The Bloodprint Read online

“Alamdar, I am your humble guest, no more. We seek a night’s shelter and would hear the story of your people before we take the pass to the east.”

  “You would risk the mountains? No one has traveled those passes in decades. The paths have worn away, they are no longer sound.” He looked at her wistfully. “There has been no news of the north or the south. You are the first travelers from the west to have reached Firuzkoh.”

  “We have no choice, Alamdar. It is through the mountains we must go.”

  The Alamdar paused.

  “Your need must be compelling if you do not fear the Talisman.”

  “I believed their strongholds were in the south. How far north have their forces encroached?”

  “They control the passes up to the border of the Chalk Road. How much further they may have ventured into the mountains, I do not know. The people of the mountains have vanished from time.”

  Which meant the Hazara had forsaken their traditional pasture lands. And the Mir had confirmed what she had learned of the mountains north and east.

  “And the Valley of the Awakened Prince—the valley of the statues?”

  “Lost to the Talisman, as well. They leave behind empty hollows in the cliffs.”

  The Talisman were a people out of time. They found nothing to regard in the heritage of others. They would have blasted the statues down, holding fast to their culture of death.

  “Why do you take that road?” the Mir asked. “Where does your destination lie?”

  Arian hesitated. The Mir posed no danger to them that she could see. But it was possible that her Audacy might pose a danger to the Hazara. Respecting his candor, she replied in kind.

  “I worry that my crossing of your path may bring you further loss. I have made an enemy of the Talisman.”

  “Are you not from among their people?”

  Unlike the Black Khan’s, his eyes were humble upon her face.

  But how to answer him? That she was a descendant of Candour’s most venerated clan? That her family had been the first to be targeted by the Talisman, despite their close bonds of kinship, because of her father’s position as curator of a scriptorium? That her mother had been renowned throughout the provinces of Khorasan for her peerless knowledge of the Claim? That the women of her family had been Oralists long before Arian had risen to join their ranks? Or that her young brother, a scholar in training, had been murdered before her eyes?

  Her father and mother had died with the words of the Claim on their lips, after hiding Arian in the secret room that served as the family scriptorium. Her sister, Lania, had been sold to a caravan, her fate still unknown.

  She had never seen any of her kin again.

  Ilea’s predecessor had sent the Citadel Guard to reclaim the bodies of her family, and had buried them at the Citadel with honors. The Citadel Guard had taken Arian to Hira, along with her family’s treasury of manuscripts. There she had been trained since childhood, the last in a gifted line of linguists, imprinted with a deeper knowledge of the Claim than even the Council suspected.

  Such were her memories of the past. She shared a bloodline with the Talisman without sharing any of their beliefs.

  In the end, she gave the Mir the simplest answer.

  “My people have fallen far. In the country of the Talisman, the sparrow flies with one wing only. Women are held now as slaves.”

  The Mir nodded.

  “And the boy?”

  “The Talisman kept him as a slave and used him to herd the caravans. If he was given a name or had a family of his own, he doesn’t remember them.”

  The Hazara understood this. They had known the same loss, the same persecution, their eyes gentle on the boy’s face.

  “I will assume responsibility for him,” the Mir offered. “These are his people.”

  Here was a solution Arian could not have hoped for: to find a place of safety for Wafa, among his own kind.

  “My friend is injured. Sinnia is a Companion of Hira. Will you keep her also? She will be of great use to you, if the Talisman discover this valley.”

  It would be a boon to the Hazara, and a means of easing her conscience on two fronts. Her bold intervention with the last caravan had seen her friend suffer injury on her account. She had also put the Hazara at risk by seeking safe passage through Firuzkoh.

  Sinnia listened patiently to the exchange before speaking.

  “Where you ride, I ride,” she reminded Arian.

  The boy spoke, too, anxious not to be left behind.

  “Wafa is loyal. Wafa stays with you.”

  He wasn’t schooled enough to know to thank the Mir for his offer.

  Arian hastened to smooth over the lapse.

  “The Alamdar is most kind. I would be glad for Wafa to find sanctuary here, if I might leave him.”

  Wafa scrambled to his feet.

  “No!” he shouted. “Wafa is loyal! Wafa will show you! Beat me, starve me, do as you like. I will carry the packs, I will break the snow. I will do anything you ask, just keep me with you! You said I was precious, you know that you said so.” He started to cry. “No one ever said that to Wafa.”

  He collapsed in a heap, burying his face in his knees, sobbing wildly.

  Several of the Hazara girls collected around him, patting him on the shoulders, offering colored cloths to wipe his face.

  Her thoughts whirling, Arian knelt before him.

