CHAPTER TWENTY
The Emperor was not yet dead, but the household was already preparing for mourning. Even Jihan’s women—unmarried noblewomen, or wives of senior courtiers—put aside their usual bright silks for pale clothes, unmarked and austere. In the interim, there were no feasts or parties, no wine or dancing girls or soft music for evening entertainment. The men, Arwa gathered from whispers, were equally subdued. The court was holding its breath for the Emperor’s death, and for the inevitability of a new Emperor’s reign.
Akhtar’s reign.
In quieter whispers still, Arwa heard of the naming of the Maha’s heir.A blessed son. Yes, named before the Emperor’s own courtiers.But they did not know this blessed, the widows and charity women, and if Jihan’s confidantes knew of Zahir, they were careful to maintain their silence.
Jihan was pale and withdrawn. If she was glad Akhtar would soon rule, erasing himself beneath the title of Emperor, she did not show it. Her warnings sat heavy on Arwa’s overfull skull.
Arwa sought out Gulshera, who for once was not at Jihan’s side. Instead she was in the prayer room set aside for the elders. She sat on the floor, cross-legged before the faceless effigy of the Maha and the Emperor. Her back was ramrod straight.
“I have something for you, Aunt,” said Arwa.
Gulshera turned. There were shadows beneath her eyes.
“Arwa,” she said, by way of greeting. She tilted her head, gesturing with the jut of her chin at the small bundle clutched in Arwa’s hands. “What is that?”
“Letters,” said Arwa. “For my mother and father. I don’t care for writing letters usually, but…”
Here, Arwa swallowed. “Aunt, I am not unaware of what lies before me. If the worst should happen, please see these delivered. It would mean a great deal to me. I’ve said nothing of my task. Only that I’m gone and that—I will miss them, and I am sorry.”
Gulshera’s expression—hard with exhaustion—did not soften. She rose to her feet and took the bundle from Arwa’s hands. Her gaze was steady, without pity or malice.
“Is this what you wanted, Arwa?”
“I wanted a chance to save the Empire.”
“So you have one,” said Gulshera. “Just as you wished.”
“Yes,” Arwa said thinly. “I do.”
What a bitter fulfillment of her wish. She missed the old blaze of certainty in her blood. It had burned away her grief for a time. What a relief that had been! But she had a new grief to carry now: not just Darez Fort, but a long strand of Amrithi dead.
Two sets of deaths, two griefs, one the cause of the other. It was a terrible balance, and just her luck, she lay at the middle of it, her heart torn neatly in two, at the seams.
“I’ll see them delivered,” said Gulshera. And finally—finally—Arwa heard pity seep into her voice. “I promise it.”
She met with Zahir that night. They moved through the realm of ash and woke no closer to a solution, to neither of their surprise.
“What did Jihan say?” Arwa asked him, once they had properly awakened and the fire was quenched.
“She said going to Irinah is unlikely to be an option.”
“Not entirely a no,” Arwa said, even though she knew it was.
Zahir only smiled in response, eyes distant. His hand was at the sleeve of his tunic, tracing the cuff.
“She arranged new clothes for me,” he said. “Mourning colors.”
She looked at his tunic, worn and faded, she knew, from wear. The flash of gold at the cuff.
“Show me your sleeve,” she said.
“Why?”
“Humor me.”
He gave her his hand. She rolled down the cuff of his tunic.
