Not long, though. Not long.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know the city as I once did. But I think this is the way. Ihope.”
She did not ask him where he was taking her. Her vision was fading once again. She was becoming a stranger to herself. The realm of ash had her in its grip, and she was older than flesh. Old as dreaming. She exhaled, one long pained breath, and black wings unfurled darkly around her.
“One foot in front of the other,” he said. “That’s it.”
Somehow, she obeyed.
Something soft beneath her head. The sound of someone humming, a lilting and melodious tune.
Vision returned to Arwa slowly. There was light coming in from a high window, its lattice shaped to resemble a tree with great swirling branches. The wall beneath it was faintly cracked; it made it appear, absurdly, as if roots were burrowing through the plain room. There was a woman at the other end of the room, bent over a steaming pot, head lowered.
Arwa’s mouth was dry. Her entire body hurt. It was hard to stay conscious. She blinked. Blinked again. When she opened her mouth, nothing but an embarrassing croak came out.
The woman turned.
She was an older woman, with a sharp nose and full mouth, full-figured in a plain robe bound with a sash covered in bright flowers. She walked over to Arwa cautiously.
“Are you awake?” she asked. Arwa managed to blink—answer enough, it seemed for the woman to continue. “Do you know who you are?”
Arwa had a faint memory of Zahir’s voice, sharp with the grit of pain.She doesn’t know herself. I think she’s sick. You know what I can offer you in return for your help. Please—
“Where is Lord Zahir?” Arwa asked. Her own voice hurt.
The woman’s face creased with worry. She took a step closer, and Arwa’s hands curled into involuntary fists.
The woman stopped.
“Ah, not confusion, then. You just don’t trust me. Well, that’s fine, dear,” the woman said. She held her hands up and open, in a placating manner. “He is well, I promise you.”
Arwa said nothing.
For a long moment the woman was silent. Then she crouched down, hands clasped, and said, “He tells me you’re a scholar.”
“I am,” said Arwa.
“Perhaps you know this, then,” said the woman. And then she began to recite one of the Hidden One’s poems, low and mellifluous, her voice made for music.
“I know it,” Arwa admitted, when the woman went silent.
“His mother was a sister in my order,” said the woman. “My name is Aliye, and I have known Zahir since… ah, since he was only a small boy. I have not seen his face for many years, but we’ve exchanged letters for a long, long time.”
Zahir had told her he had connections beyond the palace. Arwa swallowed, throat sore, and said, “I know who I am, Lady Aliye.”
“I am not a lady, dear. But you may call me aunt, if you wish.” She rose back to her feet. “You should rest. I have water. Medicine, too, in the pot.”
For all that her throat hurt and her body ached, Arwa did not want water or medicine. She was not so trusting yet, hurt or no, ash or no.
“Zahir,” said Arwa. “Is he well? He was—wounded.”
“Yes,” Aliye said. But there was a waver in her voice, a sound leeched of color.
She urged Arwa to have some water again, but Arwa shook her head, dizzy and sick with it.
“I want to see him. Please.”
The woman hesitated, then turned.