  “Wafa,” she crooned. “I promise you, you are precious. You saved me from the sword of the Talisman, just as you saved Sinnia. If I wish to leave you here, it is not because you do not matter. It is because you matter too much. The road I travel brings death. Here you have a chance at something more.”

  The boy stopped crying. He glared at the girls who had gathered to help him until they moved away. Resting his chin on his knees, he measured Arian with his gaze. Instead of using a dirty hand to wipe his nose, this time he used a cloth to clean his face, defying anyone to take notice of his tears.

  A crack in his voice, he answered her. “I was dead anyway. You said you would take me with you, so you must take me.”

  Sinnia ran a hand through the boy’s sandy hair, cuffing him lightly.

  “And if you are going to take this slip of a boy, you cannot leave a Companion behind.”

  Arian saw that she had no choice but to capitulate.

  She thanked the Mir again, and she knew from his grave nod that he understood her dilemma. Now he called for blankets and washbasins to be brought into the hall, urging them to rest for the night. The Hazara women and girls prepared a communal place to sleep where they could offer each other the warmth of their bodies.

  Arian followed the Mir and his men to the door.

  “I wish to warn you, Alamdar. I fear someone or something was tracking us from the Golden Finger. You should double your guard.”

  He stopped at the door.

  “Did the city seem deserted when you first approached it?”

  “Yes. Just a few of your people were gathered in the valley.”

  The Mir clasped his hands before him.

  “In fact, they populate all of Firuzkoh. We have learned to make ourselves invisible, but I will double the guard, as you say. There is nowhere left for my people to flee.”

  “There is one place, if it comes to that: you must follow the road to Hira. Take the river if you can. Find refuge at the Citadel.”

  “Will my people be welcome there?”

  Their eyes met in perfect understanding.

  “Two of the Companions are Hazara. They will insist on your safe passage.”

  And she realized she still didn’t have an answer as to how the Hazara had found the lost city, or known to take refuge there. This time, she asked the question directly.

  “Come,” the Mir said. “You have called me ‘Alamdar,’ the standard-bearer. You must know something of our powers.”

  “You said this was a place of ziyara.”

  “When the Talisman hunted us from village to village, killing ev
erything they found in their path, we had one means of safety. A trail of alams, marking the path west from the lands of Hazarajat. The elders knew the secret of the tower that stands at the meeting place of two rivers. The finger of the minaret pointed us to safety. The martyrs left their flags along the path. They were our guides.”

  “And the ziyara?”

  She heard the grief in the Alamdar’s voice.

  “A graveyard is a site of blessings. We carried our dead along with us.”

  17

  Arian remembered the legends taught to her by her mother. The white flags that marked sites both sacred and blessed were invisible to the Hazara’s enemies. By planting a trail of flags through their pasture lands, the Hazara had found their way to safety.

  Even then a mounted guard was wise, in order to sound the warning so the people could disappear again, hiding their livestock, leaving nothing behind but their graveyard.

  If they were found, there was still the refuge of Hira.

  If the Citadel would open its gates, as she had promised. Ilea’s recent actions had given Arian cause to doubt the High Companion’s motives. But she didn’t know what else to offer, or what other choice the Hazara might have.

  “I would like to pay my respects at the graveyard, to recite a passage for the dead.”

  The Hazara gathered behind the Mir went still. The Mir brushed a hand across his face, uncertain of what he’d just heard. This woman was a Companion of Hira, which meant she was an Oralist. But she was also connected to the Talisman by blood.

  “You would recite the Claim to honor Hazara?”

  “Without question. Why not?”

  As she looked from face to face, she saw that the Hazara had the shine of tears in their eyes. The hands the Mir had clasped together were shaking.

  “The Talisman call us a people of unbelief. The One commands our death, they say.”

  A dart of pain shot through Arian. What could the Preacher seek by this teaching? What benefit could there be in such hatred, or in bringing so many to grief?

  “We were made different nations to know one another,” she recounted. “Your ways and beliefs are righteous. People of dignity must not let themselves fall sway to the Talisman.”

  This time she could be glad when the people called out in gratitude, “Sahabiya, sahabiya.”

  “Why do you risk the pass into the mountains?” the Alamdar asked again.

  She met his honesty with honesty.

  “Because we are headed to the northland.”

  The Mir’s eyes sharpened.

  “Beyond the Wall? To the Stone City?”

  She was at a loss to answer him. He gripped her arm, the gesture urgent enough to explain the discourtesy of it.

  “I fear you are seeking the Bloodprint. And if you are, there is something you must know.”

  A thrill of excitement brought a spark to Arian’s eyes.

  “Take me to your graveyard. We can discuss the matter there.”

