“Will you come with me?” she said.
“I told you long ago,” he said. “I go with you. Always.”
She drew back from him. Held her hands before her. With great care, she shaped a new sigil. It was all she had left within her.
The sigil forflight.
As she felt the darkness unfurl and change around her, she embraced Zahir. Held him tight.
She thought how it must look to the nobles: the ghostly widow embracing Zahir, the great dark wings around him. They would remember the tale of how he flew from his father’s palace. They would remember his power. And Parviz—cursed, weakened, sitting upon a dais in a shattered tent—would no longer have the power to see Zahir dead. She felt that in her bones. And she was glad.
“I love you,” she said. “I thought, maybe, that you should know.”
For the second time in their lives, they flew.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
They landed on a vast expanse of sand beneath a blistering hot sky. Arwa felt the daiva release her and uncoil. She made a sigil of thanks on shaking hands—and collapsed to the ground.
The bird-spirits remained, circling overhead, uncomfortably reminiscent of carrion birds. Zahir said her name, his voice hoarse and shaken, and lifted her up in his arms.
“How—?”
“I didn’t want to die there,” Arwa said fiercely. Whispers were pouring through her. Whispers and ash. “Not there.”
“You’re not dying,” he said. “You’re not.”
“I thought you hated—inaccuracy.”
He made a choked sound. One breath. Another. He said, “You asked me not to make a sacrifice of myself. I expect you to extend me the same courtesy.”
Then he was lifting her up, up. She bit off a scream.
“Your shoulder,” he said.
“Just move me carefully,” she told him.
“I will,” he said. Slung her good arm over his shoulder, stooping to hold her weight. “We’re getting help,” he said. “I promise it.”
She tasted blood on her lips. Ash. She nodded, and stumbled along with him.
He walked, and time moved strangely, swimming in and out of focus. She dreamed a dozen dreams, that flickered through her mind, fractures of shadows.
“Arwa.”
“Yes.” She remembered. How strange, how the name fit. Her self fit her like an old familiar skin. “I am.”
“Arwa,” he said, aggrieved. He lowered her down. Collapsed beside her, flat upon the sand. She breathed in and out. The tide had ebbed. She knew herself again.
She was Arwa. Shewas.
“I am sorry,” Arwa managed to say, “about Jihan.”
“Don’t be,” he said.
“But you love her.”
“I do,” said Zahir. “But she’s made her choice. And I, mine.”
