“True,” Gulshera acknowledged. “I did. And yet I am asking: Tell me as much as you can. As much as is safe for both of us.”
Arwa nodded. As much as was safe.
She did not know what was safe anymore.
“I was taken to Prince Akhtar’s study. I remained veiled. Princess Jihan and Lord Zahir were both present. Prince Akhtar was angry about Prince Parviz’s actions in the Hall of the World. He feared Prince Parviz would supersede him. Then he and Princess Jihan spoke of…” Arwa paused. Said: “Of Lord Zahir.”
“Go on,” prompted Gulshera. “Leave that tale in silence. Tell me what happened next.”
“Prince Akhtar tried to strangle Zahir.” She said it entirely without feeling. Her insides were burning with a fury she could not feel. Not about a prince. Not about a blessed. “He put his hands around Zahir’s throat. Princess Jihan did… didn’t stop him. He only stopped when I—interfered. I think she wanted me to.”
Arwa had not told Gulshera of Jihan’s barely veiled message, of the princess’s desire for Arwa to make Zahir happy, to give him… more than simply her apprenticeship. The thought of speaking of such a thing made her throat burn, stoppered.
It was, after all, not a safe thing to tell Gulshera of.
“Damn Jihan and her games.” Gulshera touched her fingertips to her forehead, pressing at an invisible pain. “I am tired of being so constrained. Ah, what I could do if sheallowedit.”
“Aunt?”
“You tell me nothing, as ordered,” Gulshera said grimly. “But Jihan said nothing about what I could tell you, Arwa. Sit.”
Arwa sat. Gulshera paced before her, back and forth, with the same fierce tread she’d had upon the grass outside the hermitage. There, it had given her an air of confidence. Here, she simply looked caged.
“Do you know when the Emperor usually chooses his heir?”
“In his old age,” said Arwa. “Often upon his deathbed.”
Gulshera nodded.
“It has never been a difficult task, Arwa. One son is always superior to the others. They say our current Emperor was born with a halo of light about his brow. But now… well.” A shrug. “The Empire is changed, is it not? We all know it. Many men of court have long believed his eldest son would inherit. Akhtar is fit for it. Well-educated, versed in the nature of court politics, surrounded by able advisers…” Gulshera’s lips thinned. “But he is also—as you have seen.”
As you have seen.She thought of his hand around Zahir’s throat, his words to Jihan. She remembered how Jihan had spoken of Akhtar’s temper, the night of the feast. Arwa needed no further clarity than that.
“Parviz has a military bent,” said Gulshera. “And a level of—zeal—that many consider a strength. He believes in the Emperor’s might and that crushing heresy will return the world to its proper order. But the world has changed since the Maha’s death, in ways that cannot be easily undone without great bloodshed.”
“What ways?”
A narrow look.
“You think he will be gentle with pilgrims and mourners, who collect relics of the Maha and pray for his soul? Or those who place folk charms outside their windows to keep the daiva away? I think not.”
“And Prince Nasir?”
“He is no danger to anyone,” said Gulshera dismissively. “No more than a boy. But two princes at war is enough, in these terrible times. No. Prince Akhtar must ascend the throne. He must become Emperor, when his father passes.” A pause. “There is little time.”
The Emperor’s visible frailty. She had wondered. Her heart clenched.
“Must it be Prince Akhtar who rules us?” Arwa asked, soft, knowing the danger of her words.
“It is what Jihan wants,” said Gulshera. “And her, I trust above all others. So Arwa: Be careful. Consider your role. Consider what must be done, in the time left to us all.”
When she entered Zahir’s workroom that night, raising her veil, he was lighting his candles, wick to oil, shadows flickering on his hands. His face was turned away from her.
“Lord Zahir,” she said.
“Lady Arwa,” he responded. He didn’t turn.
“Look at me,” she ordered, soft, and felt a thrill when he turned to the sound of her voice.
