“What is it?” Zahir asked. He turned to her, shadow and light reflecting in his eyes.
“There are daiva here,” said Arwa. She swept one hand through the air. “Look.”
The rich darkness—too rich, too complete, she’d been right to think it was—was moving. Eyes flickered in and out of sight, mingling with the light of the lamps. They were not bird-spirits, nothing akin to animals. They were amorphous darkness.
The effigy glowed all the brighter between them.
Her hands were shaking. She lowered them.
She could think of nothing but the spirit she’d seen at Darez Fort. Cloaked in shadow. Darkness peeling away to reveal its face of white bone.
“Ah, Gods,” she whispered. Shaking. She’d thought herself prepared for this, willing to be brave, to try, no matter the consequences. She’d thought she knew what she was facing. But of course, she did not.
“Nightmare,” she said. “I know you. One of your kind nearly murdered me. I can’t witness this again.” A pause. She heard the gentle, measured cadence of Zahir’s breath. “As a fellow daughter of an immortal lineage, as kin of a kind, I ask you—please. End this.”
The air shuddered, light rippling like liquid.
The statue didn’t change. Nonetheless, the nightmaremoved.
Arwa heard something within her skull, her hindbrain—a scraping, screaming thing, noiseless and yet furiously loud. She saw Zahir clutch the back of his head, swearing. The fear poured through her again with a sudden vengeance. The awe was gone. The clarity of her mind was shattered. There was nothing but fear in her now, pure and clean and thick with rising blood.
The shadows clasped closer to the effigy, crawling across its surface. The nightmare was unmoving, was still faceless, still a hollow simulacrum of holiness. Arwa shaped a sigil on trembling hands, demanding its name. It did not flinch. Did not respond. In fact, it showed no recognition at all.
Around it the darkness of the daiva moved, shifting in understanding. But it wasn’t enough.
Fear had a way of stripping everything from a person. It denied even dignity. She could feel her eyes, her nose, streaming. Blinked hard. She could not move. Could not think. She could barely remember her own name.
As the fear wiped her clean, she felt something rise to fill the void. The taste of ash filled her mouth, clouded her skull.
The realm of ash was here. Just beyond her skin.
She leaned into the feel of it, ash rising ferociously through her mind. When she did so, the light altered. She saw the nightmare’s blank face shift.
Saw the serrated curl of lips. Teeth.
In the realm of ash, the nightmare wore a face. In the ash, where the dead lived, it walked. And somewhere, deep within the storm waiting upon her path, she heard its voice, a cool and terrible thing.
You called me. Kin.
She touched her hand to Zahir’s. He took it. But the touch of his skin didn’t make the presence of the realm fade. The ash surrounded her still, formless white air, a rain of dark dust. It was calling to her, unmooring her from her skin.
“Can you see it?” she asked.
Zahir gripped her hand tighter. Looked at her. She could see his struggle to remain calm and conscious. His jaw was tight; thoughts flickered across his face like winged things.
“I can see the—nightmare,” he said carefully. “The daiva. I can feel the fear. Is there anything I’m missing?”
She wet her lips. “The realm of ash,” she said. “Its voice. I can hear it in the realm. I think if I enter I can… communicate with it.”
He stared at her.
“Arwa,” he said. “No.”
There was a crashing noise from above them. A sharp breath. Arwa turned. There were women on the stairs; Eshara behind them, face gray.
“What—” choked out Diya.
“Don’t let them come down here,” snapped Zahir. He hadn’t looked away from Arwa. “It isn’t safe.Eshara.”
