“No, you don’t. I keep forgetting. Forgetting who I am—”
“Arwa,” he said softly. “You are Arwa.” He held her tight, drawing her hand against his chest. “I’m holding you. My roots to yours. I’m trying to take some of the burden from you. Can you feel it?”
She nodded silently. The realm of ash was still so terribly close. In her mind’s eye she could see the way their roots were tangled together. Stronger than they would be alone. Between them the ash moved, flickering at the edges of his mind even as it filled her own, filtered through the conduit of their roots.
They were a mystical order of two. Theywere.
“Good,” he said. Smiled. He was sweating. Even in the dark, she could see how wan he was. “Because I certainly can.”
She blinked up at him. Ash. She could still feel the ash.
“Help me up,” she said hoarsely. “I need to perform a rite.”
He asked far fewer questions than she expected, helping her to her feet. He supported her body, holding her steady as she breathed deep and held her arms before her.
“What do you need from me?” he asked.
“Keep holding me up,” she said. “I know what I need to do.”
Once, long ago, Ushan had gripped his daughter’s forearms. Lifted them.
“Remember,” he’d said. “Back straight and strong. Legs at an angle—”
“I know.”
“Holding firm will be important, Iria,” he’d said patiently. “You must understand this rite isn’t—easily done.”
Arwa held herself as firm as she could, relying on Zahir’s strength. She held out her arms. Shaped sigils. One. Then another.
Hold. Strong.
“I need to move,” she said. “Just—don’t let me fall.”
He said nothing, but he held on as she moved, his breath sharp against her hair.
Blood.
Hands circling, mimicry of a knot.
Bind.
Fingers fanning. Arms shaping a winding circle, her thumbs catching together.
Lock.
“The daiva won’t thank you for demanding they cage one of their own,” said Ushan. “But they’ll do what’s needful. And that will give you time.”
“Time for what?”
“To tell people to run, of course. What else?” He shook his head. “Don’t let anyone tell you that you can fight the child of a God.”
The nightmare was not a daiva, to be caged by its own so that mortals would have time to flee. But it was an immortal creature, God-born, as immortal as a daiva, and daiva had the capacity to contain it. Or so Arwa hoped. She only had hope, and a theory. But Arwa had learned the value of testing a theory, and what better time than now, when lives depended upon it?
Hands interlocked. Fingers interlocked. Brought back against her chest, to her heart.
Cage.
There was a sound—awful, screeching, racing through her skull—and then—
