Prince Parviz castigated himself by tone and deed—hands before him, face lowering in contrition—but his words were truly a condemnation of his brothers. He had, after all, been in Durevi. It was Akhtar and Nasir who had not weeded out heresy.
It was Akhtar who harbored Zahir—Zahir with his books and his poetry, his fire vessel, his realm of ash—within his own palace.
“You were always the most emotional of my children,” the Emperor said. “You think I do not know what happens in my own Empire? What heresy occurs? Step forward, Parviz.”
Parviz did. He stood directly before the dais, as many a noble and criminal had before him. He stared at the Emperor. From behind the lattice, blurred to shadows of gauze and bright clothing, the women stared back as one.
“If one of my nobles had brought news of heretics before me in such a manner, I would have had them stripped of their titles and wealth. I would have cast them from court for their sheer gall.”
“If I have overstepped, Father, then I accept any punishment I have earned. I humbly—”
“Enough.”
The Emperor sounded angry—and suddenly, undeniably, exhausted. Arwa heard the tremor of the Emperor’s voice, and felt something twist in her chest, clutch painfully at her heart. The Emperor was frail. An old man. No more than mortal. She thought of the statue of the Maha and Emperor both, timeless and strong; she thought of ash, crumbling. She twisted her hands together tight.
“My sons have no need for humility. You are a descendant of the Maha, Prince Parviz. You carry within you greatness beyond compare. I recognize your zeal.” Soft. His voice carried, but oh it was soft. “After our great ancestor passed, I dealt with many heretics. I meted out death for the sake of the Empire. I had hoped such ill belief had been snuffed out entirely. But I am an old man. I do not have the fire of the young.”
The Emperor leaned forward, just slightly, upon his golden dais. He stared down at Parviz. The women could not see his expression. All that was visible to Arwa was the curve of his spine, his wrinkled hand forming a fist, and then relaxing.
“Mark in the records,” he said to the court scribes. “The heretics in Prince Parviz’s possession will be put to death, their heads displayed upon the city’s walls.”
Arwa saw Jihan stand, then crouch by her aunt’s side, whispering furiously to Masuma. Despite her veil, none of Jihan’s feelings were concealed. Fury and urgency radiated off her skin. Masuma placed a hand upon Jihan’s own. With her free hand she touched the lattice with trembling fingers. For once, the imperial women were united.
Arwa did not know what Masuma whispered to her brother. Only that he sagged back; only that he shook, a little, as if her words had thrown him.
“So many voices,” the Emperor. His voice creaked like old wood, its silken edge frayed. “And I find I no longer have the will to heed them. This audience is done. Go.”
A ripple ran through the hall. This was no ordinary end to an audience. The Emperor had not risen to his feet and departed. The business of the court was not yet complete.
“Leave me,” the Emperor said. “Now.”
Belatedly, a conch sounded. The courtiers began to uneasily depart.
Before his father, Prince Parviz stood straight and tall. There was something triumphant about his stillness. Something watchful.
Arwa thought of Zahir and his occult arts. The arts Jihan, and by extension Akhtar, had invested in to save the Empire. She thought of the Emperor’s words, his age and frailty, and the flame of Parviz’s eyes, as he stared up at his father’s throne.
Her mouth was full of the taste of iron.
Nothing good will come of this.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The walk back to Akhtar’s palace was tense.
“Come with us,” one widow said gently. She steered Arwa toward the wing for elders, and away from Jihan’s closest women, who were whispering to one another urgently.
The elders settled on the floor. To Arwa’s surprise, she saw Gulshera standing by the lattice, her back to all of them. Every line of her body screamed her desire to be left alone. Arwa, for all her propensity toward foolishness, knew better than to disturb her. Instead, Arwa sat on the floor cushions with the other women. From here, she could see Gulshera’s profile. Gulshera’s jaw was tight, her pale eyes flint.
She looked like a soldier preparing for battle.
A maidservant brought in refreshments. The cups and pastries went notably untouched. Lady Bega drummed her fingers against her knee, the clink of her jeweled rings the only noise to break the weight of silence.
“Heads staked upon walls,” she said finally. “It’s been years.”
“Oh, don’t speak of it,” said another. She drew her shawl around her face.
“And what shall we speak of, then?” Bega rolled her eyes and cursed under her breath. “Soft woman, you are. If Parviz pours more honeyed apologies into his father’s ears, there may be many more heads upon walls, you mark me.”
