Arwa placed the tray upon the floor and—after a moment of hesitation—sat on the blanket cross-legged. Closer now, she could see that the vessel was marked with symbols so old and faded that they were nearly unreadable.
Zahir filled the vessel with fuel: wood and clarified butter and resinous, sweet perfume.
“To enter the realm of ash consciously, scholars realized that they need a bridge akin to Irinah. In order to widen the bridge of sleep, we use these.” He gestured at the wood, the resin, the perfume, then began to set it alight. “All of this has been sourced from Irinah because it is—hopefully—imbued with some of Irinah’s nature.”
“And the fire?” Arwa asked. “What is its purpose?”
“Why do we have prayer flames?” Zahir asked. “Fire is power. It is a light in the dark. It is alchemy, turning one thing to another, a bridge between states. The old orders utilized it.My pyre knows / the shape of light born from flame / the lamp in the dark / the lamp of truth.”
“The Hidden One was a mystic, then?”
“It was a shared moniker. But of course.” Hint of a smile around his mouth. “A very fine one.”
He murmured a soft prayer as the flames grew.
He was still tending to the flames. Adding wood to the fire. Arwa could feel the heat of those flames. Beneath her veil, her face was warm.
“The bridge that this ritual offers is still narrow,” he added, eventually. “And I’ve long considered what other theories to put to the test. Some books speak of the power of graveyards and how consumption of the bodies of the dead can build a bridge. Others speak of intense meditation, of fasting until the body is near death. And some speak of the Amrithi: of blood that is shaped by the Gods, by Irinah and by the mortal world. A natural—and powerful—bridge. I would have tested any theory. But there you were, in my sister’s grasp. And now you are here.” A beat. “Though I must say I am relieved to avoid cannibalism.”
“I imagine you are,” Arwa said, pushing away an all too familiar nausea.
Her Amrithi blood. She had taught herself not to be Amrithi in any way beyond her blood, which could not be altered. She had assured Gulshera that she was not. And yet she had yearned as a foolish girl to be the Amrithi woman she was not allowed to be. She knew exactly the shape of that shadow Arwa who had never been allowed to live: knew her fierceness, her hunger, her magic. And she carried a tangle of memories too, sharp within her as a shard of glass: a memory of her sister dancing an Amrithi rite, her feet whispering against marble; a memory of a gold-eyed daiva, sitting upon Arwa’s windowsill; a fresher nightmare, of a daiva taking her trembling hand. Just…
“What must I do with my blood?”
He drew a blade from his sash and offered it to her, hilt first.
“Your blood must enter the fire. A drop will do.”
“Is the blade clean?”
“Yes.”
She took the blade from him.
“Blood is a sacrifice I am familiar with providing.” She made a swift cut. With great care, she held her thumb over the fire vessel and allowed a bead of blood to fall.
Zahir looked at her briefly. Said nothing. She handed him the dagger, and he added his own sacrifice to the fire vessel, making a shallow cut to the turn of his wrist and holding it close to the flame.
“By combining our blood, we enter the realm together,” he explained, in response to her questioning look.
“And now?”
“The tea contains opium,” he told her. “It will help you sleep, if you require it. I am sorry you do not have a more comfortable place to rest.”
“It’s no trouble,” she said swiftly. She was glad he had not offered his own bed, and did not want him to consider doing so. It felt far too intimate.
Tired as she was, Arwa knew she and sleep were not always on the best of terms. She adjusted her veil and drank the tea. Then she lowered the cup back to the tray. Zahir did the same.
They both lay down at opposite ends of the room. It took a long moment for the haze of the opium to settle over her. Arwa curled and uncurled her fingers. She had never tried to sleep with her veil on, and its weight—combined with the smoke of the fire—was distinctly uncomfortable.
“What was it like,” she asked Zahir, attempting to distract herself, “when you last attempted to enter the realm?”
“Beyond words,” he said softly. There was a slur to his speech that had not been there before. He was lying flat, staring at the ceiling. “I am glad you are here, Lady Arwa. The realm shouldn’t be entered alone.”
She turned away from him. She could not say she was glad in return. It was death that had brought her here, after all.
“Promise me something, Lady Arwa.”
