Silence. Darkness.
The pale light of the nightmare had been snuffed out. Arwa heard Zahir release a ragged breath.
“The fear,” he said. “It’s gone.”
“The daiva will hold the nightmare for a while,” she slurred, crumpling. He held her steady, whispering an apology as he steadied her.
“How long?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Not long, Zahir. Balance. It will need to—let go. For balance. We need to get out while we can. Can you…?”
“Anything,” he said.
“Lower me,” she said. “My head. It hurts.”
He lowered her down. The world spun her, in lazy and vast circles.
“The captain may still not let us pass,” she said. “But now we…”
“Stop talking, Arwa,” he said softly. “Please.” He touched a hand to her face. “Your eyes…”
She wanted to laugh. “I know.”
The worry on his face only made her try to stand up once more. Her legs crumpled.Fool.
“We have a chance,” she said. “We have to take it.”
“We will. I promise it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
There was a pointed noise from the staircase. Arwa turned her head, as Zahir turned his. The widows were on the stairs once more. Eshara was in front of them, arms outstretched protectively, her mouth a thin line.
“For clarity, Zahir, these fine ladies just watched the Maha’s strange white effigy vanish into the air, consumed by dark spirits,” Eshara said tightly. “They’d like an explanation. You will remember, of course, that they have weapons.”
Arwa could not help him. She was exhausted beyond words, shaking with the weight of the realm of ash still clinging to her mind.
What had they seen? Zahir holding Arwa; the shadow of hands moving. The darkness swallowing the effigy—and the fear racing through their minds and their dreams—whole.
“What witchcraft was this?” one widow asked shakily. Another adjusted her hold on her weapon, knuckles visibly white.
“This was not witchcraft,” Eshara bit out. Then, “Zahir.”
He was looking down at Arwa, head bent, gaze thoughtful. Fool boy, her not-prince—as if he had time to think, now. She saw his eyes close, and a fine crease form between his brows.
There were no lies readily at hand that would explain what had happened before the widows’ eyes. She knew he was considering falsehoods, one by one, and discarding them. And he could not tell them the truth either. Not the whole of it: not what lay in Arwa’s blood, the spirits she’d called to her, the paths of death and ash they had walked together.
There was only one tale that would do. A tale that had grown into its own beast. A tale that would draw Parviz’s ire and drag Zahir out of hiding and into the blazing, dangerous light.
A tale that—once invoked—would set its teeth around his throat and never let go.
She saw him think. And she saw him make his choice.
He opened his eyes and his face smoothed. Before her, she saw a Zahir she both knew, and did not. His expression was serene, his eyes full of a cutting light.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” he said. His voice, ah—it was a rasp of silk, his father’s voice, rich enough to stop the heart. He raised his head. In the light, she saw that bringing her back from the realm of ash had marked him, at least for the moment, as it had marked her.
His eyes were gray from end to end. Liquid silver.
