She stepped over to him. Stopped.
Dark dust in the shape of an arm. The turn of a head.
He was dead. She remembered now. All that lay before her was ash.
She walked over to the window. A storm of ash raged outside.
Arwa swallowed. Placed her hand—the wrist heavy with a tangle of bloody roots—against the lattice.
The light poured through it.
Ah, she thought, her distant heart beating fast in her chest.I’m here again. I should have known.
The dream disintegrated around her, ruined as easily as wet paper. There was ash everywhere. Ash upon her hands, her face. She felt a memory rise in her mind that wasn’t her own, fresh fear mingling with the horror of Darez Fort, the dead maidservant at the imperial palace. She felt cold, brittle fingers set themselves on the back of her skull—a terrible, familiar sensation. She opened her mouth, breathless, struggling to scream—
Woke.
Zahir was kneeling beside her. Light broke into the darkness of their makeshift room as the curtains wavered around him. People were walking, moving. She heard voices.
“Do you know yourself?” he asked.
A strange question. And yet…
Jah Ambha after the royal massacre.
Who—who am I?
“Yes,” said Arwa, sitting up, throwing her shawl hastily over her hair. “I had a nightmare. What’s going on?”
“Get up,” hissed Eshara. She’d pulled the curtain of their makeshift room to the side and was peering outside. “Something’s happening.”
All three of them left the room, walking between the rows of curtains, out into the courtyard. They found a crowd already standing there, huddled together. Arwa couldn’t see over their heads, but she could hear their voices, mingled together.
“… came and surrounded the walls last night, no way in or out. Not even if you have gold…”
“… bandits, they say, but you know that’s just an excuse to root out the rest of us…”
“I’ve been speaking to people,” Eshara said in a low voice. “And listening. The local fort commander has sent some men here. They’re trying to weed out bandits and murderers. Apparently.”
Arwa peered between the sea of bodies. She could see a man shouting at the soldiers. One of the sullen guards who had waved them into the caravanserai was slumped on the ground, unmoving.
One of the soldiers backhanded the man around the face. He fell to the ground. She heard a woman shriek, and looked away.
“Come back inside,” urged Zahir. She felt his hand, a gentle touch at her back, and followed him. The press of people forced her to.
“It’s a small group of soldiers,” said Eshara, once they were back inside. “One patrol large, at most.” She shook her head. Huffed out a breath. “I don’t understand this,” she said. “If they’re searching for bandits, as they claim, this is a poor way to do so.”
“They may have gone rogue,” suggested Arwa. “Defied orders.”
“And what do you know of it?”
“Come now, Eshara, you know how she knows. Her husband was commander of a fort,” Zahir said. His expression—his voice—were grim. “Arwa, why do you think they would be here?”
Arwa shook her head.
“Men desert their duties for all sorts of reasons,” she said. “I couldn’t say.”
“If they’re here for me…” He paused, jaw tight. “Well,” he said. “There’s no need to place you both in danger.”
