“You mustn’t think badly of them all coming to look at you,” said Rabia. “They only wanted to see you are—normal. And you are. And so young.” A pause. “You must not mourn too greatly,” Rabia continued, apparently deciding to put her questions aside for now, and provide a stream of unsolicited advice instead. “Your husband died in service to the Empire. That is glorious, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes,” Arwa said, patting furiously at her eyes. “He was a brave, brave man.” She let her voice fade to a whisper. “But I can’t speak of him yet. It’s far too painful.”
“Of course,” Rabia said hurriedly, guilt finally overcoming her. They fell into silence.
Arwa’s patience—limited, at the best of times—was sorely tested when Rabia piped up again a moment later.
“I know some people say the Empire is cursed and that—the fort, you know—that it’s proof. But I don’t think that. This is your room,” she added, pushing the door open. Nuri slipped inside, leaving Arwa to deal with Rabia alone. “I think we’re being tested.”
“You think Darez Fort was a test,” Arwa said. She spoke slowly, tasting the words. They were metal on her tongue, bitter as blood.
“Oh yes,” Rabia said eagerly. She leaned forward. “All of it is intended to test us—the unnatural madness, the sickness, the blight on Irinah’s desert. One day the Maha is going to return, if we prove our worth against evil forces, if we show we are strong and pious. And what happened to your husband, his bravery when the madness came, and your survival, it’s proof—”
“Thank you,” Arwa said, cutting in. Her voice was sharp. She couldn’t soften the edge on it and had no desire to. Instead she bared her teeth at Rabia, smiling hard enough to make her face hurt.
Rabia flinched back.
“You’ve been very kind,” added Arwa.
Rabia gave a weak smile in response and fled with a mumbled apology. Arwa didn’t think she’d be bothered by her again.
It was a nice enough room, once Rabia had been encouraged to leave it. It had its own latticed window, and a bed covered in an embroidered blanket. There was a low writing desk, already equipped with paper, and a lit oil lantern ready for Arwa’s own use. One of the guardswomen must have brought in Arwa’s luggage via a servants’ entrance, because her trunk was on the floor.
Nuri kneeled before it, quickly sorting through tunics and shawls and trousers, all in pale colors with light embellishment, suitable for Arwa’s new role as a widow. The ones that had grown dirty from use would be washed and aired to remove the musk from their long journey, then refolded and stored away again, packed with herbs to preserve their freshness.
Arwa sat on the bed and watched Nuri work.
Nuri was the perfect servant. Mild, discreet, attentive. Arwa had no idea what Nuri really thought or felt. It was no surprise, really: Nuri had been trained in her father’s household from childhood, under the keen eye of Arwa’s mother, who demanded only the best from her household staff, a clean veneer of loyal obedience, without flaw. She’d been sent by Arwa’s mother to accompany her on the journey from Chand to Numriha, as Arwa had not had a maidservant of her own any longer.
“The guards,” said Arwa, “are they camping overnight?”
“The hermitage provides accommodation not far from here,” Nuri said. “They’ll leave in the morning, I expect.”
“Does the hermitage have servants’ quarters?”
Nuri was momentarily silent. Arwa watched her smooth the creases from the tunic on her lap. “I thought I would sleep here,” Nuri said finally. “I have a bedroll. I would be able to care for you then, my lady.”
“I don’t want you to stay,” said Arwa. “Not here in my room tonight, or in the hermitage at all. You can accompany the guards back tomorrow. I’ll pay for your passage back to Hara.”
“My lady,” Nuri said quietly. “Your mother bid me to stay with you.”
“You can tell her I made you leave,” Arwa said. “Tell her I refuse to have a maidservant.” Blame my grief, Arwa thought. But Nuri would surely do that without being told. “Tell her I raged at you, that I wouldn’t be reasoned with. She’ll believe it.”
“Lady Arwa,” Nuri said. There was a thread of fear in her voice. “You… you need someone to take care of you. To protect you. Lady Maryam, she…” Voice low. “I am not to speak of it. But I know.”
Ah.
Arwa swallowed, throat dry.
“I will be safe here,” she said finally. “You’ve seen the hermitage now. You can tell her so. It’s nothing but broken roads and old women. There couldn’t be anywhere safer in the world for someone who is…” Arwa paused. She could not say it. “Someone who is—afflicted. As I am. No one will discover me here. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Lady Arwa. Your mother—Lady Maryam—she insisted—”
“I can keep my own secrets safe,” Arwa cut in tiredly, ignoring Nuri’s words. “She’ll know it was my choice. She won’t cast you out for it. I expect she’ll be glad of your help with Father anyway.”
Arwa reached into her sash and removed a purse. She held it out.
“Take it,” she said. “Enough for your journey to Hara, and more for your kindness.”
If her mother had trusted Nuri with the truth of Arwa’s nature, then Nuri had no doubt been paid handsomely to accompany Arwa. But more coin would not hurt her, and would perhaps soften her to Arwa’s will.
At first, Nuri did not move.
“Please,” said Arwa. Voice soft, now. Cajoling. “Is it so strange for me to want to be alone to mourn? To have no more eyes on me? Nuri, I am begging you—return to my mother. Allow me the dignity of a private grief.”
Hesitantly, Nuri held out her hand. Arwa placed the purse on her palm, and watched Nuri’s fingers curl over it.
“I should finish sorting your clothes,” said Nuri.
“There’s no need,” said Arwa. “You should go and rest. You have a long journey tomorrow.”
Nuri nodded and stood. “Please take care, Lady Arwa,” she said. Then she left.
Arwa kneeled and sorted through her own clothes. She would have to arrange for one of the hermitage’s servants to have them washed in the morning. When the job of sorting through her clothing was done, Arwa latched the trunk shut and closed the door.
She placed the oil lantern on the window ledge, sucked in a fortifying breath, and took her dagger from her sash.
She held the blade over the heat of the oil lantern’s flame. Her hand rested comfortably on the hilt of the blade, where the great teary opal embedded within it fitted the shape of her palm in a manner that brought her undeniable comfort. She counted the seconds, waiting for the blade to warm, and stared out the window. The dark stared back at her, velvet, oppressively lightless. She couldn’t even see the stars.
She lifted the blade up and waited for it to cool again.
She’d been too afraid to use the dagger on the journey, with Nuri always near, with her guards ever vigilant. Her dagger was far too obviously not of Ambhan design. Where the finest Ambhan daggers were richly embossed, etched with graceful birds and flowers and flecks of jewels, her own was austere and wickedly sharp, the opal in its hilt a glaring milky eye. It was an Amrithi blade, unlovely and uncivilized, and any soldier of the Empire—trained to seek and erase the presence of Amrithi barbarians, to banish them to the edges of the civilized world where they rightly belonged—would have recognized it on sight.