Her insides felt sharp with it.
To distract herself, she took the flower from his hands. Soft petals, but it was still whole. She placed it behind his ear. She combed her fingers gently through his hair. She felt the curve of his skull under her palm, the warmth of him as he pressed his cheek to her arm, trusting her utterly.
“There,” she said. “No one will mistake you for the Maha’s heir now. I doubt he ever wore flowers behind his ears.”
“Perhaps if you make me a crown of them the pilgrims will be convinced,” said Zahir.
She looked up at his face, the tentative smile that curled his mouth. She ignored the ash falling through the dawn-gray sky behind him; ignored the tug of the realm of ash, winding sinuous through her own skull. Instead she brushed the hair back from his face, and said, “Let’s get back before the others wake.”
One of the pilgrims had a mule, a soft-eyed thing that was much more obedient than its kind usually were. He offered it to Zahir—for the widow’s sake, he’d said—and Zahir had accepted on her behalf. Although she found that riding on a mule made her nearly as sick as riding in a palanquin once had, she appreciated the rest it gave her weary legs.
Sohal often left his fellow soldier and led her mule for her—an act she appreciated, as she was unused to traveling on a mule’s back, and didn’t know how to direct the damnable thing.
“I’m good with animals,” Sohal told her, early on, guiding the mule gently. “My parents were farmers, in Chand.”
As they grew nearer to Irinah the days grew even warmer, until the heat was blistering.
“Your head will burn,” said Arwa. “At least wear a robe.”
“I don’t have anything of that sort,” said Sohal.
If Zahir asked the pilgrims for one, no doubt Sohal would have an array to select from. But Zahir asked for nothing; he was maintaining his aura of holiness through the judicious use of silence and far-eyed stares.
“Share my shawl, then,” she said, and draped the long end over his head.
“But—”
“Just the edge of it,” she said. “You won’t be exposing me, don’t fear. And don’t argue, I can see you thinking of it.”
He laughed—a shy, awkward thing—but shared it with her as they continued moving.
Time passed. Nauseous, Arwa climbed down from the mule, and walked alongside it with Sohal for a time, drawing her shawl fully back over her head and her shoulders.
“I’m not following for his sake,” said Sohal, eventually. “I thought you should know.”
She looked at him, his bare head, his hunched shoulders.
“Why are you here, then?” she asked. “Leaving your captain I can understand. But you could have returned to Demet Fort.”
“Likely the commander would have executed us. Argeb led us very astray.” Sohal swallowed. “Our patrol was only meant to pass through the Grand Caravanserai, as usual. But he told us to stay and we did. We were… afraid. Of the evil in the air, of the Empire’s curse. Of Argeb. It’s no excuse, but it’s true.”
You killed people on his command, thought Arwa. She didn’t say so. That, after all, was what soldiers did.
Her husband had done the same.
In a very quiet voice—so quiet she realized even before she understood his words, that he feared being heard—he said, “Were they the cause? Of what happened in the caravanserai? The… daiva?”
She froze then, stumbling to a stop.
Sohal gave her a tremulous smile. “I’d hoped you’d understand. When I saw your eyes, I thought—that widow. Whatever she is, she isn’t entirely human.”
“I am human,” Arwa said. “Entirely, utterly.”
Sohal nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.
“My great-grandmother,” said Sohal. “She was from Irinah. But she… well. She wasn’t Irin. You understand? You can be honest with me.”
She did. Oh, she did.
