“Did she.” He frowned and stood. He bowed his head respectfully to her, and took a step closer through the lantern light. Knowing that her face was hidden from him beneath her veil, Arwa allowed herself to stare straight at him.
He did not look very like Jihan, this brother. Jihan was tall and dark-eyed and imposing. In contrast, Zahir was a man of insignificant height, with a face that—for all that his nose was slightly crooked, and his bones too sharp—verged onpretty. When he frowned at her, she felt a tug in her chest, an attraction she was appalled and fascinated by in equal measure.
“I hear you are to be my assistant, Lady Arwa,” he said.
“I gather, my lord,” she replied. “Though I am not yet sure how I am intended to serve.”
“What has Jihan told you?”
“Nothing, my lord. Only that I must assist you.”
“Jihan likes her secrets,” said Zahir. “Here is proof that she has not been especially unkind to you in particular, Lady Arwa: I know very little about you. Only that you are a widow, and that you have Amrithi blood.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How did that come about?”
“The widowhood, my lord, or the Amrithi blood?”
“Both,” he said. “Or either. Whichever you think more telling.”
“My apologies,” Arwa said in a low, deferential voice.Be soft, Arwa, soft. Do not show him the sharp edge of your tongue. No man likes a woman who speaks in the language of knives.“I am sorry if I have offended you, but I do not understand what you require of me.”
“I am not being very clear,” Zahir agreed. “It is only that I am curious about you, Lady Arwa. I am curious what sort of woman would throw herself into danger, knowing nothing of the service she has elected for herself. I wonder: Are you a faithful zealot, or simply desperate to break yourself on a cause?”
Ah. That stung.
So Arwa was not the only one with a sharp edge to her tongue, then.
Arwa had to bite her lip to hold back the words she wanted to rain down upon him. She reminded herself that it was better to apologize than to argue, better to sweeten than to sour, when faced with a man’s ire. Better to let him see her wilt. Better to let him believe he had won. She had been good at such things, once.
“I think, my lord, that you mean to hurt me. I am sorry if I have done you any wrong.”
“Wrong? No.” He shook his head. “No, it is not the nature of what you do, but the why of it that makes me curious. Why you have made the choices you have—thatis the source of my confusion.”
“Do my answers change whether I am of use to you, my lord?”
“A fool won’t suit this task,” he replied. “So yes. Your answers have weight.”
“I am not a fool,” Arwa said, faster and more sharply than she should have.
“Fools rarely know they are fools,” Zahir said levelly.
She owed him no answers. She owed him nothing of herself at all. But she had offered herself up for this task, as he had said, without knowing its dangers or its costs. If it required her honesty, her heart—
Well then.
“Do you know, my lord, of Darez Fort?”
“Somewhat,” he said guardedly.
“Then I may tell you of my widowhood and Amrithi blood both,” she said. “I am Ambhan raised, my lord. But my father had a concubine, once. And I was the result. My father’s wife raised me as her own. She raised me to be a true noblewoman, and that is what I have been. By her training and the Emperor’s grace, I married well. My husband was commander of Darez Fort, serving under the Governor of Chand. As I am sure you know, Chand was and remains rife with unrest, and my husband was famed for his success in quelling its strife.”
I was proud of him, Arwa should have said. Or:I admired him.But neither would have been a true statement, and she did not have it in her to claim such things. So instead she said, “He died in Darez Fort. At the hands of a daiva, or something akin to it. He died as everyone in the fort died. Everyone but me.”
Here, she paused to breathe. It felt appropriate. Zahir had his head tilted to her, intent on her voice. He said nothing to fill the silence, merely waited, as Arwa found her words once more.
“It is a strange grief, Lord Zahir, to live when others die, for no reason but your blood, a thing quite beyond your control. Strange and… difficult. If I were a man, I would give my grief a purpose, and to the sword. I would fight for the sake of my Empire. But I am only a widow, and I have nothing to offer beyond my blood.” She held out her hand, scarred palm upraised. She wondered if he could see the new silver of her scar. “My blood is the only tool I have. Make use of it, my lord. I entreat you.”
