“Arwa.” His voice was hoarse. “Why were you in the garden?”
“You’re asking me now?”
“You should be safe.”
Safe.
She thought of her sister. Her father. Her mother, disappointed and terrified, always terrified. She thought of her husband, dead against the gates of Darez Fort.
“Yes,” she said. “But I’m not. I never have been.”
She could hear the footsteps drawing closer. The rustle of wings. She stepped over to him, her shadow swallowing him whole.
“I told you to make a tool of me,” she said shakily. “And you did, Lord Zahir. But I… I think it’s time for me to make a weapon of myself.”
She placed the blade to her finger. Made a cut—small, only enough to bring blood to the skin.
She placed her finger against his brow. Left her mark, invisible in the grime and guard’s blood marking his face. He looked up at her, his gaze watchful. Waiting.
She touched her own forehead. Turned, ash in her soul, her mouth. With trembling fingers, she began to shape a rite.
She moved through clumsy motions, no magic in her, no faith, no music. Still, it was a rite. It was a rite for beckoning family, a thing Ushan had used dust-blood generations before her, to call his own daiva parent to him, on Irinah’s sands.
Before her, darkness. Birds flocked together, their shadows merging into one. The daiva was one creature now and large, impossibly large, with dozens of eyes, disparate lambent stars. It did not seem surprised that she had beckoned it. She felt—in her blood and her bones—that it had been waiting.
She heard the distant yelling of men.
Instinct took over. She reached for it, touching her blood to its shadow-skin. She felt the softness of its flesh, silken as water.
“Please,” she said, voice trembling. “You vowed to protect people like me. Your descendants. Your—family. Didn’t you?”
The daiva did not respond. How could it? She was not speaking in its language, but oh—her hands, she could not hold them steady for the shape of sigils. She could not. The men were getting closer.
“I am not the kind of kin you hoped for, perhaps. I—do not know what you expect of me, or what it means to be Amrithi. But I am still one of your own, I think. Please. Forgive me for mistrusting you. Save me.”
Silence, still.
She kneeled down.
Zahir was looking at the daiva. Wonder and terror mingled on his wan face.
“I am dying,” he whispered. “Aren’t I? I cannot be seeing what I am seeing.”
“You’re not dying.”I hope.“Hold on to me. We need to stand.”
He held on to her. She helped him to his feet. The edge of the tower wall was narrow, but Arwa managed to climb on it, balanced precariously. She sat, Zahir leaning against her. She could not help but think of the fall beneath her—the sheer empty drop to black water.
“Arwa,” he said hoarsely. “They’re nearly here.”
“I know.”
“If you’re planning to jump…” He coughed, a hoarse rattle. “The fall from here will kill us.”
“It probably will,” she admitted. “But their knives are a certainty. Jumping from here—”
“Is also a certainty.”
“I know.” The daiva was looking at her, with all its prayer flame eyes, and Arwa…
