She lowered her head, breathing through it until it cleared, and she could find her words once more.
“If we can find no other answers in these books, then we’ll make our own theories,” said Arwa. “We will test them and we will break them, and then we will draw new theories from the breaking, and test those too. And we will continue, Lord Zahir, until we find a theory that does not break, and the bridge is strong enough to carry us directly into the Maha’s arms.”
Zahir stared at her for a long moment. Then his face broke into the warmest, sweetest smile she had ever seen. It stole her breath a little, to look upon it.
“Lady Arwa, that is by far the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”
“Well.” She touched one finger to the shorn ends of her hair. “I can be a scholar too when I try, my lord.”
“You are always a scholar,” Zahir said softly. “If I ever have suggested otherwise to you—well. I am often a fool. And cruel. But I will endeavor to learn to be better.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She began flicking through pages once more, gazing unseeing at the words. “I will be sure to evaluate your efforts honestly and fairly.”
“I can ask for no more.”
She grew used to her new routine. Sat with the widows and ate and prayed with them, just as she had done when she had lived in the hermitage. She slept in snatches often during the day. And at night, she worked with Zahir, continuing her apprenticeship.
She saw Gulshera only rarely. Gulshera was always in Jihan’s presence, at her salons for her favorites, or at her meetings with Prince Akhtar. Only once that week did Arwa find Gulshera alone. The older woman was seated in the front garden, her own eyes closed, face tilted up to the sun.
“Aunt,” Arwa said in greeting.
“Don’t ask me anything,” Gulshera said tiredly. “Only sit with me, if you like.Quietly.”
And that had been that.
It was the Emperor’s next public audience that shattered the order of Arwa’s new life.
The princes sat before their father, as always, in close proximity to his greatness. Petitions began. Another request for assistance for a scheme of cleansing was proposed, by an old nobleman serving in Haran governance. He was directed to seek assistance from Akhtar. As the next petitioner approached, Parviz stood, and raised his hand in a gesture that demanded stillness. A ripple—of fear and unease—ran through the surrounding nobles.
“I must speak,” he said.
Through the lattice and gauze, Parviz was a bulky, intimidating figure, carved from shadow and steel, his tunic and jacket an austere gray, his turban unadorned even by a jewel to mark his status. His voice was a signal of strength, booming and vast. His very presence seemed to draw the air from the room, just as it had on the night of the feast celebrating his return.
“I beg my gracious father’s indulgence,” Prince Parviz announced. “Father, your humble servant pleads for the right to plead before you.”
“My sons have the right to private audience,” the Emperor said, voice silken. Arwa could not tell if he was angry or simply curious. Either way, her heart was beating fast, her palms damp with sweat. The women around her were utterly, terribly silent. “What need have you to speak before these good assembled men?”
“This lowly servant does not deserve the comfort of private audience, to soften the weight of his crimes.” Arwa saw Parviz raise his head, his jaw all firm, noble angles. “Father, I will speak honestly before all these men: I have failed you.”
“There is no need for false humility. We have amply rewarded you for your service in Durevi. I have judged you. You have not been found wanting.”
“I served you loyally in Durevi,” Parviz agreed. “I quelled rebellion from barbarians and fools, who do not recognize the strength and glory of the Empire. Years of absence, Father, and I return to discover… whispers. Of heretics. Of people who do not respect your absolute right to master the law and faith of the Empire. Whispers of people who worship superstition and occult arts over your holy self.” He held his arms out before him, for all his booming voice, his straight-back stance, as if he were a supplicant before the Emperor. “Your sons are your hands, Father. We circle your light. We serve you and our line above all else. But we have not destroyed heresy.” There was real anguish in his voice. “Your sons have betrayed you, Father. We deserve any punishment you see fit to provide.”
A beat. The vast hall was utterly silent.
The Emperor said nothing. It was no invitation to continue. Nor was it a command to stop. To Parviz’s left, Nasir was wide-eyed; Akhtar, thin-lipped, sat still in his seat.
“Heretic mystics speak against you, Father,” Parviz continued. “They speak of a new Maha. They speak of evil arts, worship of demons, spells and sorcery that the Maha banished long ago, for the good of your Empire. We cannot focus our attentions on petty matters ofsanitation, when such a threat faces you.”
“Brother,” said Akhtar. “Stop this.”
Parviz—to no one’s surprise—ignored him.
“I know my duty, Father. I know our duties. We are your tools. We preserve the Empire’s greatness and its future. But in allowing heresy to continue, we fail you.
“I have tried to remedy my failures,” continued Parviz. “My men—loyal soldiers who served me in Durevi—have apprehended a group of mystics who claim the Maha has been reborn among their number. I hold them now in my own palace. Most High, I captured them for you. Order what you will of me: My hands are your hands. My will your will.”
Silence. How could a hall full of so many people be so silent? How could even the thunder of Arwa’s heartbeat go numb and still in her ears, as if she hung suspended out of time by her own fear?
