“Run!”
“Zahir,” she said, scrambling to her feet.
“I hear it,” he said grimly, rising with her.
But they had neatly trapped themselves. They had no vision within the valley they’d settled in. They were surrounded by sloped sand on all sides. They could not run easily. They did not know where—or what—the enemy was. They ran regardless—and immediately found themselves facing a line of soldiers, who surrounded the valley on all sides.
There was no sign of Eshara. No sign of the pilgrims.
The two of them stood frozen. The line parted, just enough to allow a figure to pass between them. The figure was robed and hooded, and carrying a bow. They lifted their head.
Pale eyes met Arwa’s.
“Gulshera,” she said shakily. Stumbled forward, even as Zahir gripped her wrist. “Gulshera? You’re alive? You’re well?”
“Lord Zahir,” said Gulshera. “Your sister has been looking for you.”
“Lady Gulshera.” He cleared his throat, his voice shattered. “You—Jihan. Jihan is alive?”
“Come with me, and you can see her.”
“And Nasir? Is he alive also? Is he with her, and well?”
“Come with me, and Jihan will explain everything,” Gulshera said.
Zahir’s eyes traced the line of soldiers.
“Why so many soldiers?” he asked. “And where have our friends gone?”
“Soldiers have a tendency to die in this forsaken desert,” Gulshera replied. “I was required to bring spares. Now—come. We have little time.”
Zahir remained silent.
Gulshera sighed.
“I don’t have time for this, Lord Zahir.”
“Parviz sent you,” he said. “Jihan would have sent you alone. Or—a spy. She’s no warmonger.”
Gulshera shook her head. Took her bow from her shoulder, nocked the arrow, and raised it.
“I am sorry, Arwa,” said Gulshera.
She let the arrow loose.
Arwa heard a thud. Felt a blow that flung her off her feet and back onto the sand.
The pain came a second later.
She couldn’t scream. A thin, high wail escaped her mouth. The arrow—the arrow had hit her. She tried to reach for it. But her arm was numb fire, and she could not move it.
“Arwa!”
“Stay still, Lord Zahir.” Gulshera sounded tired. “I have had a long journey, and I have little interest in a boy’s hysterics. Come with us meekly, or the next blow will go through her leg. It’s an easy target to miss, but I have excellent aim. I expect she would not walk again.”
Pounding of her blood in her skull. She would not be able to stay conscious long. The air had gone white around Zahir, who loomed above her. White, and riven with ash.
He bowed his head.
