“I don’t know why they brought it to the fort,” Arwa whispered. “Fool men. I think they thought it was harmless—a child of its kind. I think they sought my husband’s advice. They’d wrapped it up and chained its wrists, but it broke the chains as easily as paper. I saw it do so. And I remember… My husband, he looked up at the window where I stood, right before…”
Arwa stopped again, swallowing hard. She didn’t want to remember the way Kamran had turned, the tilt of his head, the sun turning his face to shadow, as the daiva had flung off its shackles and stretched itself free from its human form. She didn’t want to remember the screaming that had followed, or how she had turned from the window, running. How she had chosen not to watch him die.
She’d learned later that Kamran had died a hero, protecting the doors of the fort. He’d died trying to stop any of his men from leaving and taking their unnatural, nightmare-driven bloodlust with them. But Arwa had not seen it. She’d chosen not to.
“Go on,” prompted Gulshera.
“It only looked human for a short time,” Arwa managed to say, remembering the way its whole body had yawned, cracking open its child-form like a shell, or a closed jaw, peeling free to show the serrated teeth beneath. “When it changed—when it grew—something happened to me. Something happened to all of us.”
“Tell me what happened,” Gulshera prompted, soft now. “Tell me what you felt.”
“It took something from us. It… it changed us.” How to explain the feel of it—like cold claws had been set inside the base of her skull, ripping a seam in her soul, letting the dark within her spill out? “It was a nightmare. It felt like being trapped in a nightmare. I remember nothing but fear after that.”
“And then?”
“Nothing but fear,” Arwa repeated. “I can’t tell you anything more.”
“So you don’t know why you survived,” Gulshera said slowly.
The truth hovered on the tip of Arwa’s tongue. She ached to tell it.
She thought of the guardsman’s offhand comment about blood-worshipping heathens. She thought of the time one of her husband’s patrols had found an Amrithi family, hiding in a local village, and what had been done to them. She thought of the consequences of truth: for her disgraced family, her sick father, her heartbroken mother. For herself.
It was my fault. My fault.
“I told you so at the start,” snapped Arwa. She rubbed her hand across her face, angry with Gulshera, angry with herself. “I can tell you I saw a man run through by another man’s sword. I can tell you my husband was murdered by his own men. I can tell you what it sounds like when a man howls in agony as his arm is sawed through by hisfriend. I heard the maids—my maids—screaming and screaming and screaming. I can tell you what blood smells like, if you wish. But what Ican’ttell you is why I lived, when so many others died. Now, are you satisfied, Lady Gulshera? May I go and mourn my horrors in peace?”
“Ah,” Gulshera breathed. It was a soft, sad sound.
Arwa was trembling, sickened. She was light-headed with a grief that felt more like fury than weakness. She felt like her skin was a size too small.
She saw Gulshera press a palm flat to the earth. The older woman’s hand was firm, her breathing steady and sure. Arwa found herself matching the pace of Gulshera’s breath instinctively, as if Gulshera were tethering them both to soil, and stopping the great red weight of Darez Fort from drawing them both under.
“Come with me again tomorrow,” Gulshera said.
“Haven’t I said enough?”
“Oh, you’ve said more than enough,” Gulshera said grimly. “I’ll keep to our agreement. There will be no more questions about Darez Fort.”
“Good.” Arwa let out a breath. “That’s good.”
“Arwa.” Gulshera’s voice was careful. “I won’t tell you I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered. My pity won’t help you. But discipline might. What you feel…” Gulshera trailed off, shaking her head. “I’ve seen soldiers who return from battle and forget how to live beyond the blood. Their souls stay trapped within one dark moment and can’t escape from it. I see the look of that in your eyes. Come back here again and let me teach you discipline of a kind.”
Arwa laughed harshly.
“You think archery will fix me? No.”
“I think it will be better than nothing,” Gulshera said levelly. “Better than weeping in your room alone. Better than allowing your nightmares to eat you. But you are no longer a man’s wife, and you have no father here to guide you. I am not your mother. There is no one left to compel your obedience, Arwa. It’s your choice.”
Arwa shook her head, wordless now.
“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be waiting.”
Gulshera stood abruptly.
“Wait here,” she said. “I need to collect the arrows.”
Arwa stood too. “I’ll help you,” she said.
