Gulshera had the grace to look surprised to see Arwa, which was kind of her. Her expression smoothed quickly.
“Lady Arwa,” she said. “I’m glad to see you here.”
Arwa nodded, once, in return. Then she said, carefully, “I’ve decided I would like to learn archery after all. That is… I assume you’ll still have me.”
Gulshera nodded, unsmiling.
“I have a bow for you,” she said. “And your own quiver of arrows. But this time you’ll eat before we go.”
“As you say, Aunt,” said Arwa.
There was no time for rest. The widows gossiped and whispered, and Arwa listened and learned how the world had changed since grief had swallowed her. There was a fresh famine in Durevi, a new sickness in a cluster of villages in Hara. Although shadow spirits roamed the Empire, and people spoke of unnatural terror and walking nightmares with faces of bone, there had been no repeat of Darez Fort. That was a blessing, at least.
When the widows slept, Arwa sat with her dagger and her blood and learned how long she could go without rest. Once, she thought she heard it again: a beat of noise like wings beyond the window. Her candle flickered like a baleful eye, and she stumbled to the lattice, her heart racing, terror a knife in her ribs, and saw—nothing. The night dark. The candle’s smoke.
She forced herself to sleep after that.
From Gulshera, she learned nothing but the bow and arrow. Gulshera was frustratingly good at keeping her own secrets close to her chest, but she did not ask about Darez Fort again, and for that at least Arwa was grateful. Instead, Gulshera showed Arwa how to string the bow—a job far better suited to two people working in tandem than one alone, as bending the bow against its natural inclination was a treacherous task—and tried to teach her how to shoot and actually hit her target.
“It’s lucky no one is relying on me to hunt for dinner,” Arwa grumbled, when she failed yet again to hit the easiest target. “We’d all starve.”
“You’ll manage it eventually,” Gulshera said, unruffled. “You just need time.”
Time. Everyone claimed that what Arwa needed was time. She was not so sure. Time was eroding her strength. Time was leading her further and further away from hope, as the dead haunted her sleep, as she bloodied her window and waited for the inevitable. There were no answers in the hermitage’s library, or the gossip of the widows, or the sharp barb of an arrow through the air.
She found Rabia alone, once, in the prayer room. She stood in the doorway, holding herself still until Rabia raised her head. Rabia froze at the sight of her.
“Arwa,” she said. Swallowed.
“Please,” said Arwa. “May I sit with you?”
Hesitantly, Rabia gestured for her to join her. Arwa kneeled down. Apart from the two of them, the prayer room was empty.
“I hadn’t expected anyone else to be here,” Rabia said quietly, into the silence.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Aunt.”
“Oh no, you’re not disturbing me at all,” Rabia said, even though that was clearly a lie. “This is your place too.”
Rabia sat very still and alert, as if she were a child who feared being scolded. Arwa lowered her head as if in prayer. She looked at the flicker of shadows upon the floor in the lantern light.
“I am sorry for being unkind to you,” Arwa said. “You’re my elder. It was wrong.”
“Oh.” A beat. “Thank you.”
“But I won’t talk about my husband’s death,” Arwa said, still staring at the shadows upon the floor. Refusing to raise her head. “Not with you. Not with anyone. I can’t.”
She kept her eyes lowered, hoping it would hide the fire in them. She kept her hands soft and loose in her lap, so she would appear soft herself, and not like a bow strung so tight that its body was all trembling fury turned upon itself, ready to be unleashed. She had no veil, no long curtain of hair, so she was glad her shawl hung loose enough around her face to hide her features, which she feared were like a mirror for her heart.
Being sharp to Rabia had been an error. She’d exposed too much of herself—worn her nature too lightly. She had to put that right.
See, she tried to say—with her lowered eyes and the tilt of her head, her unfurled hands—you need not fear me. I am soft and meek and gentle. There is no taint upon me at all.
I have nothing to hide from you.
She heard Rabia huff, rising up from her knees. She flinched when Rabia inched closer to her.
“I lost my husband eleven years ago,” Rabia said. “Last week was the anniversary of his death. Do you know, I quite forgot, until today? I only remembered a few hours ago. Foolish of me.” Rabia went silent. She reached out and took one of Arwa’s hands in her own. Her touch was tentative. “Don’t believe I fail to understand your suffering, my dear.”
Arwa looked at Rabia’s hand. She wanted to pull away. She remained exactly where she was.
“Your husband was a brave man,” Rabia said. “I meant it, when I told you that. A good Ambhan soldier. You must hold on to that.”
Arwa felt something like despair. It was easier to feel anger than whatever she felt now. She closed her eyes.
She thought of what Kamran would have wanted. He would have wanted her to cry genteel tears. He would have wanted a soft widow, a widow who wilted gently beneath the weight of her grief.
He would not have wanted Arwa. He never would have, if he had truly known her.
There was something wrong with her. She knew it. There was something wrong with her nature, that she could not collapse and weep without feeling shame and fury, that she could not allow herself to like these women without wanting to flinch away from them. All her years of trying to mold herself into a gentle creature worth loving had amounted to nothing.
Arwa opened her eyes. Rabia’s hand was still holding her own. The shadows were still flickering in their own silent dance. Nothing had changed. Crushing down the feelings rising up in her, the pain in her heart, Arwa spoke.
“He was a brave man,” she whispered, in the softest voice she had. Tender as blood. “A very brave man. I miss him very, very much.”
Gulshera invited her to breakfast once more. Shaky from lack of sleep, Arwa was grateful for the offer of tea and fritters and rice flecked with onions fried a deep gold. She sat at the table in Gulshera’s room, surrounded by letters neatly piled, and ate gratefully.
Gulshera had a ring for her.
“Here,” Gulshera said, handing it over. “You wear it on your thumb. It should protect your skin from the bowstring. Try it on.”
She wondered if Gulshera had noticed the wound on her thumb, where she’d drawn blood with her dagger. She resolved to use her upper arm next time. That would be far easier to hide.
The ring was bone, white and worn smooth from past usage. She slipped it on her thumb and flexed her fingers a little. It was thicker than any glittering ornament made of gold or silver that she’d ever worn before.
“It fits perfectly,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I have a dozen,” said Gulshera with a dismissive shrug. “We’ll see later if it helps your aim.”
Perhaps it would. Arwa had none of Gulshera’s grace of fluidity, but she was improving in slow, undeniable increments. She’d managed to hit the easiest targets, and Gulshera was now encouraging her to improve her accuracy.