Realm of Ash Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Natasha Suri

  Excerpt from The Throne of the Five Winds copyright © 2019 by Lilith Saintcrow

  Excerpt from The Sisters of the Winter Wood copyright © 2018 by Rena Rossner

  Author photograph by Shekhar Bhatia

  Cover design by Lauren Panepinto

  Cover images by Alamy and Shutterstock

  Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Map copyright © 2019 by Tim Paul

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Edition: November 2019

  Simultaneously published in Great Britain by Orbit

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Suri, Tasha, author.

  Title: Realm of ash / Tasha Suri.

  Description: First Edition. | New York, NY : Orbit, 2019. | Series: The books of Ambha

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019027766 | ISBN 9780316449755 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780316449748 (library ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6119.U75 R43 2019 | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019027766

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-44975-5 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-44972-4 (ebook)

  E3-20191001-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  MAP

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DISCOVER MORE

  EXTRAS

  MEET THE AUTHOR

  A PREVIEW OF THE THRONE OF THE FIVE WINDS

  A PREVIEW OF THE SISTERS OF THE WINTER WOOD

  BY TASHA SURI

  PRAISE FOR EMPIRE OF SAND

  For my mother, Anita Luthra Suri.

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  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 uncurl from 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 naturally found in the flat fields of Chand, but the palanquin was ill-suited for travel up winding mountain roads. And Numriha was all mountains. Here, the disrepair of the Empire’s trade routes was impossible to ignore.

  Arwa had heard the guards complain of it often enough: the way the once grand passes through the Nainal Mountains had grown unstable from rainfall and avalanche, their surfaces by turns sheer as a knife edge or gouged with deep, ankle-twisting holes. One misplaced step, and a man could easily stumble and fall straight to his death down the mountainside.

  “If the roads don’t kill us,” one guard had said to Nuri, “then the bandits are bound to do it. These Numrihans are like goats.”

  “Goats,” Nuri had said, nonplussed.

  “They can climb anything. I once heard of one Numrihan bastard who jumped down right into the heart of a lady’s retinue, straight into her palanquin—cut clean through the woman’s throat—”

  “Don’t scare her,” another guard had said. “Besides, what if she’s listening?” She, of course, being Arwa. Their fragile, silk-swaddled package, silent inside her four walls. “She doesn’t sleep as it is. Girl,” he said to Nuri, “you tell your lady she needn’t fear these people. They’re not Ambhan, not proper, but they’re no blood-worshipping heathens either. They’ll leave us be.”

  “It’s not fear of bandits or Amrithi that keeps my lady awake,” Nuri had said coolly, and that of course had been the end of that conversation.

  They all knew—or thought they knew—why Arwa did not sleep.

  For four 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 pass. She could not see the road from her veiled seat, but her body was painfully aware of the truth of her retinue’s grumbling. 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 flesh. She turned her head to the faint bite of col
d air creeping in through the narrow 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, made all the more treacherous by nightfall.

  The male guards were meant to walk in a protective circle around her guardswomen, close enough to defend her, but far enough from her palanquin to ensure she was not directly at risk of being visible to common men. But the narrowness of the path and the dangers posed by following a cliff-edge road in darkness had made following proper protocol impossible. Instead all her guards snaked forward in an uneven, mixed-gender line, with her palanquin at its center.

  She felt the palanquin jolt again, and this time she did swear. She hurriedly gripped the edge of a panel again as her retinue came to a stop, voices beyond the curtain rising and mingling in a wave of indecipherable noise. Someone’s voice rose higher, and then suddenly she could hear the crunch of booted footsteps against stone, growing louder and then fading away.

  Her palanquin was lowered to the ground. The path was so uneven that it tipped slightly to one side as it touched soil—enough to make the curtain flutter, and Arwa’s weight fall naturally against one wall.

  Arwa wondered, briefly, if bandits had fallen upon them after all. But she could hear no weapons and no more shouting, only silence.

