“And then?”
“Nothing but fear,” Arwa repeated. “I can’t tell you anything more.”
“So you don’t know why you survived,” Gulshera said slowly.
The truth hovered on the tip of Arwa’s tongue. She ached to tell it.
She thought of the guardsman’s offhand comment about blood-worshipping heathens. She thought of the time one of her husband’s patrols had found an Amrithi family, hiding in a local village, and what had been done to them. She thought of the consequences of truth: for her disgraced family, her sick father, her heartbroken mother. For herself.
It was my fault. My fault.
“I told you so at the start,” snapped Arwa. She rubbed her hand across her face, angry with Gulshera, angry with herself. “I can tell you I saw a man run through by another man’s sword. I can tell you my husband was murdered by his own men. I can tell you what it sounds like when a man howls in agony as his arm is sawed through by his friend. I heard the maids—my maids—screaming and screaming and screaming. I can tell you what blood smells like, if you wish. But what I can’t tell you is why I lived, when so many others died. Now, are you satisfied, Lady Gulshera? May I go and mourn my horrors in peace?”
“Ah,” Gulshera breathed. It was a soft, sad sound.
Arwa was trembling, sickened. She was light-headed with a grief that felt more like fury than weakness. She felt like her skin was a size too small.
She saw Gulshera press a palm flat to the earth. The older woman’s hand was firm, her breathing steady and sure. Arwa found herself matching the pace of Gulshera’s breath instinctively, as if Gulshera were tethering them both to soil, and stopping the great red weight of Darez Fort from drawing them both under.
“Come with me again tomorrow,” Gulshera said.
“Haven’t I said enough?”
“Oh, you’ve said more than enough,” Gulshera said grimly. “I’ll keep to our agreement. There will be no more questions about Darez Fort.”
“Good.” Arwa let out a breath. “That’s good.”
“Arwa.” Gulshera’s voice was careful. “I won’t tell you I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered. My pity won’t help you. But discipline might. What you feel…” Gulshera trailed off, shaking her head. “I’ve seen soldiers who return from battle and forget how to live beyond the blood. Their souls stay trapped within one dark moment and can’t escape from it. I see the look of that in your eyes. Come back here again and let me teach you discipline of a kind.”
Arwa laughed harshly.
“You think archery will fix me? No.”
“I think it will be better than nothing,” Gulshera said levelly. “Better than weeping in your room alone. Better than allowing your nightmares to eat you. But you are no longer a man’s wife, and you have no father here to guide you. I am not your mother. There is no one left to compel your obedience, Arwa. It’s your choice.”
Arwa shook her head, wordless now.
“Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be waiting.”
Gulshera stood abruptly.
“Wait here,” she said. “I need to collect the arrows.”
Arwa stood too. “I’ll help you,” she said.
They collected the arrows together, cool wind catching the grass and the ends of their robes. Then they walked back toward the hermitage in silence.
CHAPTER FOUR
Arwa wished she hadn’t cried. But that was the way of grief, it seemed. She could never find it in herself to weep when she wanted to weep—when her tears could do her some good in garnering sympathy or banishing uneasy officials with too many questions to ask. She could only cry when it was most inconvenient to her, and when she desperately wanted to appear strong.
Her face was dry from the wind, the sun, the salt of her own ugly tears. When she returned to her room she washed her face clean. Her hands were shaking. She clasped them together, breathing deep and slow, and thought of the effigy of the Emperor. Timeless, its blank face the promise of eternity. There was comfort in that thought.
She wondered what Gulshera was doing right now. No doubt she was writing a message to the family she served, telling them all that she had learned from Arwa. There would be couriers passing the hermitage at some point, carrying messages from distant points across the Empire for the widows or for the guardswomen who protected them. One of those couriers would be able to carry Gulshera’s message to her masters swiftly, on horseback, unencumbered by the plodding weight of a retinue, or the necessity of a palanquin. After her long days of travel, Arwa could only envy their ease.
She wondered what Gulshera had written, wondered what message some old, venerable lord would be reading in the weeks to come.
Lady Arwa’s experience in Darez Fort was as expected.
Or perhaps: Lady Arwa has a secret. And I intend to uncover it.
She shuddered anew, and hoped she’d hidden the absences in her story, the lies, well enough to fool Gulshera, just like she’d fooled all her other interrogators. She’d spoken to Gulshera to win herself some peace, not to draw herself back into the tangled world of men and politics once more.
It hadn’t escaped Arwa’s notice that Gulshera had kept the noble family’s identity secret. Canny woman. She’d peeled Arwa’s tale and her tears out of her, all the while keeping her own confidences. Who Gulshera served, and why she served—tucked away within the hermitage as she was, far from the political heartbeat of the Empire—all remained a mystery. Oh, Arwa knew Gulshera had access to a wealth of knowledge here, spilled from the mouths of the widows. But information was never gathered without purpose. What was the goal of the family she served? What did they intend to use the knowledge of the widows for?
Without answers, Arwa would have to remain watchful and wary. She had given Gulshera her tale of Darez Fort, but no doubt there were other things that Gulshera wanted from her—or would take and offer up to her patrons, if Arwa allowed her defenses to fall and said something foolish, all unwitting and unwary.
Gulshera had claimed to want to help her. But a woman could have many wants at once. And Arwa…
Well. Arwa had complex wants too.
She wanted to avoid Gulshera and hide like a wounded animal. She wanted to adhere close to Gulshera’s side, where she could watch her in return and eviscerate her secrets and learn exactly how much of a risk the older woman was to her safety. She wanted the weight of the bow in her hands again, a channel for her rage, and she wanted to feel nothing at all.
Gulshera had claimed that Arwa reminded her of soldiers who remained trapped in one dark moment of suffering, long after their bodies had escaped it. The truth was that Gulshera was not wrong. Part of Arwa was still trapped in Darez Fort. Part of her always would be.
No wonder she hungered for a weapon. She turned her hands over—her faintly scarred fingers, her right thumb scraped raw from contact with the bowstring—and felt the itch in them. The need. She didn’t want to be frightened ever again.
Oh, that want was the strongest of all.
Arwa squeezed her eyes shut. She clenched her hands together. Ah, pride be damned. She knew what she wanted to do. Worse, she knew what she needed to do.
She didn’t go that evening or on the day that followed. But the day after that, when her heart felt less raw and her pride less bruised, she made her way over to Gulshera’s room and waited for the older woman to return from breakfast.