This is an AU fic for 'The Horse and His Boy', written for the very simple reason that I despise the 'evil stepmother' trope. The idea for this fic sprouted in my mind after reading a post of Ana Mardoll's 'The Horse and His Boy' and a comment by gehayi in the comments section. The idea in particular from gehayi's comment that is present by there and here, I took with gehayi's permission; it was not my idea originally. The title of the fic is taken from 'What the Thunder Said', the fifth section of 'The Waste Land' by T.S. Eliot.

[Content Note/Trigger Warning: As per canon, Calormen appears to be an extremely patriarchal country, which would make it a rather not-fun place for women (and pretty much anyone who isn't at the top of the pecking order, though since the fic's focus is on Aravis and Zhaleh, I'm only talking about the effect it has on noblewomen here), and I am exploring that here. Other warnings: misogyny; references to murder and rape; forced marriage.]

I own nothing.

It had proved rather more prudent to tell Aravis of the impending marriage in private first. Lucky, too, that Kidrash preferred his country estate to any of his town residences. In town, you had to make a production out of engagements, the sort of production that carried no promise of privacy, that was just how it was, but out here, yes, messengers would be sent to every town, every village, and every hamlet in Calavar, but the well-wishers wouldn't arrive for a few days, at least. That gave them some time.

Zhaleh bit back a sigh as she watched Aravis walk so stiffly out of her father's study, but once the girl was gone, she let the sigh escape her lips. She stood, and pushed back the diaphanous silk screen behind which she had been sitting. There were several painted silk screens placed at strategic intervals about the room. One depicted songbirds perched on the golden branches of a young orange tree in spring, as white petals swirled in the air. Another, a graceful ship with snowy sails sailing upon a sparkling blue sea. More still were scenes taken from the pages of history and legend. The screens' purpose was to catch the light and glimmer prettily, but Zhaleh had found the triptych by the window especially useful when she and Kidrash deemed it necessary she listen in on his conversations, but couldn't find any legitimate reason for her to be in the room.

Sitting at the low table, Kidrash was running a hand wearily through his lightly graying hair his face contorted in a hideous grimace. Zhaleh felt a thorn of pity sting her heart at his face, but she still said, quietly, "You know that if she obeys, she does so only for love of you, not because there is any joy in her heart."

"I didn't think she would be happy with it, not truly," Kidrash agreed, compunction bleeding into his voice. His hand went to pinching the bridge of his nose. "Few of us are wed without even meeting our prospective spouse, let alone without even being consulted. But you must have seen her face. It was as though I had ordered her execution!"

And still Aravis had nodded and acquiesced, her face carven and bloodless. That is what daughters of the great do, Zhaleh thought with some irritation, wringing the end of her long, rose silk veil in her hand until she realized she was crumpling it and let go. It is what we were taught, after all. We throw ourselves onto the pyres or ambition and feuding, most of them pyres we did not make ourselves.

She sat down at Kidrash's right side, resting her hand on his knee to hold his attention. She couldn't quite keep the edge out of her voice as she suggested, "Perhaps if you told Aravis the reason why you contracted marriage between her and Ahoshta, she would be more amenable to the marriage."

But Kidrash shook his head violently. "No, Zhaleh; it would only terrify her. How could I add fear to her anguish?" He rubbed his forehead, the gesture an expression both of indecision and butter regret. "It might be better simply to call it off and let the dice fall as they may. Rabadash may have forgotten…"

As far as Zhaleh, never a particularly sentimental person, saw immediately the flaw in this plan. "The prince does not forget any slight made against him, real or perceived," she retorted. The anger and exasperation that had been building within her since their hurried departure from Tashbaan finally bubbled up in full. "My husband, I am amazed with you. Aravis is not so young that she would not understand the forces that conspired to make this marriage necessary. Enforced ignorance will only serve her ill. If you send her in ignorant, she is bound to learn the truth once she marries Ahoshta and removes to Tashbaan; if she is not told outright, she will no doubt still notice that the prince's faction is quite hostile to her, and to you. Absolutely nothing is served by deceiving her! It only puts her in more danger, for she might stumble blindly into the snake's nest when otherwise she could have avoided it!"

"What would you have me do, then?" Kidrash protested, gesticulating wildly at the door. "Am I just to tell her what is at stake?!"

