Arwa nodded. She did not need to look at the guard to make sure. She had watched him die, after all.
“Good.”
Zahir exhaled, winced. Still trembling, he clambered to his feet. His tunic was ripped. He wore no turban, his black hair bare and bloodstained.
“I thoughtyouwere dead,” Arwa managed to say. She looked him over. He was hunched, one hand hovering over but not quite touching his side. “Are you… did he injure you?”
“I was already wounded.” His voice was raw. “Had to run. One almost caught me.” He took a step forward. Winced. “I escaped—the fire grate. But they’re searching. Still.”
They would be milling about the women’s gardens then, among the trees and the wide-open paths across the water, under citrus and fruit trees outside the wing for widows. There would be no easy way to run from them.
She took his arm.
“Lean on me,” she said. “We’re getting away from here.”
“And where,” he said, “do you suggest we go?”
They could not go back to the women’s quarters. Could not reach the palace.
“The dovecote,” said Arwa.
There were voices somewhere. Shouting.
“I know the way,” said Zahir.
They made it to the entrance, miracle of miracles. Not the door from Jihan’s palace, but an entrance for servants, set at the base of the tower. The stairs were narrow and dark.
“If anyone is on the staircase, we will be trapped,” Zahir pointed out. There was a sheen of sweat on his face that worried her.
“What a change from our current circumstances that would be,” said Arwa. “Come on now.”
They climbed.
He leaned his weight on the wall, on her shoulder. She heard his breath, ragged with pain. It was a relief when they reached the dovecote, and she heard the soft flutter of wings, and felt the cold dawn air on her face.
Zahir gave a hollow gasp. Lowered himself carefully down against the wall. His side was dark with blood.
Arwa kneeled on the ground, sucking in gouts of air. Her relief was short-lived. She heard the distant thud of footsteps.
“They’re here, I think,” said Zahir.
Arwa swore colorfully, and Zahir laughed, a helpless out-of-place laugh.
“How did they find us?” It was a foolish question, but she had been foolish to think they could run. To think they couldlive.
“Ah,” said Zahir. “The trail of blood I left behind us probably didn’t help. Besides, where else did we have to go?”
She watched the rise and fall of his chest. The dark spread of his blood.
This blessed, this not-prince, had murdered a man. She had not thought he was capable of that. He was more than what he appeared.
Well, so was she.
She took her own dagger from her sash. Zahir followed her with his eyes, as she rose to her feet.
“You can’t fight them.”
“I could try.”
