Eshara walked faster, still gripping Arwa’s arm.
“That man,” she said tightly, “was cursed.”
Arwa’s own throat felt terribly tight.
“Yes,” she managed. “He was.”
“We’re in the shit,” Eshara said grimly. “It was a miracle we left that room. It’ll be an even greater miracle if we make it to Irinah. Keep walking. Don’t look behind us.”
“He may be following us,” said Arwa, breathless, struggling to keep up with Eshara’s brisk pace. “Or his men, he may—”
“Keep. Walking.”
They made it across the courtyard, nearly to their sleeping quarters. Then Eshara dragged Arwa into the shadows of a stall and leaned forward, breathing unevenly.
“Eshara…”
“Get Zahir,” she said. “We can’t stay here now. Your eyes, they couldn’t stop speaking of your damnable eyes. What is wrong with them, anyway?”
“Ash,” Arwa said tightly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“They look almost normal now at least,” Eshara said. “Better for us. Those men will be looking for us soon enough, after all. When the drink and—whatever that captain was suffering—wears off.” Eshara pressed a hand on her face. She swore violently.
Arwa didn’t move. She stood still, day’s heat around her, fear curling unnatural fingers along her spine. She knew Eshara felt it too. She could not blame her for shattering. But she also couldn’t ignore Eshara’s strength, the curl of her fists… the memory of the men of Darez Fort turning on one another, as the fear ate them whole.
“I hate being this afraid,” Eshara said suddenly. Her voice was savage.
“All is well, Eshara.”
“Don’t tell me what’s well. It isn’t.”
Arwa swallowed.
“Fine, then,” she said. “It isn’t.”
Deep breaths. Eshara straightened.
“You must think I am easily cowed,” said Eshara, clenching and unclenching her fists. “The bodies we found sickened me. I can’t sleep alone. But I’m not afraid of death or of killing. I was a guardswoman. I knew my duty, and there’s no shame in death. It’s what I was trained for. But what was done to Reya, to my fellow guardswomen…” Eshara shook her head. “She was loyal. They were all loyal. We deserved better. It has… shaken me. And the damnable curse on this place doesn’t help.”
Eshara began to pace, for all the world like a creature caged.
“Perhaps you think because I am a Hidden One that I wasn’t truly loyal,” Eshara said, suddenly savage.
“I know you were loyal,” said Arwa. But Eshara was not listening.
“Zahir’s mother,” said Eshara, “offered her skills to save the Empire. She did more than simply cajole the Emperor with soft words and flattery. She took a risk. The others hated her for it, but I thought it was brave. I still do. How much can you really do to save an Empire from the shadows?” She made a vague, fierce gesture with one hand. Kept on pacing. “I protect him because I believe in his purpose, in the power of knowledge, of truth. But I protected the imperial women because I am loyal to the Empire, and to everything it offers us. Safety. A future. A purpose.”
“You think noblewomen are pampered fools,” Arwa said, because ah, she had no sense.
Eshara looked at her.
“The Empire,” she said, “is not a group of pampered women. It is not the Maha. It isn’t even an Emperor anymore.” She spat the word Emperor, heavy with all her hate for Parviz. For what he had done. “But all of those elements maintain the Empire, and I do my part to ensure that the structure of our world does not shatter. I do my part to keep it whole so we can make it better.” She stretched out her hands. “And yet here we are. The world breaking around us. Isn’t it?”
Sickness. Terror. Dead imperial sons. Failed harvests. Hunger stretching its hands across the provinces.
“That’s what the curse on the Empire is, I suppose,” said Arwa. “All the ways the Empire is fragmenting. Turning to dust.”
Eshara had stopped pacing. She stood now, wavering on her feet.
“We are better than this,” she said numbly. “Stronger than this. More glorious than this. We have to be.”
“We need to get Zahir,” Arwa said, with more gentleness than she thought herself capable of. “We need to take him and hide, and do our best to ensure he survives and reaches Irinah. Hold on to that, Eshara.”
“Yes,” Eshara said. “Yes. All right. I will.”
Eshara looked at Arwa then, not as if she were seeing her with new eyes, but as if she had come to the end of the world, and no one was left but Arwa, so Arwa would have to do.
It was hardly complimentary. But it was something.
Zahir was waiting for them. She could see the relief on his face, splintered all through with fear.
“Good,” he said. “You’re still alive.”
“We need to go.”
“Oh, I’m aware of that,” he said. “But where do you suggest? And what happened when you spoke to the soldiers, exactly?”
“I’ll tell you as we walk,” said Eshara. “Just hurry up. We’ve wasted enough time coming back for you.”
They left their makeshift room and walked across the courtyard, Eshara speaking to Zahir in a low, hurried voice. The open space was still full of milling people, but it was silent. People were staring up at the walls.
Arwa raised her own head. Something was staked on the walls. In the light she couldn’t quite see.
“Don’t stare,” hissed Eshara. Her own voice trembled on a knife edge.
But Zahir had paused too, raising his own face up, and said nothing when Arwa stopped alongside him and blinked through the glare of the sun. She saw what was there. Swallowed the bile that rose to her mouth.
Corpses upon walls. Ah, Gods save them.
At least she knew what the punishment Argeb had spoken of was.
She tugged Zahir’s sleeve. Understanding, he followed her.
The House of Tears had shut its doors. Eshara strode forward and rapped on them sharply. She knocked harder still when there was no response.
Arwa pressed her own hand to the wood.
“Sisters,” she shouted. “Aunts. Please. If you recognize my voice, or not—I am a fellow widow. You offered me sanctuary once. I beg it of you now. Please. Answer me.”
Silence. Then:
“We’re not allowing anyone in, widow or not.” The voice was a woman’s voice. Trembling. It was painfully close, just beyond the wood.
“Please,” Eshara said, pressing her hand flat to the door alongside Arwa’s. “We only want—”
“We do not care what you want,” another voice said. How many women were pressed close to the door, huddled tight together? “We will not open the door.”
“They’re killing a man,” said Zahir. His voice was devoid of feeling. “Out in the open. They’re making a spectacle of it.”
Eshara turned. Swore again. But Arwa did not turn.
“Please,” she said. “You offered me safety once. Please offer it again.”
“We don’t owe you anything, woman,” snapped the widow. “Not safety. Not entry here. Is this how you repay our kind offer? By placing us all at risk by asking us to open our doors to chaos?”
“You have wooden doors,” Eshara said bluntly. “Cheap. They won’t hold for long. And I know how to gut a man from groin to neck. Do you?”
“At least one of us does,” another widow said guardedly.
“Horse shit,” said Eshara. “You need us.”
“Let us in, Aunt, or we will die out here,” said Arwa, trying a softer tack. “I know you are good hearted. You offered me shelter when you believed I had none. I beg you now: Do not rescind your offer. Do not allow us to die.”
“All of you?” said the first voice. Hesitant. “I heard a man’s voice, sister.”
“You do not need to take me,” Zahir said. “Only take them.”
“We survive together or not at all,” said Arwa. “Please.”
Silence. Nothing. Nothing.
Somewhere, distantly, she could hear wailing.
The door opened.
“Quickly now, before I change my mind.”
They needed no further encouragement. The three of them tumbled in, and the doors of the House of Tears closed behind them.