Just to tell her that he had no means to protect her. Zhaleh understood. She paused for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then, she smiled thinly. "Leave it to me."

"To you. But you and Aravis…"

"Yes, to me. I believe I can make her see the wisdom of your decision."

Kidrash looked at her very hard, the lines in his face growing deeper and deeper. He nodded slowly. "I leave it to you, then."

Zhaleh made a quick return to the women's quarters, giving only perfunctory nods to those she met in the hallways and the small, shaded courtyard she had to cross to get there. She found her rooms empty, was frankly glad for that. Her hands went to her ears, her neck, as she neatly put away her earrings, her necklace, her rings. She turned one of her rings, a lightweight silver band with a turquoise stone, over in her hand, frowning slightly. She had been gifted this ring in Tashbaan when they had went last, just before that trip had turned sour. It had felt so cold, so heavy on her finger when she realized the look in the prince's eyes as he spoke of Aravis. But she could not focus on that fear, could not let it overwhelm her. She could only use it as a tool, to remind her of what was at stake.

Her jewelry gone, Zhaleh unpinned her veil from her black hair and traded the gold-brocaded lavender jacket she wore over her light gray dress for a plain black one. She wrapped one of the soft wool scarves she had brought from her father's house about her head and her shoulders—the favorite of her scarves, a muted blue emblazoned with yellow roses (She thought it framed her thin face rather better than a veil anyways). The finery Zhaleh wore as mistress of the house would not help her in any discussion with Aravis, especially not if she was to walk into Aravis's chamber dressed like that. There was, though, one thing that she could not alter about her appearance to make it more agreeable to her stepdaughter.

Zhaleh grimaced at the noticeable curve of her abdomen. It might be more easily hidden with a loose shirt and trousers, never mind that she had found dresses more comfortable to wear ever since her belly began to swell noticeably. But it couldn't be helped. The loosest clothes in the world weren't going to make Aravis forget that her stepmother was four months gone with child.

The door to Aravis's bedchamber was unbolted; Zhaleh met no resistance when she pushed it open. Inside, it was not dark, exactly, but quite shaded. The star-patterned lattices were shut over the windows, casting little star-shaped shadows on the floor; over the lattices, the airy blue curtains had been drawn shut as well. Aravis was lying on her bed, her face buried in a pillow. She wasn't crying, or didn't seem to be, but she was breathing so hard that Zhaleh heard it immediately upon entering.

Aravis's attendant, a young girl by the name of Minu, knelt by the bed, her face a mask of sympathy and confusion as she rubbed Aravis's back soothingly. "Won't you tell me what's wrong? It's always made you feel better when you have."

"Minu." Zhaleh's voice cut the air crisply; Minu's head shot up, and she turned her startled gaze on Zhaleh. "Leave us. I would speak to my stepdaughter alone."

Minu hesitated, her brow deeply furrowed. Zhaleh smiled half-heartedly at her and said, "Sakineh has been making faloodeh." If Zhaleh remembered correctly, Minu had some fondness for faloodeh. "She will need someone to taste it for her. I want you to go to the kitchens and help her. Now."

After a moment more, Minu nodded and rose to her feet. She left the room without another word, leaving Zhaleh alone with Aravis.

Zhaleh, noting that Aravis seemed unaware still of her presence, regarded the girl in silence. Aravis still lied curled up on her bed, her loose brown hair fanning out behind her and her arms wrapped tightly around a pillow, pressing it to her face. The two of them weren't so far apart in age, really—that certainly had provided its own set of difficulties, but it also afforded Zhaleh more sympathy for Aravis than she might otherwise have had. She could remember, easily, being this age and regarding the idea of leaving home with commingled anger and terror. When, later, the time had come for her to marry, she removed to a new house close enough that she could at least visit her family regularly, if she wished. Tashbaan, however, was so far away that Aravis would rarely be able to see her family—compounding the problem was the fact that Ahoshta's position was such that it would be unseemly for his wife to leave his side too often for too long.

All the more reason for her to know the truth.

"Aravis." She spoke more quietly than she had to Minu, more softly. It was the way she had always tried to speak to her at first, before frustration had sharpened her voice and anger made it louder. (As much her own fault, Zhaleh supposed, as it was Aravis's.) "I need to speak with you."