  Perhaps the guards had simply abandoned her. It was not unheard of. She knew very well how easily a soldier’s loyalty could falter, how much coin and wine and bread it took to keep a soldier loyal, when danger and hardship presented themselves. Steeling herself for the worst, she drew the curtain the barest sliver wider. She saw Nuri’s silhouette in the darkness, saw her carefully adjust her own shawl around her head, lantern light flickering around her, as she kneeled down to Arwa’s level.

  “My lady,” Nuri said, voice painstakingly deferential. “The palanquin can go no farther. We will need to walk the final steps together. The men have gone back down the path, and will not see you, if you come out now.”

  When Arwa did not respond, Nuri said gently, “It is not far, my lady. I’ve been told it’s an easy walk.”

  An easy walk. Of course it was. Most of the women who took the final steps of this journey were not as young or as healthy as Arwa. She adjusted her shawl and her veil. Last of all, she touched the sash of her tunic, hidden beneath the weight of her furs and her shawl and her long brocade jacket. Within her sash, she felt the shape of her dagger, swaddled in protective leather. It lay near her skin where it rightly belonged.

  She pushed back the curtain of the palanquin. Her muscles were stiff from the journey, but Nuri and one of the guardswomen were quick to help her to her feet.

  As soon as Arwa was standing, with the cold night air all around her, she felt indescribably better. There was a staircase at the side of the path, carved into rock and rimmed in pale flowers, leading up to a building barely visible through the darkness.

  She could have walked alone and unaided up those steps, but Nuri had already taken her arm, so Arwa allowed herself to be guided. The steps were blessedly even beneath her feet. She heard the whisper of Nuri’s footsteps, the gentle clang of the guardswomen before her and behind her, their lanterns bright moons in the dark. She raised her head, gazing up through the gauze of her veil at the night sky. The sky was a blanket scattered with stars, vast and unclouded. She saw no birds in flight. No strange, ephemeral shadows. Just the mist of her own breath, as its warmth uncoiled in the air.

  Good.

  “Careful, my lady,” said Nuri. “You’ll stumble.”

  Arwa lowered her head and looked obediently forward. At the top of the staircase, she caught her first proper glimpse of her new home. She stopped, ignoring Nuri’s insistent hand on her arm, and took a moment to gaze at it.

  The hermitage of widows was a beautiful building, built of a stone so luminescent it seemed to softly reflect back the starlight. Its three floors rested on pale columns carved to resemble trees, rootless and ethereal, arching their canopies over white verandas and latticed windows bright with lantern light. Within it, the widows of the nobility prayed and mourned, and lived in peaceful isolation.

  Arwa had thought, somewhat foolishly, that it would look more like the squalid grief-houses of the common people, where widows with no husband to support them and with family lacking in the means or compassion to keep them were discarded and left to rely on charity. But of course, the nobility would never allow their women to suffer so in shame and discomfort. The hermitage was a sign of the nobility’s generosity, and of the Emperor’s merciful kindness.

  Finally, she allowed Nuri to guide her forward again, and entered the hermitage. Three women, hair cut short in the style worn by widows, were waiting for her in the foyer. One sat on a chair, a cane before her. Another stood with her hands clasped at her back, and a third still stood ahead of the rest, twisting the ends of her long shawl nervously between her fingers. Behind them, leaning over balconies and standing in corridors were… all the other women in the hermitage, Arwa thought wildly. By the Emperor’s grace, had they all truly come to greet her?

  She shook off Nuri’s grip and stepped forward, removing her veil as the third, nervous woman approached her. Arwa forced herself to make a gesture of welcome—forced herself not to flinch as the woman’s eyes grew teary, and she reached for Arwa’s hands.

  The woman was old—they were all old to her weary eyes—and the hands that took Arwa’s own and held them firm were soft as wrinkled silk.

  “My dear,” said the woman. “Lady Arwa. Welcome. I am Lady Roshana, and I must say I am very glad to see you here safe. My companions are Asima, who is seated, and Gulshera. If you need anything, you must come to us, understand?”

