Her jaw widened. She yawned.
“Wake up,” he whispered, tender against her ear. “Don’t be a lazy thing, now.”
Iria was not asleep yet, but she was tired, and could only mumble something incomprehensible in response.
“You delved too deep into memories that aren’t your own,” he said. His voice was gently disapproving. “And it has worn you thin, hasn’t it? That does not surprise me. The ash is no place for a mortal, no matter her blood.”
Ash.
It was a cold-water shock.
He was not talking to the girl he held in his arms, once, many lifetimes ago.
He was talking toher. And she was…
She was—
“You need to leave here,” he said. “Or soon you will not be able to.”
She was not his child. She was not in Irinah, upon its sand, returning to the embrace of her home clan. She was—
She blinked, and she was a child no longer. The realm of ash surrounded her, gray and empty, all twisting storm, and within it a woman slept curled on her side, breathing soft and alive. Arwa made a choked noise, panicked and helpless, and the woman’s eyes snapped open. The woman raised her head, and Arwa saw a long braid, an achingly familiar face. Mehr met her eyes and—
“Arwa,” a voice called. Thin with pain. “Arwa, wake up, please. I can’t carry you any farther.”
“Wake up,” echoed Ushan. His voice in her ear, a susurration of ash. “Or you die.”
The heat of the sun was long gone. The air was gray. She felt cold hands on her shoulders. Flinched.
“Don’t shout,” he said hurriedly. “It is only me. Zahir.”
“Who am I?” she gasped, lungs working, the taste of iron in her throat. “Who—who am I?”
Zahir was looking at her through a haze of falling ash. But he was not glass-skinned, made of dream flesh. He was human and pale with pain, a bruise blossoming on his cheek.
He pressed a hand to her face. He stared at her, gaze steady. She could feel his hand tremble.
“You are Arwa,” he said. “Lady Arwa. Scholar. Daughter of Suren. Widow.” His lips thinned, holding in his pain. He gripped her under the arms. Lifted her to standing. “But right now,” he panted, “you need to think less, and simply walk.”
“You’re not… strong enough to carry me,” she slurred out.
“That’s the woman I know,” he said. “One foot in front of the other. Come on now.”
Trembling, she rose from the wall she had been leaning on. As she found her footing, the ash began to recede, color returning to the world around her. It was daylight, but they were in a narrow street, walls near closing in on them. She could smell rotting food, animal shit, cooking fires. The window lattices above them had flowers or fabric laced through them, to cover cracks between the frameworks of wood and stone. They were not in the refined corridors of the imperial palace any longer.
“Where…?”
“Jah Ambha,” he said. “Your—spirit. Daiva. It lowered us to the ground just beyond the lake. We ran from there.”
Arwa could not remember running.
She looked down. Her clothes were caked in soil. Zahir’s own tunic was stained and ragged.
“You don’t remember,” he said. “Do you?”
She shook her head, and instantly regretted the action, as very real flesh-and-bone nausea made the world tilt around her. He grabbed her before she could fall, then swore; holding her up was aggravating his wounds. Biting her cheek, Arwa straightened up again, leaning the barest increment of her weight on him.
“I can walk. I—I think. For a little while.”
