Eshara let Arwa go.
“Best walk fast, if you can,” she said. “We need to stop soon. Night’s falling.”
Then she walked off.
“Where were you?” Arwa asked.
Zahir shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Lean on me properly.”
She locked her arm with his. Leaned against his shoulder, and kept on walking.
The pilgrims created a fire and sat close to its flames, as the bitter night’s chill crept in. As they neared Irinah, the weather had begun to alter. The days were hotter, the nights colder. But here, near a copse of trees and a thin river of running water, they had fish and birds to cook, and water to boil.
“There isn’t life like this in Irinah,” a pilgrim was telling some of the others. “It’s an arid place. Except when you move deep—which isn’t easy, of course. Then you can see strange things. Mountains and palaces growing out of the sand. Great monsters…”
Arwa walked away from his tale.
The widows sat farther back from the fire, clustered close together. Arwa drew her shawl tighter around her head and shoulders and walked over to them. It was Diya who caught sight of her first, and rose to her feet.
“Sister,” Diya said by way of greeting. “Are you going to tell us to leave?”
“Me? No.” Arwa looked at the other widows. Huddled. Straight-backed. Defiant. “Eshara spoke to you?”
“The tall woman you travel with? Yes.”
“You needn’t come with us, Diya. You, or any of the others. But you needn’t go either,” Arwa said, looking over Diya’s shoulder at the defiant gaggle of women behind her. “I am just…”
“Yes?”
“Sorry,” said Arwa finally. “That you have lost everything. The House of Tears. You, and Aunt Madhu, and all the others. It was—a good place.”
Diya’s mouth twisted into a strange smile.
“You have no reason to be sorry. And Aunt Madhu will start again, and she’ll do well enough. We are survivors, sister.Youshould know that.” Diya’s hands clenched and unclenched on her shawl, held close to keep away the bitter chill. “When my husband died, his family cast me out. They called me cursed. They said they should not have to feed and clothe a woman who had lost her purpose and duty, a woman who was dead. But I lived, and I found a grief-house where my mourning would be holy. I am well. So I lost my home. What of it? I’ll begin again. We all will. We are used to it.”
She looked over Arwa’s shoulder at the fire. At the men, at the other women. Then she spoke once more.
“The Maha’s heir saved us all, when I feared we would all die. He gave us a gift. He made me hope.” She gave Arwa a look that was all defiance.Mock me if you like, that look said.I will not be swayed.“No one else has offered that to us in a long, long time. What can we do but follow?”
“Nothing,” Arwa said, voice coming out of her thin. She swallowed. Said, “Rest if you can, sister. The day will be long tomorrow.”
With a nod of respect, Diya returned to the other widows. Arwa turned back to the fire.
There was no sign of Zahir. She heard prayers on the wind, pilgrims by the fire with their heads bowed.
She walked off into the dark of the wood.
She found Zahir hiding by the stream. His boots were on the water-logged bank, his arms clasped around his knees.
“You shouldn’t sit here in the dark,” she said. “There could be snakes. Leeches.”
“I’m fine,” he said, and he did seem so. He was staring out at the tranquil dark, water playing at his feet.
She sat herself down beside him.
She heard him exhale.
