Jihan had not been happy. Of course she had not. She was the head of her brother Akhtar’s household, as her aunt Masuma was the head of the Emperor’s. A woman’s fortunes rose and fell with the fate of the man she served. And for all that Prince Akhtar held a clear position of power at court, the Emperor had not yet named him heir.That, Arwa would have heard.
If Prince Parviz believed the Emperor’s health failed, if he returned in the hope of being named heir himself…
A woman like Jihan, who reveled in her power, would rightly fear to lose it.
Jihan’s tension was only one of the events that had filled Arwa with disquiet, since she had arrived at the palace. The rift between aunt and niece; the blessed not-prince hidden like the dead; the distant son quelling rebellions, as the two close at hand kneeled at their father’s feet, all of them waiting for the Emperor to anoint them as heir. The loyalties that ran like blood, holding the imperial household asunder and yet intertwined. These things hung in the air, unspoken, knife-edged. Arwa had known the Empire suffered, but she had thought—believed, with the constancy of a woman who had prayed her whole life to the Emperor’s effigy—that court would be a bastion of stability within the Empire’s chaos. Instead, she was strangely afraid a misplaced word would tip it all into chaos. She drew back her veil, as Gulshera drew back her own. Gulshera’s jaw was tight.
“Arwa—”
“Lady Gulshera.” One of Jihan’s favored noblewomen approached, veil thrown back. “The princess requires you. Please.”
“Of course,” said Gulshera. She squeezed Arwa’s arm—in comfort or warning, Arwa did not know—and vanished, leaving Arwa alone in a crowd of elders, her mind full of questions without answers.
CHAPTER TEN
Adifferent guardswoman walked the corridors that night, when Arwa left her room, book of poetry in hand, and headed toward the gardens. Arwa remembered that Eshara had told her a guardswoman named Reya would be on duty that night, and bowed her head in acknowledgment.
Reya bowed her head in return.
“My lady,” she said, voice soft. “Do you need me to accompany you?”
Arwa shook her head, murmured her thanks, and continued walking. Behind her was a brief silence, followed by the renewed stride of booted feet.
Arwa walked through the night to the tomb enclosure; she lowered her veil and walked in. Zahir was waiting for her.
“Did you enjoy the book?” he asked.
“Somewhat,” she said guardedly. “I had very little time to read. There was an audience at dawn.”
“Ah,” he said. “Of course.”
She wondered when he slept. Certainly not at night. Did he live here, within the women’s quarters, hidden away within the walls of the tomb enclosure? She was filled again with the sense of unreality she’d felt when she’d read the book of poetry in her own room by lantern light. He should not have been here. He should not have been staring at her, eyebrows raised, waiting for her to speak—as if he were a real man, and not some strange mirage enclosed in what should have been a grave. He should not have been in the women’s quarters—even their grounds—at all.
“Prince Parviz is returning from Durevi,” Arwa continued.
“Indeed,” Zahir said neutrally. “What did you think of what youdidread, Lady Arwa?”
Arwa considered the not-prince carefully through the soft haze of her veil. There was no irritation on his face, no fear or tension or anger. His expression was utterly calm.
“The poems were—beautiful,” she said haltingly. “But I don’t believe I fully understood them, or your words, my lord.”
“Well then. Let me provide you more context. Sit, please,” he said, gesturing at the low table where she had first seen him reading, only the night before.
She sat. There was a tray on the table, something brewing in a small samovar. Tea had already been poured into small ceramic cups, curls of steam rising from the liquid’s surface.
As she waited for him to join her, she opened the book of poetry once more. The words wavered before her, softened by the gauze of her veil and the fragile shimmer of lantern light. She gave up on the book. Instead she watched him trace the edge of his shelves with searching fingertips, his eyes narrowed against the flickering dark. Eventually she could not suppress her impatience; she shifted uneasily in her seat. Spoke.
“It would be easier, perhaps, to work by daylight.” A beat. “My lord.”
“Yes,” said Zahir, which was no response at all. He looked at her then, fingers paused upon the shelf. “But I doubt your veil helps your vision.”
“I will not remove it,” Arwa said swiftly. “I will not compromise my honor.”
“I have not asked you to,” he said, just as swiftly.
He crossed the room and placed a new book in front of her. This one was far larger than the thin book of poetry still in her hands. She placed her poetry carefully to the side. She opened the new tome. The pages were heavy in her hands.
“The next page,” said Zahir. “Please, Lady Arwa.”
