“I learned my first lessons of the realm from that book,” he said. “The poetry was intended to capture the feel, the sensation of the realm, by those who had walked it. My notes were intended as clarification.”
“I did not understand them, my lord.” She had intended her words to sound like an apology. Instead, they came out hard, as a kind of challenge. His gaze fixed upon her clasped hands, as if he could read something of her feelings in them; then, once more, he raised his head to her veiled face.
“You will when we enter the realm,” he promised. “But you must remember those lessons, when we proceed. And you must obey my instructions, as any apprentice would, for the safety of both of us.”
“Why do you need me at all, my lord? You have the knowledge of mystics. You have your own blood. What need have you of mine?”
“The bridge of sleep is a fragile one. With it, we can only travel so far into the realm of our dead. To reach the Maha’s ash I need a greater bridge. And your blood…” He hesitated. “I have a theory, concerning your blood, and its power. But I require your willing assistance within the realm to test it.”
She thought of worlds—realms—bound together. She thought of daiva, and of her own nightmares—of the dangers that haunted her nights and her blood both.
She thought of being useful.
“You know you have it,” she said. “Anything for the Empire.”
He nodded in acknowledgment.
“Enough for tonight,” he said. “You cannot take this book with you, but I have one which contains a fair copy of the wheel. Let me retrieve it for you, and you may leave.”
He stood, and lifted the book from the table, closing it gently and returning it to the shelves.
It would have been sensible to leave, as he had offered. Sensible to feel more than foreboding. Zahir had upended her understanding of the world, and made ghosts rise within her heart. She should have abhorred the heresy of the evening, and approached the task he offered her with dutiful reluctance. She should have been afraid.
And she was afraid. She was.
“Show me,” she whispered. There was a thrill running through her blood. It felt like holding a bow. Like piercing a daiva’s skin. Fear and joy both, tangled together as wholly as soul and flesh. “Show me this realm. Show me how I can help you, Lord Zahir.”
He gave her a sidelong look.
“I thought you would want time to consider what I have told you.”
“No, my lord. I do not.”
There was a pause. His face was in shadow.
“I suppose that isn’t your way,” he said finally. “But it isn’t a simple task, Lady Arwa. I have tried to enter the realm of ash before. On my own, and with a tutor, when I was a boy. It was a fraught experience. It is not… entirely safe. I cannot promise this will be pleasant for you.”
“I understand,” said Arwa. “Still, I am prepared.”
“You are not prepared. It is impossible to be truly prepared.”
“Nonetheless, my lord, I am ready.” She filled her voice with certainty, iron and sure. “I promise you. Please.”
She thought he would dismiss her plea outright. Despite the hungry beat of her heart, she expected it. But he did not. He was silent. He stepped toward her once more, lantern light on his face. His eyes were narrowed. He was looking, she realized, at her hands once again, which were pressed flat to the table, fingers fanned out and pressed hard into the grooves within the wood.
“Well then,” he said. “What can I say? Follow me, Lady Arwa. Please, bring the tea.”
She balanced the tray carefully in her hands, as she followed him from his ill-lit library to the second room of the enclosure.
Tomb enclosures were often multichambered, built to accommodate entire departed families beneath the press of the earth. This room was smaller than the first, and equally empty of the dead. Arwa counted that as a blessing. Its ceiling was partially open at its center, perforated by a circular grate that was visibly stained with soot. Beneath it sat a fire vessel: a deep high-walled container of blackened copper, used for holding flame.
On one side of the grate was bedding. There was a pile of books by its side. They were not scattered on the floor—that would have been utterly disrespectful—but were neatly set on a wooden book rest, its two feet holding the books safely away from the earth. Arwa spied ink also, and a scrap of paper, covered in words she could not read from a distance in the weak light.
That answered the question, at least, of where Zahir slept.
As Arwa watched, Zahir lifted a blanket—thin, soft cotton—from the bedding and took it to the opposite end of the room. He laid it out upon the ground. Then he kneeled by the vessel at the center of the room and began preparing a fire.
“Place the tea wherever you like,” he said. “And sit. Please.”
