From the sound of their gossip, the Empire’s suffering was growing worse with greater speed. Arwa knew she should listen with care, search within their words for seeds of knowledge of use to her. But she could not. She could think only of Darez Fort, and the interrogation that awaited her. She tried not to think of tomorrow, tried not to think of the questions Gulshera was going to ask her. She tried not to feel.
She failed miserably.
She was tired of questions about Darez Fort. Even before the bodies had been buried, when she’d still been raw with shock and weeping, a high-ranking noblewoman had sat with her and cajoled answers out of her with cold-blooded patience. What did you see, Lady Arwa? How did the men die? And your husband—were you there when he passed? Did he fight the terror bravely? Cry, my dear. Cry, if you must. Just answer me. Good girl.
A male courtier, sent by the Governor of Chand, had spoken to Arwa the evening after the formal funeral. Her mother had been with her then, holding her wrists with firm hands. The man had sat on the other side of a partition wall, clearly uncomfortable with the task he’d been set. Arwa had answered all his question in whispers, as her mother had stared into the middle distance with burning eyes, hot with shame and fury. Another nobleman had come immediately after him—this time a courtier from Ambha itself, sent by the imperial record keepers—and asked nearly the same questions. It was only then that Arwa had finally felt her own outrage spark to life.
Gods curse the lot of them. Couldn’t they have left her to mourn, even that day, of all days? Why had they insisted on interrogating her over and over again, when she clearly had nothing she was willing to offer them? Wasn’t her grief—the terrible, trembling weight of it—enough?
She had hoped the hermitage would offer her safety from the curiosity of the world, a place where her secrets would lie undisturbed. She’d been a fool, of course. Her first moments in the hermitage, when the widows had come to stare at her en masse, had shattered that particular delusion. And Gulshera…
Gulshera had letters from a noble family and a priceless bow lacquered in mother-of-pearl hung on her wall. Gulshera wanted answers from Arwa. You can tell me about Darez Fort, she’d said, as if Arwa would not tell her the same thing she’d told all the people who had interrogated her in the past: The same truths. The same necessary handful of lies.
She’d asked for this, she reminded herself. She’d asked Gulshera not to play games. It was better like this, to speak to her now, to not wait for the inevitable interrogation. She would speak to Gulshera tomorrow, and then she would refuse to answer anyone else. Let the women like Rabia look at her and wonder what had happened to her. Let them pity her. She’d earned the right to silence.
After the meal ended, and the women began to disperse, Arwa returned to her room. She lit her lantern and refreshed the blood on her window. Despite the worry gnawing at her, despite the fact she curled up on the bed with her dagger beside her in her usual vigil, she fell swiftly into sleep, and woke the next morning with a sore neck and her lantern guttered.
She’d had a nightmare. The details had already left her—all she had was the dull echo of terror thrumming in her blood—but it didn’t matter. She knew what she’d dreamed.
Today Gulshera was going to ask her about Darez Fort.
Instead of joining the other women for breakfast, Arwa bathed. She dressed. She touched the ends of her hair. It was growing long enough to curl faintly at the ends. Soon it would need to be cut again.
She headed to Gulshera’s room and found the older woman waiting for her, a light bow on her shoulder, a quiver at her back, and another bow on the ground at her side.
“You didn’t eat again,” said Gulshera.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
This time, Gulshera did not ply her with fritters and tea. Instead she nodded and handed her one of the bows. It was light and elegant, lacquered in a dark varnish. The wood was perfectly smooth beneath her hands; it near gleamed in the light. Although it was not covered in mother-of-pearl, Arwa was sure it was costly.
“I thought we were going for a walk,” said Arwa.
“We are,” Gulshera replied. “But I’m also going to teach you how to shoot.”
They left the hermitage together and walked out toward the valley. They were still near the perimeter of the hermitage, still within earshot of other widows who were sitting comfortably under the cover of the hermitage’s veranda, when Gulshera spoke.
“Have you ever used a bow before?”
“No, Aunt.”
Gulshera shook her head, world weary.
“If I had my way,” said Gulshera, “all noblewomen would learn to use a bow and arrow. It’s our birthright, though most seem determined not to recall our Empire’s history. Hunting was once a noblewoman’s art. Empress Suheila was even famed for killing a dozen deer and a tiger in one single hunt with arrows she fired from within the cover of her palanquin. Did you know that?” When Arwa shook her head, Gulshera gave an exasperated huff. “Of course you didn’t. Women don’t teach their daughters anything important anymore.”
She sounded so much like Asima had when she’d learned Arwa couldn’t weave that Arwa almost smiled. Almost. She didn’t have the strength for it. Her stomach was in knots. Stop lecturing and just ask your questions, she wanted to demand.
“It’s a fine story,” said Arwa.
Gulshera gave her a thoughtful, sidelong look.
“Go on,” said Gulshera. “Speak honestly.”
“I have nothing more to say, Aunt.”
“Somehow I find I don’t believe you, Arwa.”
Arwa lowered her head. The walk down the valley was steep, and the grass crunched softly beneath her feet. She thought about how sensible it would be to say nothing, or offer Gulshera only soft words. She thought about how important it had always seemed to smooth away her sharp edges, how long her mother had worked to shape her into something worthy of being loved. But Arwa did not care if Gulshera liked her, never mind loved her. She’d had enough of being mothered and molded. She opened her mouth.
“The story of Empress Suheila—it doesn’t sound like a true tale. And what does it matter to me, if it is? I’m no empress, to hunt tigers and be praised for it. I don’t care about bows and arrows and archery. I am just a widow.”
“Just a widow,” repeated Gulshera.
“You said so yourself, Aunt. I’m no better than a ghost now.” If the words came out of her barbed, well. She had a right to her bitterness. “Stories of the distant past aren’t my business. Mourning is.”
“Ah,” said Gulshera, eyebrow raised. “And yet you stared at my husband’s court bow with such yearning. I don’t think my eyes fooled me. Your hands hunger for a weapon, just as much as your heart hungers for a chance to mourn.”
“Ask me about Darez Fort,” Arwa said sharply. “And leave my hunger alone.”
“Archery lesson first,” Gulshera said, unperturbed.
They had reached a place deep in the valley, where the sun and wind alike felt distant. Arwa could see white-peaked mountains in the distance. Before them were a group of targets, set at intervals. The targets all looked rather worse for wear: Gulshera clearly dedicated a great deal of time to testing her skill with her bow and arrow.