She had Zahir’s books.
Zahir had interrogated her about her experience in the realm of ash, pried every bare scrap of knowledge she’d gained. He’d been fascinated by the fragments of memory she’d gained from him. He’d muttered something of unexpected consequences and roots and shared dreaming, staining his fingertips with ink as he scrawled notes into the margin of a book, and had not spoken of it since. But she knew it mattered to him. The book had remained on his table since, the page creased from overuse, as he turned to it over and over again and stared at the words with furrowed brow.
He had not asked her to enter the realm of ash since. Instead he had begun teaching her in earnest, leading her away from slim tracts of poetry to dense texts of study. Mystical orders from the distant past—long before the Maha had made the Empire whole and powerful, and given the mystics the blessing of service to him—had cobbled together vast tomes about the nature of the soul and the body, the nature of death—the nature of the realm of ash, and how to walk its paths, aware and unharmed.
Together she and Zahir sifted through their theories, their claims, weighing them against their own experience of the realm for their worth. Theories on the manner in which a person’s own history could shape the realm over time were carefully studied. Even more focus was given to the texts that discussed the blood roots: their strength, their nature, the relationship between flesh and soul.
Not all books were useful, of course. A bloated text that claimed souls and paths could be melded together via the conduit of shared roots was swiftly dismissed as untestable nonsense, and one discussing the anatomy of the soul’s manifested body in the realm was put aside by Zahir with a muttered claim that it wasa headache in the guise of paper.
Together, they were piecing together a picture of reality. A map, to lead them into the Maha’s waiting ash.
She often returned to her own room with a large book hefted up in her arms, so that she could read in privacy until daybreak. After a handful of nights bent over her burning lantern, reading until the dawn chorus, Arwa had asked Eshara for more light.
“Another lantern, if you can provide it,” Arwa had said. “But I would be grateful for more fuel. My lantern burns too quickly.”
The guardswoman had frowned and ignored Arwa entirely.
“I want no part of it, my lady,” she’d said, when Arwa had persisted.
Thank the Gods, then, for Reya, who had turned up the next night with fresh oil and wick, and the promise of more in the future.
“I don’t care what you do, Lady Arwa,” she’d said, a faint frown marring her forehead. It was a much gentler expression on her face than on Eshara’s. “Only—perhaps you should consider working by sunlight. Your eyes will thank you.”
Arwa had agreed—and how could she not?—but in truth the study of the realm of ash felt like Zahir’s business, his possession, and Zahir was entirely a creature of night. She could no more study the realm by daylight than she could imagine Zahir strolling along the central path through the garden at midday. It was an unnatural thing.
Arwa sat in the Hall of the World, her sleepless mind full of ash and poetry, as the Emperor announced edicts and dispensed justice, as the court scribes inked his words, as Akhtar offered his input on imperial administration, as Princess Masuma whispered through the lattice, speaking for the women of his household. When the Emperor once again announced Prince Parviz’s imminent return, declaring that his son would be greeted that evening with appropriate pomp and ceremony, a whispered message passed from Masuma’s retinue through the women: the feast in his honor would also be tonight. Although most women murmured in pleasure, at least one of Jihan’s confidantes was not happy about the lack of notice.
“She wants to make our lady look foolish. Oh, you know what she’s like—”
“Hush before one ofherfavorites hears you,” another hissed.
Arwa blamed the high spirits of the women around her and her own exhaustion, but it was only when the audience ended and they returned to their own household that Arwa’s addled mind realized that she had not seen Gulshera all morning.
In fact she had barely seen Gulshera at all since the first audience. Gulshera rarely ate with the other charity women of the princess’s household. She did not join them when they spent the mornings and afternoons embroidering or writing letters, or discussing news from the larger Empire. She had seen Gulshera only briefly, once or twice, walking at the princess’s side, among her circle of close companions.
Arwa went to the fruit garden and sat in the shade, arms curled about her knees. As the other widows and elders entered their shared hall, gossiping, removing their veils, she closed her eyes and sought some brief ease from her tiredness and her own thoughts.
She did not want to miss Gulshera, or require her counsel, but here she was regardless, mulling over the imperial household, wishing for Gulshera’s blunt, even-handed guidance.
The princess informed me I should not question or interfere. So I will not.That was what Gulshera had told her. Did that extend to all aspects of Arwa’s role in this household? Was Gulshera required to leave Arwa be, or did she simply have a much grander purpose, as one of Jihan’s favorites?
“Lady Arwa,” said a voice. It was not Gulshera, but another widow, still veiled. Arwa recognized her by the rings upon her hands, each embellished with rough-cut blue gems. An unseemly display for a widow, but Lady Bega was cousin to the departed Empress, distantly imperial by ancient blessed blood, and no one dared treat her with anything but respect.
“Lady Bega,” Arwa said deferentially, rising to her feet.
Bega drew back her own veil, wrinkled eyes focused on Arwa’s face. Considering.
“You are too young by far,” she said, shaking her head mildly. “Wear your veil tonight, at the feast. Trust an old woman’s advice. The princes are good men, young one, but they are still men. You understand?”
“We are dining with the princes?” Arwa said, feeling herself become pale. She had expected a celebration—something to honor the prince appropriately—but she had not expected to see him face-to-face, or any of them. The worlds of women and men who were not kin, not bound by blood or marriage, were not meant to cross. That was the way of any noble household. “Aunt, my honor—”
“Ah, ah!” Bega tutted. “My dear, there’s no shame in it. This is the imperial household. You think the Emperor’s kin obey the same rules as the rest of us?”
“I—”
“You’re a woman of the household, aren’t you? No different from any widowed aunt in her brother’s or her nephew’s care. Regardless, do be careful.Weknow there is no difference between you and I, age or no age… But men, even the very finest of them, they are… easily misled by a young and pretty face.” She tapped Arwa’s cheek lightly.
Her touch made Arwa look toward the other widows, seated around their fountain. They were watching her and Bega both. Had the widows been discussing who would speak with her, this painfully young and tragic widow thrust into their lives? Arwa swallowed and bowed her head deferentially. She knew a warning when she heard one.
