“Factual, factual,” Jihan repeated bitterly. “If you spent less time thinking and more time doing, perhaps we would not be in this position.”
“I have done nothing but study, try—”
“Enough.” Her voice quelled him to silence. “Zahir, don’t you see? I have protected you, often at the cost of my own reputation. I have done it for love of you, as the brother I have acknowledged,chosenno matter what others may say. And I have done it because I believe that what you can do—what your mother studied and sought to do—has the power to restore the Empire’s glory.”
Jihan crossed the room. She stood near him; her voice was no longer furious, only fierce, almost pleading.
“I have tried to make Akhtar believe it too. I succeeded for a time. But I can’t make Akhtar protect you now. He no longer thinks you are of use. You are a hindrance. So youmustact quickly, Zahir. You must prove yourself the Maha’s heir.”
“Maha’s heir?” Zahir laughed tiredly. “I can’t prove myself to be a thing that I am not.”
“But, Zahir, youcouldbe. Father has named you such.”
“As a death sentence, Jihan.”
“As a test, Zahir. And one at which you can succeed, I’m sure of it. You are no Maha now, but if you find his truth, his secrets, a part of him will live in you, won’t it? A part of you willbehim.”
His gaze slid to Arwa. She held it and returned it.
She did not know what he saw in her face. But when he turned back to his sister he said, “We have discovered—something.”
“Tell me.”
“The Maha used the Amrithi to build our Empire,” Zahir said. “He enslaved those with a special form of magic. He used their gifts to compel the Gods. To dream the Empire’s strength and glory.” A beat. “Did you know this, sister?”
Jihan said nothing.
“Ah,” Zahir said finally. “I see. Did you not think that information would be useful in my task?”
“Once you discovered the Maha’s ash, you would know anyway,” Jihan said. The fire was gone from her voice, which was suddenly, terribly cool. “So I thought. But you haven’t found the Maha’s ash yet, I take it?”
“Do not claim you were testing me,” Zahir shot back. “That is an excuse, and worse, a lie. It makes no sense, Jihan. You have trusted me with so much. Why not this?”
“Because you have a soft heart,” snapped Jihan. “You wept for weeks after your mother’s death.”
“I was achild.”
“You still feel far too much. You have no idea what it is like here at court, Zahir, the dangers I face, the spite my brothers hurl at one another and the world. You crumble when Akhtar shows you the smallest cruelty—you lack the skills to defend yourself. Lady Arwa had to save you last time.”
Arwa bit her tongue hard enough that she tasted iron.That is not what happened, not at all.She must have moved, must have flinched, because Zahir was turning toward her, mouth parted, a furrow between his brows—then Jihan touched his face, and held him still.
“Zahir. Look at me, dear one.” Her voice softened. She clasped his face, ever so gentle. “Ever since your mother passed, I have tried to protect you. I always have, have I not?”
“You have.”
“I have only ever wanted to protect you: from our father, from court, from yourself. In truth, I have kept secrets from you because I am soft too,” she confessed. “I couldn’t bear to see you—hurt. Or burdened. As I am burdened. I wanted to protect you from this as I have always protected you from all things.”
Arwa looked at Jihan’s glistening eyes, the softness of her face.
Oh, the princess was a politician in truth. She lied so very beautifully.
Zahir nodded, once. It was enough. Jihan lowered her hands.
“Besides,” she said. “The knowledge of how the Amrithi were utilized—that secret belongs to select people. The imperial family. The mystics. Our Maha. No one else.”
Zahir did not flinch.
“Not to the Maha’s heir, Jihan?”
