Arwa held an arm to her face, shaped her teeth around the skin of her forearm, and breathed deep and slow. She had seen death. She knew death. She would be damned if she wept like a widow here, out under the fading night.
She kept on moving.
She moved more slowly now, in the shadows thrown by the trees. Through the leaves, she saw that Zahir’s workroom was surrounded by unfamiliar figures. Armed women. Armed men.
Her stomach fell away. She had hoped—somehow—that she would be able to warn Zahir. That he would be well. But how could he be?
A step back, under the cover of trees. Then she began to walk more hurriedly; her vision was almost black with something akin to grief. She stopped—she didn’t know where—surrounded by trees, a canopy of leaves concealing the sky above her.
She heard the crack of wood. Her vision snapped into focus.
In the shadows, she saw movement. A man. Watching her.
A guard. He had to be a guard, though he dressed like a soldier, his garb not ceremonial but worn by use, scuffed and stained and bloodied. He looked at her. There was no resolute sympathy in his eyes. Arwa’s insides curdled; she looked about herself, wild, a thing caught in a trap.
Under the cover of trees there was nowhere to run to.
There was no softness on his face. Not even particular malice.
“Who are you, then?” he whispered. “Another maid?”
Arwa said nothing.
“No,” he said. Still soft. “A widow. So, widow, do you know where the bastard is hiding?”
She took a step back. Another.
The man followed.
Arwa could feel the sweat at the nape of her neck, the fistlike thud of her heart. She felt wood at her back. Her legs numb.
I am going to die, she thought.After all this time.
Dappled light fell on his form, concealing his face. But she heard him exhale and saw his hand move for his scimitar.
“Well then,” he said. Began to draw his sword.
The shadowed light, coming from the branches above him, moved.
A figure jumped down, arm hooking around the soldier’s neck, drawing him brutally down to the earth. They hit the soil hard. A strangled yelp came from the soldier’s throat. He scrabbled for his scimitar, fist around the hilt. But the figure at his back was drawing his neck back, back, choking the air out of him with a fierce wrench of their arm.
Arwa should have run. But she could not. She knew that figure, the face half buried in the dirt, flushed and narrow-eyed.
Zahir.
He should have been a comical sight, fighting an armed man much greater in strength and size than himself. But he was using what upper hand he possessed to full effect, pinning the guard’s scrabbling arm with his knee, his own arm still around the guard’s throat. He fumbled—clumsy, pale with pain—then lifted his own dagger up. Wrenched the guard’s head back.
Without finesse, he jammed his blade into the guard’s throat.
There was a wet, gargling sound. Zahir jammed the dagger in again. And once more.
Silence.
Arwa felt dizzy. For a moment, she feared she would faint. Then her good sense returned to her, and she stumbled over to Zahir, and heaved the heavy weight of the body off him.
Zahir was breathing unevenly. He looked almost as shocked as she felt. His hands were trembling. The dagger dropped from his hand.
“Is he dead?”