Now, now Aravis heard her. She snapped up in bed, her dark eyes darting about the room until they settled on Zhaleh. When their eyes locked, Aravis straightened and settled in a sitting position on the bed with her legs crossed. Her head was erect and her shoulders straight, and Aravis adopted a cool, dispassionate expression, as though her hair was not in complete disarray and there were not large, red splotches at the tops of her cheeks.

"Stepmother," Aravis said stiffly, giving a short nod in greeting. The designation rolled awkwardly off her tongue, as it had for the past two years. And why shouldn't it? Zhaleh wondered tiredly. We are close enough in age to have learned etiquette together in one of the great houses, were we not born to great houses ourselves. "You'll forgive me, I was…" Aravis's face contorted "…unaware of your presence."

"Yes, I had gathered. Be that as it may, I need to speak with you."

Something sparked in Aravis's eyes. "Father sent you, didn't he? He could see that I was unhappy?"

Zhaleh thought better of telling Aravis that it had been her idea to speak to her, and not Kidrash's. "Yes, he could. He's your father, Aravis; he does notice these things."

Aravis stared at her very hard for a moment, a frown stealing over her lips. Finally, she seemed to notice the state of her hair, for she raked a hand through it in some futile attempt to neaten it. Then, she said, very deliberately, "I will not marry Ahoshta Tarkaan."

Well, that was certainly more honesty than Kidrash had gotten out of her earlier. A step in the right direction, at least. Zhaleh raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You didn't say as much to your father."

This got Zhaleh a cold glare. "You're not my father."

"And no one would mistake me for Aysel Tarkheena, either," Zhaleh conceded, and Aravis's glare grew, if possible, even colder. Doubtless she told herself the same thing, quite often. "What are your objections, then?" she asked briskly, ignoring the sheer chill of her stepdaughter's stare.

Aravis paused and frowned at her. Zhaleh could only guess at what she was thinking, what she feared more. Oh, yes, in this case, the prospect of Zhaleh carrying tales back to Kidrash was not a matter of small concern, but considering that, as far as Aravis knew, Zhaleh had come on her husband's say-so, carrying Aravis's words back to him was rather the point. So it would have to be Zhaleh lying that Aravis was worried about, or making a slip and saying something that could move her father to anger if repeated honestly.

"I have no desire to marry," Aravis said at length, her tone carefully measured.

Zhaleh resisted the urge to pull a face. "So I had gathered." She shed her shoes and took a seat on the bed opposite Aravis, ignoring the latter's rather offended look. "But what are your objections to Ahoshta Tarkaan in particular?" she pressed. It would be rather easier, Zhaleh though, if she knew everything that she could.

"I… have reservations regarding his ancestry." From the brittle tone of Aravis's voice, Zhaleh suspected she would have said something somewhat less diplomatic had she been more sure of her audience. "It seems to me that the blood of my house does not bear polluting."

"You are not the only child of your house," Zhaleh pointed out. That is a rote excuse, the dutiful protest anyone would expect of a Tarkheena who thought she was marrying beneath her station. It is only the surface; what lies beneath? "Even if your children can not boast of pure, noble blood, the blood of this house would not on the whole be diluted."

Aravis's gaze strayed to Zhaleh's abdomen, a sour look coming briefly over her face, before being quashed. "Yes," she said stiffly. "I know. I do have other reservations."

"And they are?"

"His age and infirmity," Aravis replied promptly. She rolled her shoulders restlessly, picking at the sleeve cuff of her red tunic just afterwards. "If I must marry, I would rather my husband be able to share my interests with me, and as I understand it, Ahoshta Tarkaan can't even mount a horse, let alone ride one. And if I must marry, I would marry a man close to my own age, not someone many years older than my own father."

How many of us have wished for that? Zhaleh herself remembered wishing for that, once. That had been a long time ago.

Her gaze strayed across the room. Evidence of Aravis's athletic pursuits could be found everywhere. There was the recurve bow made of maple and a quiver of arrows propped up against the wall (though such things were supposed to be stored in the armory when not in use); a polo bat was propped up nearby them. A hunting knife, its hilt inset with glittering rubies, sat out on top of a chest painted black with white flowers. In Tashbaan, she'd be restricted to a life far more sedentary than what she enjoyed here. At least Zhaleh would have been able to practice her own hobbies anywhere she lived. Any noble household, set up either in the country or the city, had gardens and greenhouses for plants.

"We are not all fortunate enough to marry our contemporaries, Aravis."

