She had very little time.
Body and soul. For this, she needed both. She stood in the realm of ash. She stood on the solid ground of the tent, on legs that did not want to obey her.
She moved her feet into the first stance of a rite.
She had nothing to venerate the daiva with, as they deserved.
She hadnevershown them the reverence they deserved. She had no kohl for her eyes or red to stain her hands. Her dagger was gone. She had only the will to perform a rite that would save her and Zahir both.
And an arrow in her shoulder.
At least the wound gave her the gift of blood.
She forced her arms to move. White-hot agony in her skull. She gave a choked sob. Gritted her teeth. Kept on going.
Sigils and stances. Her body moved without grace. Sigils fell from her fingers like splinters. Sigils for beckoning. Sigils for fear.
Come. Kin. Blood.
A careful turn on her heel. She did not fall. Did not fall. In the realm of ash, the ash beneath her rippled, hard as a drumbeat.
Death.
Mercy.
She knew, now. There were rites of worship. And there were rites that were furious prayers flung into the abyss. This was one of them.
She was broken. She could not move as the rite deserved. And yet, she tried. And tried.
The flutter of wings touched her ears. A dark bird flew in through the tent wall—turning to coils of smoke when it met canvas, then becoming whole once more. Another followed. Another.
She gazed at the bird-spirits. They gazed back.
“Ah, you,” Arwa whispered. Tears pricked her eyes. “It’s been so long.”
The bird-spirits fluttered around her head. They settled on the table. Melded into the shadows along the walls.
More shadows slithered toward her as she shaped sigils on her fingers. A new figure grew slowly from the ground beneath them.
It was… ancient, she thought.Knew.Her ash spoke to her, all its voices telling her this was an ancient daiva, its flesh almost mortal, its eyes keen and knowing.
The sigil fortime. The sigil forsilence.
Sigil forlife.
Sigil forfire.
It had been so long since it had heard a voice calling in fury.
She clasped her hands together. Lowered her head. Gestures of respect and worship. Then with a rattling breath—with her blood roots wound about her soul self—she began to move.
Will you help me?she asked it, in the only way she could: a rite for mercy. A rite for justice. Her body was hollow agony. She stumbled. Pressed on.Will you?
The daiva’s hand moved. One smooth arc.
Yes.
Then all the shadows converged, surrounding her in a great ring. And swallowed her.
