To save the Empire, Arwa and the prince must walk the bloody path of their shared past, through the realm of ash and into the desert, where the cause of the Empire’s suffering—and its only chance of salvation—lie in wait. But what they find there calls into question everything they’ve ever valued … and whether they want to save the Empire at all.

CHAPTER ONE

Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick.

The palanquin jolted suddenly, tipping precariously forward. Arwa bit back a curse and gripped the edge of one varnished wooden panel. The curtain fluttered; she saw her maidservant reach for it hastily, holding it steady. Nuri’s eyes met her own through the crack between the curtain and the panel, soft with apology.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” said Nuri. “I’ll tie the curtain in place.”

“No need,” Arwa said. “I like the cold air.”

She adjusted her veil to cover her face, and Nuri nodded and let the curtain fall without securing it.

Arwa leaned back and forced her tense fingers to release the panel. Traveling through Chand province hadn’t been so bad, but once her retinue had reached Numriha, the journey had become almost unbearable. A frame of wood and silk was a decent enough mode of transport on even paths, such as were found in Chand, but the palanquin was ill-suited for travel up a mountainside. And Numriha was all mountains. For two days, Arwa’s nausea had ebbed and flowed along with the shuddering movement of the palanquin, as she was carried slowly up the narrow and treacherous southern pass through the Nainal Mountains.

Once that day already, she’d stopped to heave up her guts by the roadside as her guardswomen milled close by and her guardsmen waited farther up the pass, respectful of her dignity. Nuri had stroked her hair and given her water to drink and told her there was no need for shame, my lady, no need. Arwa had not agreed, and still did not, but she knew no one expected her to be strong. If anything, her weakness was a comfort to them. It was expected.

She was grieving, after all.

Arwa sank deeper into her furs, her veil a cloying weight against her skin, and tried to think of anything but the ache of her stomach, the heat of nausea prickling over her skin. She turned her head to the faint bite of cold air creeping in through the faint gap between the curtain and the palanquin itself, hoping its chill would soothe her. Even through the rich weight of the curtain, she could see the flicker of the lanterns carried by her guardswomen, and hear her guardsmen speak to one another in low voices, discussing the route that lay before them, which was made all the more treacherous by nightfall.