Something like fire flared in Aravis's eyes. "Do you not count yourself fortunate?" she challenged.

Zhaleh frowned, barely resisting the urge to look away. "Yes," she said quietly. "I am very fortunate. …Have you any other complaints regarding your intended?"

At this, Aravis's brow furrowed. She looked almost reluctant to speak—a rarity, frankly, considering how confident she usually was in speaking her mind. Oh, have we arrived at his character, then? Aravis would know better than to seem too eager to impugn another's good name. "I have heard…" Aravis paused, her hand going again to her sleeve cuff. "…As I understand it, Ahoshta Tarkaan is given to flattering his betters to excess." Her lips thinned in an expression of distaste. "And to the exclusion of honesty. Actually, I have heard that that is how he came by his more prestigious posts in the first place."

Zhaleh bit back a laugh. "How little you know of the royal court."

"I know that I cannot stand sycophants!" Aravis retorted hotly.

"Aravis, diligence alone is not enough to guarantee you any measure of success at court. Especially if, like Ahoshta, you were not born to the noblest of noble houses. Whether you approve of it or not, flattery is often necessary to oil the gears, as it were."

Aravis scowled at her. "It is not a quality I could abide in my husband."

"Would that I could find a less fawning man with Ahoshta's standing, then," Zhaleh muttered. She pressed her fingers to her brow, trying and failing to ward off the headache she found brewing there. I suppose I'll have to make peppermint tea later.

"'You,'" Aravis said to herself, visibly confused. Then, realization dawned, terrible in mingled horror and fury, upon her face. "This was your idea?!"

Now we come to it. Zhaleh drew herself up and nodded impassively. "Yes, it was."

Aravis reeled backwards, gaping. "Why?!" she exclaimed. She flicked her gaze about the room as though seeking support from members of an audience, though they were alone here. "Is my presence in this house so hateful to you that you would sell me off to the most loathsome man you could find?!"

"Hardly that." Zhaleh could manage a steady tone. She had been expecting recriminations.

"What, then?" Aravis demanded, her eyes blazing. "What can he have promised to make you consider it, and my father accept?"

"Your protection," Zhaleh said flatly.

"My pr…" Aravis trailed off; doubtless the words needed a moment to sink in properly. Then she asked, with a thrum of urgency taut in her voice, "What do you mean? Protection from whom?"

"Your father has made an enemy of a powerful man."

"Who?"

"The Prince Rabadash."

Aravis's face paled. "Oh," she said simply, and it was as though all the air had gone out of her, for she sagged, her shoulders slumping.

Though she had not been raised at the royal court, had indeed never set foot in the capital, Aravis knew the world of the nobility well. She had been to party after party, had attended her father's court in the provincial capital and wintered in other provincial courts. She must have known the tale, one that played out over and over again.

Two men lock horns over some issue or another. They have offended each other, impugned each other, become enemies. Then, one man comes to the other, and in the interest of reconciliation, offers to take a woman of his family has his wife. The other man's sister, or, more commonly, his daughter. The two houses are united in marriage until, surprise, surprise, the woman taken as wife dies not more than a year later.

Zhaleh knew: this was what great men with grudges did. Daughters of noble houses were, first and foremost, treated as ornaments and marriage pawns. They were a credit to their houses through their beauty, their loyalty and obedience, their ability to bear sons who would carry the blood of their fathers. Ultimately, that was what Aravis was, what Zhaleh was, and if the latter's child was a girl, it was what she would be as well. Everything else was secondary.

You struck at your enemy by hurting what they valued, the girl-child who, by virtue of being ineligible to be her father's heir, was rather more vulnerable than her brothers—the murder of an heir was an act of war, but few fathers could stir themselves to war over the loss of a daughter, especially when the murderers were usually canny enough to cover up any signs of foul play. This was what children did, too—when another child angers you, you break their toys. But while a child might cry and cry over a broken toy, it was often a shallow grief, and abated quickly.

And what are we to great men with grudges? Zhaleh pondered bitterly. If they kidnapped us, if they stripped us of our virtue, then our families might actually be roused to make reprisals. So they do this, instead. And while Kidrash might wish for justice if Aravis were to die, even a man who can stand in the Tisroc's presence is nothing to the Tisroc's son.

