She thought of the dovecote, where the fear had tasted sweet. Like fire.
At least we can choose the shape of our death, she’d told Zahir then. It was still true.
The choice of how she died—if that was all she had, then she would take it.
She parted her mouth. Breathed in.
She knew—everything.
A thousand voices whispered in her ears at once.
If we run fast they’ll notice, better to be slow—
The same shape of a rite, raise your hands, here, just so—
—Rukhsar, Rukhsar, your daughter is a lovestruck fool—
hetookthebladehetookthebladehetook
She focused on her blood roots. On her flesh. She struggled to keep the ash at bay.
She still knew herself. That, at least, was a blessing. But the pressure within her skull was growing and growing, and soon enough what defenses her mind had constructed would shatter.
She had very little time.
Body and soul. For this, she needed both. She stood in the realm of ash. She stood on the solid ground of the tent, on legs that did not want to obey her.
She moved her feet into the first stance of a rite.
She had nothing to venerate the daiva with, as they deserved.
She had never shown them the reverence they deserved. She had no kohl for her eyes or red to stain her hands. Her dagger was gone. She had only the will to perform a rite that would save her and Zahir both.
And an arrow in her shoulder.
At least the wound gave her the gift of blood.
She forced her arms to move. White-hot agony in her skull. She gave a choked sob. Gritted her teeth. Kept on going.
Sigils and stances. Her body moved without grace. Sigils fell from her fingers like splinters. Sigils for beckoning. Sigils for fear.
Come. Kin. Blood.
A careful turn on her heel. She did not fall. Did not fall. In the realm of ash, the ash beneath her rippled, hard as a drumbeat.
Death.
Mercy.
She knew, now. There were rites of worship. And there were rites that were furious prayers flung into the abyss. This was one of them.
She was broken. She could not move as the rite deserved. And yet, she tried. And tried.
The flutter of wings touched her ears. A dark bird flew in through the tent wall—turning to coils of smoke when it met canvas, then becoming whole once more. Another followed. Another.
She gazed at the bird-spirits. They gazed back.
“Ah, you,” Arwa whispered. Tears pricked her eyes. “It’s been so long.”
The bird-spirits fluttered around her head. They settled on the table. Melded into the shadows along the walls.
More shadows slithered toward her as she shaped sigils on her fingers. A new figure grew slowly from the ground beneath them.
It was… ancient, she thought. Knew. Her ash spoke to her, all its voices telling her this was an ancient daiva, its flesh almost mortal, its eyes keen and knowing.
The sigil for time. The sigil for silence.
Sigil for life.
Sigil for fire.
It had been so long since it had heard a voice calling in fury.
She clasped her hands together. Lowered her head. Gestures of respect and worship. Then with a rattling breath—with her blood roots wound about her soul self—she began to move.
Will you help me? she asked it, in the only way she could: a rite for mercy. A rite for justice. Her body was hollow agony. She stumbled. Pressed on. Will you?
The daiva’s hand moved. One smooth arc.
Yes.
Then all the shadows converged, surrounding her in a great ring. And swallowed her.
Outside, under the glaring sun, the Emperor’s retinue—his guardsmen, his attendants, his scribes, his soldiers—were calm.
At least until Arwa stepped out of the tent.
She flickered in and out of the realm of ash as she walked, as the daiva surrounded her like a skin. One of the guards tried to use his sword on her.
The daiva pointedly cleaved the blade in two.
How strange it must be, she thought distantly, to see a woman walk surrounded by darkness, her eyes gray as the pyre, her hair a widow’s shorn hair, a broken arrow in her shoulder.
No wonder they ran so swiftly.
They must feel as if the curse has come for them.
Good.
Parviz’s court did not expect her to rip through the canvas and cross the carpet. The nobles stumbled back, yelling in horror. The guards reached for their scimitars, terror in their eyes.
She raised a hand. The daiva flung them back.
Beyond the partition screen, Jihan and Gulshera were both standing, Gulshera’s hand tight upon Jihan’s arm.
On the ground, Zahir raised his head. He gazed at her not in horror but in heartbreak. He knew, as she knew, that she was already lost.
But he was alive, still alive, and she was glad of that.
“Zahir,” Arwa said, smiling. “An old daiva has granted me a kindness.”
“Arwa,” he said shakily. His expression was shattered. “No.”
She shook her head. Felt darkness waver about her. Then she raised her eyes, fixing the silver of her gaze upon Parviz, who stood now before his throne, his own dagger in hand.
As if he could fight her. Fool. She had worlds within her.
“You were wrong to take him from me, Parviz,” she said. She spoke in her own voice—soft and delicate, not a thing suited for instilling terror. And yet, Parviz recoiled as if she had struck him with it. “He is not yours to take. He is his own. And he is mine.”
She kneeled by Zahir. The lantern light wavered. Blotted by her darkness. The dark encircled his wrists. Broke his chains, and set him free.
“Monster,” said Parviz, in a voice that shook with rage and fear. “I will not be frightened and cowed by demons.”
“I am no demon,” Arwa said. “I am the consequence of your crimes.”
He had tried to take back control of the Empire’s faith by taking Zahir and the tale that surrounded him and putting them both to death. But he would not have Zahir’s death. He would not have his Empire’s heart.
Aliye had tried to ensure Parviz would sit uneasy on his throne. Zahir had done the same. But Arwa wanted more. He had killed his brothers. He had staked heads upon walls. He had tried to take Zahir, and take the world, and she was ash-fierce and hollow with the rage of the dead. She would allow him none of it. She was heir to an old injustice, and she would have her due.
“I speak for Prince Akhtar, the Emperor-who-should-have-been. I speak for the Maha’s heir, who is. I speak for heretics falsely accused. I speak for the Empire that dies under your rule. I am grief, and I speak for the dead.”
She looked at the terrified faces of the nobility. He would need them to rule—their loyalty, their obedience, their strength. And if they were not already lost to him, they would be now.
“I have a prophecy for you, not-Emperor,” she said. “You stole what was not yours. Your reign will be a blight. When the nightmares come, your people will pray and they will be saved, but they will know you did not save them. You will find no love and no peace. You will be called Emperor, but the name will be ash in the mouths of your people, because it belongs to one who is dead. You will sit upon a throne of dust, and when your end comes—and it will come, Parviz, in ruin and shame—your legacy will be nothing but dust also. That is my prophecy, Parviz. My prophecy. And your curse.”
The nobility recoiled. Parviz recoiled.