must accept the way things are.”
“You accept the man who killed your brother—your maidservants?”
“I don’t have my birds or my letters or my women any longer,” she said, voice taut. “He denied me all of that. Denied it wholly. What am I to do, but obey him and prove my loyalty? Prove my worth?”
“And you have proven it,” Zahir said. “You have me. But please. A physician, Jihan.”
“Lady Arwa will have a physician when I have the truth,” Jihan said. Her voice was hard. “You entered Irinah. You went to the realm of ash. You returned. What did you find?”
“You could have captured us earlier,” Zahir said. He lowered his head. “Of course. You waited.”
“It is not hard to follow a tale,” said Jihan. “Especially when it concerns a widow and a man who calls himself the Maha’s heir. So what did you find, Maha’s heir? Hm?”
A pause.
“Nothing.”
“I cannot save you with nothing.” She leaned forward, staring into his eyes fiercely. “The Emperor is furious, Zahir. He’s heard all those tales about you. He wants to shame you before all his greatest lords and then kill you. He wants to make an example of you, which means a terrible death. Give me the Maha’s knowledge, Zahir. I know you have it. Then, perhaps, I can save you.”
“Or at least ensure me a swift execution?”
“I wish you’d had the good sense to fade away, Zahir,” said Jihan. “After Father’s death, after we buried Akhtar… I liked to imagine that you and Nasir were both safe somewhere. Living good, happy lives.” She inhaled and exhaled slowly, deeply. “More fool me.”
She leaned back and rose smoothly to her feet.
“The Emperor is coming,” said Jihan, walking over to the table where the lantern sat. “I am glad I’ve wept today, Zahir. He will be pleased with me for giving you to him, and when he kills you I will be able to watch without weeping. My tears will be done. That will please him. Perhaps he will allow me some of my old privileges. Another opportunity to prove what Akhtar knew I could do.”
“It is a pity you were not born a boy, Jihan,” Zahir said. “We would have died peacefully in our sleep, every last one of us, before you wore our father’s title.”
She flinched.
“You think so little of me?”
“Ah, no. I think you love all your brothers fiercely.” Zahir’s voice was wretched with grief. “But I think you will always place the Empire first.”
“Protecting the Empire is everything,” Jihan said. “It is worth any price. Even love.”
“Yes,” Zahir said softly. “So you always taught me.”
“So my mother taught me in turn,” Jihan said sharply. Then her face crumpled into tears once more. “Zahir,” she said. “Please. Do you have nothing I can take to the Emperor? No knowledge from the realm that could spare your life or grant you a merciful death?”
“I have nothing for him,” Zahir said. “Nothing at all.”
“Then he will condemn you as a heretic and take your head. You will condemn me to witnessing that.” Jihan’s face trembled. Then she tensed her jaw. She took a stoppered flask from the table and opened it. “Take this, at least,” she said. “It is all I can offer you now.”
“What is it?”
“Opium water,” she said.
He shook his head sharply. “No, Jihan. So much of it—no.”
She nodded. Then she said, “Guards.”
Two guardswomen entered immediately. They pinned Zahir. Wrenched back his head. Arwa tried to scramble toward him—failed. As she lay gasping, Jihan walked over to him. For all her tears, her arm did not tremble as she poured the liquid down his throat. She stroked his hair, lowered him to the floor, and left him there. Arwa heard her footsteps. Then silence.
Arwa could not even go to him.
He barely moved, after that. Only lay still, where they’d let him fall.
She spoke poetry to him, the soft cadences of the Hidden One’s poetry as he lay in a stupor on the floor, eyes glazed and distant.
Hours passed. Two guards entered and lifted Zahir up, dragging him away.
“Where are you taking him?” Arwa called out. “Please—please tell me!”
They didn’t respond. She was alone.
She was hallucinating. She was sure of it.
Shadows flickered on the walls. The lantern was guttering. The pain was so constant that she was beginning to believe she had always been in pain, and always would be.
I am going to die, she thought. She squeezed her eyes shut. Felt ash upon her face. When she turned her head, she saw the arrow impaled through her shoulder. But her shoulder was all mirror and glass. Through it she could see the shaft of the arrow; upon it she could see the reflection of her pained face, surrounded by a halo of blood and black hair.