“It whispers to me,” she said.
“It whispers in my ears too,” he said. “Constantly. I hear it waking. I hear it in my sleep. I gave it so many gifts, and yet it follows me.”
“Gifts,” she echoed.
“You know how it hungers.”
She thought of the bodies on the road. Her stomach twisted.
Could the men around the captain hear him? Eshara certainly could. But they were silent, no words, barely breathing.
“I have studied Darez Fort. I have been to it, can you imagine that?”
“No, my lord. I can’t imagine such a place.”
“I made a special visit of it. The blood has never been cleared, you know. You can still see the shadow of death…” Argeb trailed off. Lifted his cup. Drank deep again. Refilled it. “The place was cursed, widow. Oh, that I don’t doubt. But the death!” He leaned forward. “The death,” he said, “cleansed it.”
Images flickered through Arwa’s mind’s eye. What she had seen at Darez Fort had not been cleansing. But she bit her tongue. Silent. For once, she would be silent.
“I’m no weak-willed creature,” he said. “Oh, it speaks, but I question it. It wants butchery, it knows killing can be sweet. But I speak to it in return. And I have come to understand it. It has taught me the truth. The Empire is cursed. Saving it demands a price. And the terror, its voice. I think…” Voice trembling with joy. “I think it is the Maha’s voice. The Maha’s will.
“Butchery is disrespectful,” he continued. “Untidy. What I do here will be a purification. Perfect. Precise. When I am done everything will be pure. The Governor is wroth with menow, but he won’t be. He won’t. The Emperor will be glad. Everyone says he desires above all things to blot out heresy. These caravanserais, these pilgrims, are a part of the Empire’s curse. They must be cut away, as infected flesh must be.”
One heartbeat. Two. Eshara’s hand on her leg now, gripping tight. Hold fast.
The ash had no answers for her. The nightmare was in him. The nightmare would see them all dead.
And she could not stop him.
“My lord is wise,” Arwa managed.
With a sense of dull dread, Arwa felt the inevitable occur: The captain’s hand gripped her shawl, drawing it away from her shorn hair, baring her. He gripped her face. Sweat-damp fingers, his hold too firm, his face far too close.
“Yes,” he said satisfied. “You hear it too.”
“Captain.” Sohal’s voice from the entrance. Shaking. “May I speak to you? Giresh has news of the latest heretic’s punishment.”
For a moment, the captain continued to hold Arwa’s face in his grasp. She waited, feeling Eshara’s nails against her knee, the sheer tension in the air. Then the captain exhaled, released her, and slumped back against the wall.
“Come in and speak,” he said.
“Let me refresh your carafe, Captain,” said the older soldier. He leaned down, blocking the captain’s view. He gave Eshara a look.
Eshara tightened her grip. Released it.
“We go,” she whispered. “We go now.”
Arwa fumbled to her feet. None of the soldiers stopped them as they stepped carefully away. At the door was Sohal, arms crossed, face gray. He stepped aside to let them pass, and then stepped into the interior.
“Walk faster,” Eshara said in a low voice, and Arwa obeyed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Eshara walked faster, still gripping Arwa’s arm.
“That man,” she said tightly, “was cursed.”
Arwa’s own throat felt terribly tight.