At sixteen, Aravis was young to marry, but not so young that anyone would mark it as strange for her to marry, no matter whom she married. Her house was high enough (descendants of the Tisrocs all) that a union between the house of Calavar and the royal house was not demeaning to either. The sons of the Tisrocs were so inundated with marriage offers from the noble houses that for Kidrash to turn down an offer of marriage from the heir himself, after Rabadash himself had proposed the offer, would set tongues to wagging and bring disapprobation down on Aravis's head—what was it about her that made her father balk at sending her to the royal house? And even among the nobility, it was not uncommon for very young women to die in childbirth. No one would suspect a thing. And even if they did, who was there who would gainsay Prince Rabadash?

Even if he didn't kill her, he would make her miserable. He would torment her, in and out. And there would be nothing anyone could do. For who would gainsay the heir to the Tisroc's throne?

"How…" Aravis's voice was toneless, her face like a stone carving. "…How did this happen?"

Zhaleh sighed heavily. "It was at a council meeting. There has been an increase in raiding just off the coast, and your father and Prince Rabadash were of differing opinions over what to do about it. Rabadash believes the raiders are abetted by local peasants, and wished for certain villagers to be razed as an example to the rest. Your father felt that increasing naval patrols and offering rewards for the raiders' capture would be sufficient. They argued in open council."

"That's…" Aravis's face twisted in frustration. Zhaleh knew that, in her father's place, Aravis likely would have argued with Rabadash too, heedless of the consequences. They really were cut from the same cloth, those two.

"What made it worse was that the Tisroc chose your father's course of action over Rabadash's. The prince has been known to hold grudges over far less than that." Zhaleh reached forward and gripped Aravis's hand in her own. "Aravis. Whatever you may think of Ahoshta Tarkaan as a man, he is the only man both willing to protect you and capable of offering meaningful protection. He is to be the next Grand Vizier, and even the Tisroc's heir cannot risk poisoning the Grand Vizier's wife. Rabadash will never forget the enmity he bears your father, but in time he will be distracted with other, fresher grudges, and he may set his sights on another prize." Which essentially amounted to hoping that he would victimize some other girl instead of Aravis, but Zhaleh could think of no better way than this. No one ever came out with their hands clean, playing this game. "And I… I entered this household under similar circumstances." Zhaleh smiled weakly. "It is not such a terrible fate, all things considered. Not compared to the alternative."

For a long time, Zhaleh was met only with resounding silence. The look on Aravis's face was one of a person struggling to master their own emotions. Zhaleh knew that face. It was the face she had worn, just two years ago. It was a face she thought she still wore, in private moments.

Finally, Aravis said, very deliberately, but with a slight quake in her voice, "Even if I were amenable to this marriage, which I am not, I would have to tell you that there is a flaw in your plan."

Zhaleh clutched at the embroidered bed linens with one hand. "And what is that?"

"Whatever enemies your family has made, my father is young enough that he may outlive your enemies, or your enemies may let go of the grudge before he dies, and not trouble you afterwards." Aravis's face, a mockery of composure with her eyes over-bright and her jaw tight, stretched tighter still. "Prince Rabadash never forgets wrongs done to him, and he always collects payment on grudges. I know that of him. But Ahoshta Tarkaan is old, and sick. He could die soon, even if he was not 'helped' alone into his grave. What happens then?" she asked, very quietly.

Zhaleh bit her lip. Aravis spoke the truth, and it was the one fly in the ointment she'd not been able to remedy. Ahoshta Tarkaan was lord over many cities, but as Grand Vizier he would be required to dwell in Tashbaan, and his wife with him. By law, widows were required to reside in the house their husbands had died in for a year and a day, both to ensure the paternity of any child born during that time period, and for purification purposes. That would leave Aravis alone in Tashbaan for a year, far from her father's seat of power, and right in the middle of Rabadash's. So much could happen in a year…

"Have you any friends in Tashbaan?" Zhaleh asked her, frowning to herself. While it was unlikely that anyone Aravis knew in the capital could protect her from Rabadash in the long term, it was possible she knew someone highly-placed enough to lead him on a merry chase long enough to keep Aravis safe during the mourning period.

The look that came over Aravis's face was a dubious one. "Well, there's Lasaraleen. She's married now, to some courtier. She keeps talking about how important he is, but I don't know him, and I'm not sure what she could do by herself."

"Lasaraleen?" Zhaleh echoed abstractedly. "I think she could do more than you think."