  What the Alamdar shared with her was folklore—the folklore of the Hazara. A case had been built to hold the sacred pages of the Bloodprint, the strong square print of Kufa inked upon its parchment. Because of its iron binding, the case was called the Cast Iron, but it was said to be made of gold, set with emeralds and precious stones. The Bloodprint was a treasury of lost knowledge. The Cast Iron was a treasure.

  It had been taken from the Stone City, its hiding place for centuries, and transported to Marakand. Where it was now, the Alamdar could not say. What he did know was that the Authoritan held it dear, not as an ancient record of the Claim, but rather for its encasement.

  In the lands of the Authoritan, the Bloodprint was far less prized than the case that contained it.

  And it was the secret of opening the Cast Iron the Alamdar had confided.

  While the others slept in the crush of warm bodies in the Hallow, Arian remained alert, pondering what she had learned. And wondering what else Ilea had promised to the Black Khan, who’d made no mention of the Cast Iron.

  The Cast Iron that couldn’t be opened, obstructing access to the incalculable knowledge within.

  The Black Khan had sworn to the truth of his revelations, on the Sacred Cloak itself. She couldn’t accept that a prince of Khorasan would dare hold his oath so lightly—the Cloak was so deeply hallowed that blasphemy was unthinkable. It would never have occurred to Arian to doubt him. Yet the Black Khan had chosen not to mention the Cast Iron. How had he opened it? Had he seen it at all? Had the Bloodprint ever been in Ashfall?

  The prayer Arian recited over the graveyard of the Hazara provided comfort only to her listeners. She was at a loss, disturbed by the things Ilea and the Black Khan had concealed from her. And now she sensed something else. Movement. A scurrying. A conspiracy of wind and silence that clawed against the small comforts of the cold.

  A man she recognized as one of the Alamdar’s guards came stumbling into the hall. His face was white under his box cap.

  “They’ve found us. Wake the women. The Mir calls us to the Vanishing Point.”

  Arian didn’t wait for details. She could hear the sound of the Talisman approach, horses snorting in the blue wind, pawing the ground. Men’s voices deadened by snowfall, the ring of steel against its sheathing.

  The women rose silently, prepared for this day since the moment they had made their home in the valley. They arranged themselves in rows, leading Arian, Sinnia, and Wafa to the rear entrance of the Hallow, through a door of blue tiles that blended into the wall. A group remained behind to black out the lanterns. None of the women spoke. They pressed each other’s hands in communication of their strategy.

  She followed them into the murky tunnel that extended beneath the city to the rise above the graveyard where she had paid her respects. The women had turned their colorful shawls inside out. Now they were masked in white.

  White chadors were lent to her and Sinnia, Wafa engulfed in the cloth.

  They escaped the cramped, dark tunnel for the bracing air of the winter night lit by the pinprick of stars. In a smothered silence, the people of the valley assembled upon the ridge that overlooked the graveyard. Like the women from the hall, their clothes were shrouded in white. To the eyes searching for them from the pass into the valley, they would blend into the hills.

  The Mir had perfectly calculated his Vanishing Point.

  The Hazara brought nothing with them, although each man, woman, and child held a white flag in one hand, wraiths standing motionless on the rise, watching Talisman troops descend in two long columns down the path into the valley, the lost city of Firuzkoh yielding its secrets at last.

  “Alamdar. You must take the road to Hira. Or if you find a vessel, take the river.”

  The leader of the Hazara shook his head, watchful as the Talisman began to hunt through the maze of streets.

  “They will find the city empty and leave. The Vanishing Point keeps us safe. The blind do not know how to search, let alone see.”

  Arian held her breath. The Talisman were warriors, heavyset and strong, practiced in battle. They wore black leather armor instead of traditional Talisman garb, their feet booted against the snow, their turbans wrapped around their heads.

  A senior commander directed the search, quartering the empty city in a systematic sweep that should have terrified the Hazara, who waited quiet and still.

  “No footprints on the snow?” Arian murmured, as a question.

  “There is no one but the One,” the Alamdar responded. “And so the One commands.”

  Arian suspected it was more than that. The Vanishing Point was well-chosen. It was a trick of sight, a line that gave its people shelter, invisible from every angle, much as Firuzkoh remained shrouded by snow until one found the path into the hills. The One had endowed the Hazara with the gifts of intelligence and forethought.

  The utter stillness of the children spoke of the massacres they had witnessed in their homeland. They were schooled in the art of survival.

  And the
n she understood how the Talisman had tracked her to Firuzkoh.

  Unable to find any trace of Hazara occupancy or of the Companions, the senior commander let out a piercing whistle.

  Two giant mastiffs with thick, white fur and slavering jaws leapt into the valley from behind the flanks of Talisman horses. Their long snouts picked up the trail to the Hallow, the Commandhan and his men falling in behind them.

  “This way,” he called. “She was here. