Outside, under the glaring sun, the Emperor’s retinue—his guardsmen, his attendants, his scribes, his soldiers—were calm.
At least until Arwa stepped out of the tent.
She flickered in and out of the realm of ash as she walked, as the daiva surrounded her like a skin. One of the guards tried to use his sword on her.
The daiva pointedly cleaved the blade in two.
How strange it must be, she thought distantly,to see a woman walk surrounded by darkness, her eyes gray as the pyre, her hair a widow’s shorn hair, a broken arrow in her shoulder.
No wonder they ran so swiftly.
They must feel as if the curse has come for them.
Good.
Parviz’s court did not expect her to rip through the canvas and cross the carpet. The nobles stumbled back, yelling in horror. The guards reached for their scimitars, terror in their eyes.
She raised a hand. The daiva flung them back.
Beyond the partition screen, Jihan and Gulshera were both standing, Gulshera’s hand tight upon Jihan’s arm.
On the ground, Zahir raised his head. He gazed at her not in horror but in heartbreak. He knew, as she knew, that she was already lost.
But he was alive, still alive, and she was glad of that.
“Zahir,” Arwa said, smiling. “An old daiva has granted me a kindness.”
“Arwa,” he said shakily. His expression was shattered. “No.”
She shook her head. Felt darkness waver about her. Then she raised her eyes, fixing the silver of her gaze upon Parviz, who stood now before his throne, his own dagger in hand.
As if he could fight her. Fool. She had worlds within her.
“You were wrong to take him from me, Parviz,” she said. She spoke in her own voice—soft and delicate, not a thing suited for instilling terror. And yet, Parviz recoiled as if she had struck him with it. “He is not yours to take. He is his own. And he ismine.”
She kneeled by Zahir. The lantern light wavered. Blotted by her darkness. The dark encircled his wrists. Broke his chains, and set him free.
“Monster,” said Parviz, in a voice that shook with rage and fear. “I will not be frightened and cowed bydemons.”
“I am no demon,” Arwa said. “I am the consequence of your crimes.”
He had tried to take back control of the Empire’s faith by taking Zahir and the tale that surrounded him and putting them both to death. But he would not have Zahir’s death. He would not have his Empire’s heart.
Aliye had tried to ensure Parviz would sit uneasy on his throne. Zahir had done the same. But Arwa wantedmore. He had killed his brothers. He had staked heads upon walls. He had tried to take Zahir, and take the world, and she was ash-fierce and hollow with the rage of the dead. She would allow him none of it. She was heir to an old injustice, and she would have her due.
“I speak for Prince Akhtar, the Emperor-who-should-have-been. I speak for the Maha’s heir, who is. I speak for heretics falsely accused. I speak for the Empire that dies under your rule. I am grief, and I speak for the dead.”
She looked at the terrified faces of the nobility. He would need them to rule—their loyalty, their obedience, their strength. And if they were not already lost to him, they would be now.
“I have a prophecy for you, not-Emperor,” she said. “You stole what was not yours. Your reign will be a blight. When the nightmares come, your people will pray and they will be saved, but they will know you did not save them. You will find no love and no peace. You will be called Emperor, but the name will be ash in the mouths of your people, because it belongs to one who is dead. You will sit upon a throne of dust, and when your end comes—and itwillcome, Parviz, in ruin and shame—your legacy will be nothing but dust also. That is my prophecy, Parviz. My prophecy. And your curse.”
The nobility recoiled. Parviz recoiled.
Her work was almost done.
Daiva birds flew in great circles overhead.
She took Zahir’s face in her hands. He did not flinch at the feel of a daiva’s sharp claws on his neck, or his brother’s blood. He looked at her with grief and with utter trust.
