His voice was even, calm. His expression was resolute. Arwa saw the acceptance of death in it, the utter terror, and clenched her fingers so hard against her knees that her nails stung like dull blades.
The Emperor looked at him. “Bahar’s son. I find old age makes me soft. My daughter loves you. My wife thought fondly of you, in her time. You are a pretty thing. You inspire soft hearts. Therefore: Maha’s heir,” he said softly. “That is what I name you. Prove yourself fit for that title. Or my sons will do what I should have done many years ago, when my soft-hearted daughter begged for your life. Let it be recorded: Bahar’s son lives, and wears a new title. For now.”
A tide of noise moved through the room. Jihan made a choked sound, quickly cut off.
Parviz’s face was stone, his eyes murderous. A look of revulsion flickered across Akhtar’s face, for only a moment. Nasir merely looked between his brothers and Zahir in confusion. He had, perhaps, not known that Zahir existed at all.
The Emperor began coughing again and Masuma began speaking to him in the softest, most urgent voice. It was Akhtar who touched his hand to the end of his father’s bed, reverent, who then said, “Let us allow the Emperor to rest now. Father, with your leave…”
“Enough pronouncements,” the Emperor said tiredly. “I will rest now. No more.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Time passed interminably. For an endless stretch of hours Arwa sat behind Jihan and Gulshera as the women wept over the Emperor, as crying gave way to soft-whispered words of comfort, as Masuma gently fed him a tincture of poppies to lull him into an uneasy rest. Finally, the Emperor slept.
Slowly the men beyond the gauze began to drift away, until only the most stubborn courtiers remained. The guardsmen, not having the luxury of choice, continued to maintain their vigil, their gold-armored figures lining the walls.
Masuma rose to her feet, wincing with pain from having too long sat by her brother’s side. Jihan rose as well. With a respectful sweep of her head, Jihan veiled her face and turned to leave. Her women followed her, the briefly formed grand court of women cleaved in two once more.
It was deep night. As they entered Akhtar’s palace, Gulshera touched a hand to Arwa’s shoulder. Arwa drew away from her. She did not want to be comforted.
“I am sorry, Aunt,” said Arwa. “I want to be alone, to… to think.”
She began to walk away.
Arwa heard the rasp of embroidered silk behind her and felt a new hand on her arm, cold-fingered. Not Gulshera’s hand.
“Arwa,” said Jihan. “Come with me. You want to see him, don’t you?”
Jihan’s expression was utterly calm, but her eyes were red, her cheeks drawn. She wondered if Jihan had cried for her father or for Zahir, or for the both of them.
“Princess,” Arwa murmured. She followed in Jihan’s footsteps.
Jihan’s chambers were vast, lushly decorated with the scent of fresh flowers in the air. Usually Arwa would have stared about herself in awe at the beauty of the place, but she could not.
Zahir was standing in a stance Arwa recognized as the one he’d taken in Akhtar’s study: hands together, head slightly lowered and tilted.
He looked at Arwa. Looked at Jihan.
“She was searching for you,” Jihan said, nudging Arwa slightly forward, before sweeping farther into the room herself. “Worrying for you, Zahir.”
His mouth thinned. No doubt he was thinking of the last night they had entered the realm of ash together, just as Arwa was.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Leave us,” Jihan said to the maidservants tidying the room, the guardswoman at the door. “Allof you. Quickly now.”
The servants were gone in a flash.
Jihan’s eyes narrowed. Her voice came out of her suddenly furious, lashing out like a whip.
“Tonight, Zahir. Find the Maha’s ash tonight. Do you understand me?”
“Is my execution so close?” Zahir asked.
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“I am never dramatic,” said Zahir, with that cutting edge of feeling to his voice that Arwa knew so well. “I am being factual.”
