She was not ready yet to make a choice.
One day after the evening meal, she found Gulshera waiting for her in her room.
“If you’re going to tell me to return to him,” said Arwa haltingly, “I can only assure you that I will. When I am—ready.”
Gulshera shook her head. She did not remind Arwa that the topic of Zahir was a forbidden one. She only said, “Arwa.”
Her voice… the hairs rose on the back of Arwa’s neck.
“Aunt. What is it?”
“The Emperor is dying,” said Gulshera. Her voice was leaden. “He has days, perhaps. Hours.”
“He—no. He can’t be dying,” Arwa said.
“Of course he can,” said Gulshera. “You saw him. It is amazing how swiftly old age can become illness, and illness can become death. You are young, and perhaps will not be familiar with that reality.”
“You always think me a fool,” whispered Arwa. She did not have the energy to be hurt. She closed her eyes. Touched her fingertips to her eyelids. The soft pressure grounded her.
“Tomorrow at dawn he should hold his Beholding and audience,” said Gulshera. “He will not. Then everyone will know.”
“Jihan? Does she…?”
“Of course she knows. As do I. And now you.”
“Why have you told me?” Arwa whispered.
In the close-eyed dark, Gulshera said, “Because I want you to accompany me to his deathbed, Arwa. Jihan has asked for me, and I ask for you.”
Arwa stopped for a moment, stopped entirely, breath and body both. She swallowed. Spoke.
“I have no place there.”
“You do, because I have asked you.”
“Why?”
“Do not choose to remain in ignorance, Arwa.” Sharp words. “Come with me. The world is about to change; the battle you have chosen will alter. You told me you chose this path. Do not give me all the guilt of ensuring you survive it.”
“Do not pretend my fate concerns you that much, Aunt.”
“I accompanied you here,” said Gulshera levelly. “I have advised you as best as I can, despite the duties Jihan demands of me. Of course I care.” She shook her head. “I have grown somewhat fond of you, Arwa,” she said, in a voice that was softer than it had the right to be. They were no family to one another. No family. “Trust me or don’t, Arwa. But come with me now.”
Gulshera stared at her. Waiting.
In silence, Arwa nodded.
The Emperor, dying.
Ah, Gods.
The room where the Emperor lay dying was not a private space of sanctuary or intimacy. But then, an Emperor did not have the luxury of dying a private death. In a pale mimicry of the Hall of the World, scribes sat upon bolster cushions at the edge of the room. The council of his favorites kneeled. The Emperor’s closest advisers kneeled also. Men on all sides kneeled in silence, and watched, waiting for the Emperor to die.
They were separated from the sight of the Emperor’s dying form by a circle of gauze: great curtains unfurled from the ceiling, forming a perimeter vast enough to both encompass his bed and allow his women to hold vigil.
The women kneeled around his divan in a circle. When they entered, Jihan threw back her veil and kneeled at his side.
Physicians had cared for the Emperor. He wore poultices, to stimulate his blood. Someone had placed a cloth on his forehead, scented with attar and herbs, to soothe his head and cool his fever.
