The guardswoman released Arwa, who fell back to the ground.
Arwa gave a groan, turning on her side. Gulshera kneeled down, still looming over her, and removed her own shawl. She grabbed Arwa’s wounded palm and wound the cloth around it, binding it tight enough to stem the bleeding.
“You’re coming with me,” Gulshera said. Her voice was savage iron. “Now.”
They went to Gulshera’s room. A guardswoman came with them, followed by Roshana, who shut the door on the crowd of panicked, curious onlookers in the corridor. The guardswoman was gray with fear, and her hand was altogether too tight on the hilt of her scimitar. Gulshera bade Arwa to sit on the bed, then leaned back against the wall, her arms crossed tight. By the door, Roshana wrung her hands together, eyes darting between them all. The room was far too crowded.
Arwa clutched her own wounded hand. Blood had left the cloth of Gulshera’s shawl sodden and red. Beneath the makeshift bandage, Arwa’s palm pulsed with a gnawing, throbbing ache. Her head felt light, faintly full of stars.
“I need my dagger,” Arwa said.
“Child,” Roshana whispered. Then she fell silent.
“It’s still out there, stuck in the dirt,” Arwa said. “I need it back.”
“No one is going to give you a weapon,” Gulshera snapped.
“Then at least find it,” Arwa said, through gritted teeth, “and put it somewhere safe.”
“Go,” Gulshera said to the guardswoman. “Get the dagger.”
The guardswoman hesitated visibly. She looked between them. “But, my lady…”
Gulshera made an angry sound and leaned forward. She pulled the hilt of a small dagger from her boot. Then she sheathed it once more and straightened. “We’re hardly unarmed, andsheis hardly in a position to snatch up another blade. Go.”
The guardswoman went. Roshana made sure the door was firmly shut behind her, keeping the three of them safe from prying eyes.
“Arwa,” Roshana said softly. “What happened? Can you explain what we saw?”
Arwa curled and uncurled the fingers of her hurting hand. She stayed silent.
“We don’t wish to cause you harm, dear,” Roshana continued. “Just speak to us. We can help you.”
Still leaning against the wall, Gulshera said nothing. Arwa looked at her. Gulshera’s expression was unmoving, her pale eyes blazing and fierce. Even if Roshana had not realized what Arwa had done—what Arwawas—Gulshera had.
“I’ll speak to you,” Arwa said to her. “No one else, Lady Gulshera.”
They met each other’s eyes, unflinching.
“Roshana,” Gulshera said finally. “Please go outside and encourage the others to get some rest. Thank you.”
Roshana nodded and left, glancing back at the both of them before shutting the door once more.
Arwa’s hand was still throbbing. She tried to ignore the pain, twisting the ends of the shawl tighter.
“You left the bow I gave you flung on the ground in a corridor,” Gulshera said. “And my arrows. You don’t fret about them.”
“The dagger was a gift from family. It has sentimental value.”
“More than sentimental value, I think,” Gulshera said. Her voice was unreadable. “I know something of the world, Arwa.”
“I don’t doubt that, Aunt.”
“I know the Amrithi people carry such daggers. I know they perform unnatural blood rites. Somewhat akin to what you did this night, Arwa.”
“Indeed,” Arwa said. Her voice came out of her like snowfall, winter cold, even as her heart crawled.
“Now we come to what I don’t understand,” said Gulshera. “The Amrithi are a barbaric people. They have no place in the Empire. They exist on the edges of civilization, begging for scraps of our glory. They do not walk on the same land where civilized people walk. They don’t marry people of the Empire. I gather in their lawless way, they don’t marry at all.” Gulshera’s voice was unrelenting, her eyes keen fire. “So explain to me: How does a noblewoman, a widow of apparent good blood and standing, despite her father’s disgrace, come to have an Amrithi dagger and knowledge of Amrithi heresy?”
