Later, as Eshara retched against a tree, Arwa felt Zahir press his shoulder against her own. He did no more than that, but it comforted her more than she could say. She realized she was trembling, from her lips to her toes.
This was natural fear. Natural fear, only, and natural grief too, born from unnatural circumstances. She told herself that. Clung to the thought, as if releasing it would drown her.
Death. Everywhere she went, death seemed to follow her, and Arwa felt strangely exhausted, as if her heart had no more room for further mourning.
It was easy to forget, sometimes, what darkness lay over the Empire. She’d grown adept at folding away all her griefs. And then suddenly, such a moment came, and it was impossible not to remember.
Eshara walked back over to them. Refreshed her mouth with water.
“We need to return to the safety of the main path,” she said grimly. “Tales aren’t as great a risk as—this.”
They walked until it was deep night, until there was nothing to guide them but a sliver of the moon, and then they curled up together, all shame and animosity forgotten.
Arwa finally slept with her head against Eshara’s shoulder and Zahir’s back to her own, in brief snatches fractured by fear. She dreamed, over and over again, like the turn of an inexorable wheel of worlds, of daiva skin peeling back to reveal a nightmare’s terrible, chalky bones. She dreamed of her mother’s hands washing her own clean, scrubbing until all the lines and whorls and scars had smoothed away from Arwa’s flesh and she was marble pure. She dreamed of her father weeping. Dreamed that she walked across the floor to him, and pressed away his tears with her fingers. They burned her fingers blood red.
Why did you say Mehr is gone?she asked him.Why gone, and not dead? Why only gone, Father? Where has my sister gone?
She woke sharply, repeatedly, scent of incense in her nose, ash in her throat, and was grateful beyond words when dawn finally came.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Grand Caravanserai resembled a military fort.
Long before they reached it—when it was only a miniature in the distance, an image wavering in the heat—she saw great watchtowers and high walls, clearly built to mimic the shape of a great Chand fort. If her blood had not already been frozen by the carnage in the forest, it would have grown cold at that sight.
She stopped for a moment, sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth, then continued to stride forward. She’d seen real horrors that night. She would not be shattered by a memory. Not today.
As they grew closer, she was comforted to see that the walls were simple mud and far lower and simpler than a fort’s, the watchtowers unmanned. There were only surly guards at the caravanserai’s entrance, collecting toll—for the Governor, they claimed—who waved them in once Eshara had pressed a suitable bribe into their hands.
A courtyard vaster than any belonging to caravanserais they had passed through before greeted them. There were stalls for tea sellers and food sellers; shrieking children and men and women shoving their way past one another. Newly constructed buildings were set back against the walls. Within those buildings—or so their banners and shouting voices of their owners suggested—were prophets and mystics, and pilgrims returned from Irinah’s sands with precious relics, for sale at the right price. Scraps of genuine Saltborn mystic robes. The hem of the Maha’s robe, preserved beneath glass.
Arwa stopped dead. “Did that man say he has the Maha’s shin bone?” she said, incredulous.
“What?” Zahir stopped too. He craned his neck, turning. “Where?”
“I swear,” Eshara said, aggrieved, “I am sick of both of you.Sick.And I am going to get some rest if it kills us all.”
Limited though their coin now was, they found a place to sleep for the night. It was no more than an old storeroom divided into separate rooms by curtains affixed to the ceiling on hooks. Arwa could hear voices, someone snoring loudly. It was the cheapest accommodation available to travelers, but it was a blessing after their night of horror.
Eshara curled up almost immediately on the ground, cushioning her head on her arm. She looked shaken, face gray with exhaustion. She might have claimed she was sick of the both of them, but she leaned against Zahir easily enough when he kneeled down on the ground beside her and placed his hand on her shoulder, concern furrowing his brow.
“Eshara,” he said. “You must rest.”
“We need food,” Eshara said tiredly. “We have only a little left, we’ll need the bread for the desert, we’re going to need something else for tonight.”
Zahir raised his head, meeting Arwa’s eyes.
“Let me go and buy a meal,” Arwa said. “It’s a simple enough task,” she added, when she saw doubt cloud Eshara’s eyes. “You can trust me with this.”
“I’ll stay with you and keep watch,” Zahir said to Eshara, his eyes still on Arwa’s.
Eshara visibly hesitated for a moment. Then exhaustion won out.
“There’s coin in my pack.”
It was a peace offering of a kind, so Arwa took it, curling her fingers around the coins, rising to her feet. She did not want to care for Eshara’s well-being and yet…
Eshara was curled up fully, long braid of her hair drawn over her face. Zahir met Arwa’s eyes. They shared another look, long and unspoken, and she thought of his fever-bright eyes when they jumped from the dovecote tower. The feel of him watching her, in the dark of the tomb.