Zhaleh had known Lasaraleen when she was younger. Lasaraleen was one of many noble girls who had grown up in households that did not value women who had minds of their own or, more honestly, women who had minds at all. Since she was not at all unintelligent, Lasaraleen had quickly set about to giving everyone the impression that she was significantly less intelligent and significantly less perceptive than she actually was. She possessed a genuine interest in jewelry, fine clothing and socializing with her peers, and played up those traits to the point where many people thought that that was all there was to her. Lasaraleen was, in Zhaleh's estimation, very good at getting what she wanted out of people without anyone realizing that they'd been manipulated or duped. "Honestly, it's just more fun that way," Lasaraleen had once confided in private. "And in certain circles, quite necessary. I mean, really, Zhaleh, you have met my father. Did he seem particularly indulgent to you?" (Zhaleh suspected Lasaraleen had been rather glad to get out of her father's house, by the end.)

Recently, Zhaleh had discovered something rather interesting about Lasaraleen—namely, that she was in the employ of the Minister of Intelligence. It had been not long after things went sour with Rabadash. Lasaraleen had paid Kidrash's townhouse a very… conspicuous visit under the guise of visiting an old friend and enquiring after another. While there, she apprised Kidrash and Zhaleh of the situation that was brewing with Rabadash, and how Aravis's name had been mentioned in connection with that 'situation.'

As an Intelligence agent, Lasaraleen was perfectly poised to monitor any brewing plot of Rabadash's (he did have a tendency to rant in anger, and even if he didn't, making preparations for an assassination did tend to leave a trail) and warn Aravis and anyone else aiding her in time to circumvent it. But Intelligence agents occupied just as vulnerable a space in society as they did a powerful one. Their work was to expose plots and scandals and other secrets, and certainly made their share of enemies as they did so. If Lasaraleen was ever exposed publicly, she'd likely be found dead in the river not long afterwards.

Lasaraleen had already risked exposure as an agent by warning Zhaleh and Kidrash of what Rabadash planned for Aravis. Would she really aid Aravis over a long period of time, knowing that the risk of exposure increased with every passing day? With Lasaraleen, what would win out? Loyalty to a friend, or self-interest?

"But perhaps it would be better not to rely on her," Zhaleh murmured, grimacing. No, better not to rely on anyone they were not entirely sure of. She turned her attention back to Aravis in full, staring intently into her face. "You were speaking the truth when you said that you would not accept the marriage? Even knowing what you do now?"

Aravis paused and frowned, and nodded. "Yes, I was."

In that case…

"Come with me, then."

Zhaleh led Aravis through the halls of the women's quarters, and to a small courtyard housing several different plants in ceramic pots, and a tall chest of drawers seated safely beneath an awning. Overhead, the sky had grown heavy with dark clouds that promised thunder but no rain; a hot, dry wind blew overhead. "The idle must find uses for their hands, lest their brains rot," Zhaleh muttered with a crooked smile as she opened up one of the drawers and began rifling through the assortment of glass phials, ceramic jars and brightly-dyed pouches found inside. Finally, she found what she was looking for, a small glass phial filled with a fine, grayish-blue powder, and turned to Aravis, who just seemed deeply perplexed.

"Aravis. If you are truly set on not marrying Ahoshta, I do have another solution. But if you commit yourself to this course of action, you cannot turn back later. To do so would bring shame on our house, and danger upon both you and your father—and there will be plenty of shame and danger brought upon us already. You can tell no one, especially not your father, of this plan; if you are caught, I will deny all involvement, even in the face of your implications."

Aravis eyed the phial as though it contained some deadly poison. "What was it you had in mind?"

Zhaleh took one of Aravis's hands and pressed the phial into her palm. "This is a substance that, when mixed into wine, will cause the drinker to sleep for a day and a night." She spoke crisply, without any inflection. That seemed the only way to even discuss something like this. "The contents of the phial in full are needed for a grown man; three-quarters are sufficient for a grown woman. I would recommend not using it on either children or animals; it tends to prove fatal to both. Otherwise, use it as you will."

For a moment, Aravis stared at her, gaping, visibly dumbfounded. Then, she stared down at the phial instead, turned it over in her hands as though it was a charm with which she could call upon the gods themselves for aid. When she looked up, her eyes were extremely bright and her face pale, but resolute. "…Thank you."

She did not ask why. They both knew well that it did not bear asking.