CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
After a night’s rest, they decided they would enter the desert proper at sunset. Enough time to obtain something to help them sleep, and something akin to a firepit.
“There’s a guide who claims to be Amrithi,” said Eshara. “He said he can get you safe into the desert to the Maha’s grave, for a price. He’s taken plenty of people before.”
“You believe him?”
Eshara shrugged.
“Believe or not, I have a very sharp and convincing sword, if he tries to trick us.”
“We can go alone,” said Zahir. “We don’t need to find the Maha’s exact resting place, after all. It’s Irinah’s nature that is the key to our work, not his physical remains.”
“The desert can be a dangerous place, or so people say,” said Eshara. “I’ve heard all the tales from your worshipful retinue.”
“We don’t need to go far,” Zahir said firmly. “And this is—personal. We don’t need a guide present.”
“If we’re lucky,” Arwa said, meeting Eshara’s eyes, “whatever makes the desert dangerous will avoid harming me, and will avoid harming Zahir too because he’s in my company.”
Eshara’s mouth thinned, but she didn’t argue further.
As night fell, they donned thick robes, bought from one of the local stalls. They were a pale gray, heavy and hooded, well suited to the sudden storms and bitter night cold of the desert.
Eshara donned her own, her scimitar in the sash at her hip, bow slung over her back. As Zahir prepared their supplies, Eshara turned to Arwa.
Arwa braced herself, expecting more criticism. Instead Eshara took her hood. Held the edge of it with great care.
“I don’t hate you,” said Eshara. “I thought you should know that.” She met Arwa’s eyes. “You remember, I called you a puppet.”
“I don’t need to be reminded,” Arwa said.
Eshara shook her head. “I’m not sorry,” she said. “But, I will say, I don’t know what you are anymore, Arwa. I don’t think you’re a puppet any longer. And I’ve found I care, somewhat, whether you live or die.”
She adjusted Arwa’s robe.
“So try not to die.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Arwa.
They left the boarding house in the dark of night, she and Zahir and Eshara. They walked through the littered streets toward the desert.
“Where are you going, then?”
Arwa knew that voice.
Diya strode toward them. She had another widow with her and a couple of pilgrims, looking equally determined.
“You’re walking into the desert,” she said, looking between them, “the three of you, all alone?”
“We have work that must be done in isolation,” said Zahir, voice even and smooth. “Eshara will protect us. You have no reason to follow us or fear.”
“You and her?” Diya said, looking between Arwa and Zahir. “A widow can’t be alone with a man, oh great one,” Diya added, striding forward determinedly. “We will accompany you in order to protect her honor.”
“I’m already there to do that,” Eshara said dryly.
“There’s strength in numbers.”
“Sister,” said Arwa, “my honor isn’t at stake.”