  “Thank you,” Arwa whispered. She looked at the woman’s face. The shawl she wore over her short hair was plain, as one would expect of a widow, but it was made of a rare knot-worked silk only common in one village of Chand, and accordingly eye-wateringly expensive. She wore no jewels but a gem in her nose, a diamond of pale, minute brilliance. This woman, then, was the most senior noblewoman of the hermitage, by dint of her wealth and no doubt her lineage, and the two others were the closest to her in stature. “It’s a great honor to be here, Aunt,” Arwa said, using a term of respect for an elder woman.

  “You are so young!” exclaimed Roshana, staring at Arwa’s face. “How old are you, my dear?”

  “Twenty-one,” said Arwa, voice subdued.

  A noise rippled through the crowd, hushed and sad. Noblewomen could not remarry; to be young and widowed was a tragedy.

  Arwa’s skin itched beneath so many eyes.

  “Shame, shame,” said Asima from her chair, overloud.

  “I truly hadn’t expected you to be so young,” Roshana breathed, still damp-eyed. “I thought you would be—older. Why, you are near a child. When I heard the widow of the famed commander of Darez Fort was coming to us—”

  Arwa flinched. She could not help it. Even the name of the place burned, still. It was just her luck that Roshana did not see it. Instead, Roshana was still staring at her damply, still chattering on.

  “… have you no family, my dear, who could have taken care of you? After what you’ve been through!”

  Arwa wanted to wrench her hand free of Roshana’s grip, but instead she swallowed, struggling to find words that weren’t cutting sharp, words that would not flay this fool of a woman open.

  How dare you ask me about Darez Fort.

  How dare you ask me about my family, as if your own have not left you here to rot.

  How dare—

  “I chose to come here, Aunt,” Arwa said, her voice a careful, soft thing.

  She could have told the older widow that her mother had offered to take her home. She’d offered it even as she’d cut Arwa’s hair after the formal funeral, the one that took place a full month after th
e real bodies from Darez Fort had been buried. Maryam had cut Arwa’s hair herself, smoothing its shorn edges flat with her fingers, tender with terrible disappointment. As Arwa’s hair had fallen to the ground, Arwa had felt all Maryam’s great dreams fall with it. Dreams of renewed glory. Dreams of second chances. Dreams of their family rising from disgrace.

  Arwa’s marriage should have saved them all.

  You could come back to Hara, Maryam had said. Your father has asked for you. A pause. The snip of shears. Maryam’s fingers, thin and cold, on her scalp. He asked me to remind you that as long as he lives, you have a place in our home.

  But Roshana had no right to that knowledge, so Arwa only added, “My family understand I wish to mourn my husband in peace.”

  Roshana gave a sniffle and released Arwa’s hands. She placed her fingertips gently against Arwa’s cheek. “You must still love him very much,” she said.

  I should weep, Arwa thought. They expect me to weep. But Arwa didn’t have the strength for it, so she simply lowered her eyes and drew her shawl over her face instead, as if overcome. There was a flurry of noise from the crowd. She felt Roshana’s hand on her head.

  “There, there now,” said Roshana. “All is well. We will take care of you, my dear. I promise.”

  “She should sleep,” Asima quavered from her seat. “We should all sleep. How late is the hour?”

  It was not a subtle hint.

  “Rabia,” said a voice. Arwa looked up. Gulshera was speaking, gesturing to one of the women in the crowd. “Show her where her room is.”

  Rabia hurried over and took Arwa’s hand in her own, ushering her forward. Arwa had almost forgotten that Nuri was present, so she startled a little, when she heard Nuri’s soft voice whisper her name, and felt her hand at her back.

  Roshana’s outpouring of emotion had both embarrassed Arwa and left her uneasy. She’d treated Arwa the way a woman might treat a daughter or a longed-for grandchild. She wondered if Roshana had either daughter or grandchild, somewhere beyond the hermitage. She wondered what sort of family would discard a woman here to gather dust. She wondered what sort of family a woman would, perhaps, come here to hide from, choosing solitude and prayer over the bonds and duties of family.