The room was sparsely furnished. There were no piles of letters, no tray of tea, no pen and ink. Her husband’s lacquered court bow was not even upon the wall. Gulshera was lying on her divan, eyes closed. Arwa sat on the edge of the divan, thumped a carafe on the floor beside her.
Gulshera cracked open an eye.
“I don’t want wine.”
“It isn’t wine,” said Arwa. “It is—was—a drink my husband liked. Liquor made from soured milk.”
“You want to make me ill?”
“It will ease your pains,” said Arwa. “Kamran would give it to his men, sometimes, when they were afraid.A drink like this, he told them,will make you strong.I kept a bottle in my trunk. For memory’s sake.”
Arwa nudged the carafe toward Gulshera.
Gulshera gave her a look. Rising to a seated position, she took the carafe. Opened it and drank it. Grimaced.
“You are trying to poison me.”
“Some poisons are good for you,” Arwa said. She took the carafe from Gulshera, and drank herself. The arrack was viciously sour, a sweet burn down her throat. She grimaced.
“There,” she said. “I feel better already. Don’t you?”
Gulshera gave her a faint scowl.
“I’m certainly distracted. My mouth feels foul.”
Arwa took another swig and Gulshera said, “Ah, Gods, put that swill down.”
Arwa resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and obeyed.
They sat in silence for a moment, before Gulshera spoke.
“The Emperor was merciful. Their deaths were quick.”
“Good,” Arwa said tightly.
“There will be a celebration tonight,” said Gulshera.
“A celebration?”
“Parviz’s suggestion,” Gulshera said tiredly. “More merrymaking to lift the spirits of an uneasy nobility.”
“Prince Parviz doesn’t care for merrymaking.”
“He’s learning the ways of court quickly. Murder a few men, lavish favors on a few others—soon you’ll have followers driven by greed and fear aplenty.”
Arwa frowned and lowered her head.They can merrymake all they want, she thought.It will not change anything.Child daiva with bone faces. Winged daiva. Famine and rebellions, and a dying Emperor.
“Does it matter if the courtiers like him?” Arwa asked.
“If those courtiers have influence over the Emperor, of course,” Gulshera said dryly. “But no one truly knows the Emperor’s mind.”
“I think,” Arwa said slowly, “I understand why you chose to leave here. It is like being caught in a net, isn’t it? The longer you are here, the less you remember what it means to move freely. To know the cool air on your face. The shape and heft of a bow.”
“We serve the Empire,” said Gulshera, after a moment. “That, at least, is a good thing.”
It was not disagreement.
Arwa wondered, somewhat helplessly, what difference there was, if any, between serving the interests of the imperial family and serving the Empire.
