Arwa’s hands were shaking. She went over to her trunk, searching blindly. Ah. There.
She picked up her dagger and tucked it into her sash, where it was properly hidden. She raised the book too, holding it against her chest, and opened her room, stepping out into the corridor. For a moment she stood still, entirely still, and listened.
Silence. Utter silence. She felt the daiva melt away, slipping into formless shadow. For a moment, Arwa stood alone in the corridor, listening to birdsong as dawn approached. She felt terrified, but also strangely a fool.
Then she heard footsteps. A figure, gold-armored, came around the corner. The guardswoman spotted her and approached.
“My lady,” she said. “Why are you awake?”
“I heard a noise,” Arwa said. “I was afraid. My apologies.”
The guardswoman shook her head with a smile.
“There is nothing to be afraid of, my lady. Go back to your rest.”
Arwa turned. Hesitated.
“Where is Eshara?” she asked. “She usually patrols this corridor.”
“Sick,” the guardswoman said shortly.
“Or Reya? She—”
“Go to sleep,” the guardswoman said. “My lady.”
And Arwa would have, perhaps, if she had not paused for a moment longer—breath still in her throat, heartbeat no longer a roar in her ears—and heard the slow, steady drip of liquid against marble.
She turned.
Saw blood drip from the sheath of the guardswoman’s scimitar to the floor.
The guardswoman saw that she had seen. She looked at Arwa, expression resolute.
“Go into your room,” she said softly. “Allow me to bar your door. Sit silently, and you will live. I have not been tasked with killing women tonight.”
Not women. Then—
Zahir.
Arwa made a choked noise, suitably small and terrified. Nodded. Shaking, she edged back toward her room. Drip. Drip.
Her fingers tightened on the book.
Using all her strength, she flung it at the guardswoman’s head.
The book was heavy, but the guardswoman’s helm should have protected her entirely from harm. Arwa was lucky—the shock of the blow stunned the woman for a moment, giving Arwa all the reprieve she needed. Barefoot, unveiled, she ran for the hidden passage that led to the gardens.
She heard a yell and the sound of steel being drawn behind her, but she did not stop, and did not look back. Hesitation would have been certain death.
Familiar path, concealed by high trees. She ran. She ran.
She tripped, but didn’t fall. Instead she paused and turned, her breath ragged, and saw what had blocked her path. Curve of a shoulder. Long rope of hair.
Someone had not been averse to killing women this night.
The maid was undeniably dead. The grass around her, the paving stones, were red.
Blood, the daiva had told her.
