She licked the salt of sweat from her lips. Shook her head.
“I suppose we should go back.”
“Is your rage suitably quenched?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But it matters little. The bow would be of better use in Eshara’s hands anyway.”
As they traveled farther, the rest stops established for the pilgrims became more elaborate, and makeshift settlements began to crop up. Caravanserais, Eshara called them, these temporary towns of low mud walls that surrounded the tents and carts of travelers. Zahir found them fascinating. Whenever they reached one he would stare about them, clear-eyed and unblinking, taking in the sights around them with quiet hunger.
Arwa was not half as curious. But the widows and beggar women who congregated in the caravanserais drew her eyes, always. They crouched in shadows with their faceless effigies and piles of ornate grave-tokens for sale, sticks of incense clouding the air around them. On a day when they had stopped to rest in a particularly busy caravanserai—and Eshara had gone in search of supplies—Arwa walked away from Zahir and kneeled down by one of the widows.
The woman straightened, adjusting her shawl. Her eyes brightened at the possibility of a sale.
“Take one of these fine items with you as an offering,” she said quickly, “and the Maha’s spirit will bless you. I can promise it.”
It was a false promise, that Arwa didn’t doubt, but still her curiosity was piqued. She felt, rather than saw, Zahir step behind her, tilting his head in the inquisitive way he often did.
Close now, she could see that the grave-tokens were not made of grass and earth as she’d first thought, but were shaped from clay and decorated finely with paint and small, pale facets of glass. She touched a fingertip to one, admiring.
The woman peered at her more closely.
“A fellow widow,” she said knowingly. “Well, you’ll know the benefit of my wares. Why, when you reach the House of Tears—”
“Arwa.” A hand clamped on her arm. “We need to go now.”
Eshara’s voice. Arwa looked up.
“What is it?”
“Come with me now,” hissed Eshara, grip tightening. “Or I swear—”
“Eshara,” said Zahir sharply. “Let her go.”
Eshara froze. She was breathing hard. Zahir stared at her. Said, in a careful voice, “You’re hurting her. And you’re drawing attention.”
Eshara must have realized he was correct, because she released Arwa.
“Come on, then,” she said, and turned and strode away.
Zahir turned to look at Arwa.
“Did she—?”
“I think we should follow her now, Zahir,” Arwa said.
“Of course,” he said, but his mouth was still a thin line, his brow furrowed.
When all three of them were alone, far from the crowd of pilgrims, Eshara said, “Zahir. Your tale has spread. That—worries me.”
“Surely that was Aliye’s intent,” he said.
“It was a bad decision,” snapped Eshara. “And I hoped the tale would stick to the cities. But it’s worse than I thought. The story haschanged. There are soothsayers and false mystics speaking of a blessed heir who rose from the dead, slithering out from between the corpses of his dead kin. A tea seller farther in the caravanserai told me that the Maha’s heir has come to cleanse the Empire of the worst of its heathens. Amrithi, adulterous women, thieves.” She paused, and said pointedly: “Kin killers.”
“That’s very—dramatic,” said Zahir.
“It’s all propaganda against the Emperor,” Eshara said, with emphasis. “The tale’s spun free of everyone’s control, and you are at the heart of it. Parviz has put his faith in might and his own righteousness, but he’s also placed himself squat in the center of a very ugly rise to power. People don’t like it. AndIdon’t like the danger swirling around your name. We need to travel more swiftly. Avoid the caravanserais, if we can. There is a Grand Caravanserai ahead of us, but if we travel a lesser-known road…”
“We’ll be more exposed on less traveled roads,” Arwa pointed out. She kept her voice even. Eshara was panicked, that was clear, wound tight with fear. Arwa had never seen her so. “At least here, we’re easy to miss among the crowds.”
