She learned quickly, of course. That was her gift. It was just as well, because I didn’t have very much thread to work with. She watched me spin the whorl once, twice, three times, and then on the fourth, she caught it herself and continued to spin.
Saoud held her upright, and Arwa fed her thread. I could only watch as she fought. She fought to keep her hands moving as the silver light bore down upon her, unable to resist this offering even after the demon had been made weak by its fight. She fought to stay awake, as the piskey’s gift came over her, and she swayed. Her eyes were locked with mine, her work forgotten even as her hands continued to move. She blinked, and I saw instead of my Little Rose the exultation of the demon queen, who had at last the body it wanted more than it had sense to see the trap. She blinked again, and I saw my Little Rose, still fighting. For me. For us. For Kharuf. She reached for the spindle again, and grasped it this time at the tip.
The spindle dropped one last time, and no one caught it. A drop of blood fell to the ground, and for a moment, I thought the entire world shifted underneath my feet. Then the thread unspooled, the curse shattered, the prison bars closed in around the demon’s head, and Zahrah, my Little Rose, fell asleep.
They built the tomb of iron, though neither of we who sleep here are dead. To guard against rust and decay, the dragons and the phoenix smelted the ore in their own fire, before turning the molten metal over to human smiths. As long as their power holds, the tomb will stand, apart from the castle but close to its heart. The bier is iron, and the walls are iron, and the roof is iron. But Yashaa dug a moat and filled it with roses, and their thorns grew sharp and long.
A monster slept there, and so most folk avoided it. But there were some few who came to sit by me, and they reminded me of why I chose this, when it seemed I had no choice at all.
My parents did not come. They gave Yashaa whatever he asked for to build the tomb, and watched the procession that carried me there, but they could not come themselves. I understood their pain, and I felt it in turn. They had done too much damage for it to be repaired without talking, and those who sleep cannot talk.
There was almost always at least one piskey hovering around my head, shedding fine gold dust that glimmered in the torchlight. It made the iron seem less cold. I thought perhaps they wept for me, or for the tangle of magic one of their kind had made of my life. They were a comfort to me, though. Like the iron, they weakened the demon that shared my sleep, and gave me room enough in my own mind to fight it.
Others came too, once or twice each, to pay their respects. They were the ones who had gone out from Kharuf when the curse was laid, and who could return now that I had broken it. They kissed my hand—kept warm and unmarred by time, thanks to the piskey’s gift—and sometimes I felt their tears, too. Though I had not known most of them, or at least I did not remember knowing them in life, in sleep I could feel their work in their hands, and knew that they loved me for my sacrifice.
And then there were the ones whom I loved.
The guardsman would bring his whetstone and his knives and sit at the foot of the bier. He talked about the rebuilding of Kharuf, and later, of his wife and his children. He told me that the tower I had lived in was a shrine now, where girls lit candles and boys made rash promises in the name of love. I felt them: the flames and the power of the words said there. I felt the words the guardsman said to me, too, as much as I heard them. They gave me strength to continue my battle with the one who slept with me, and every new flame, every whispered prayer, made me stronger in the fight.
The mountain goat came, too. She did not settle as easily as the other did. Her dreams were haunted by fire and dirt, suffocating her one minute and burning her the next. But in time, she too found peace and joy again. She would bring all manner of craft with her when she came to see me: weaving and fine embroidery, bread dough for kneading, fine copper wires that could be threaded through bright glass beads. I felt her work as much as I saw it, and it strengthened me as much as the guardsman’s tales of candles and promises.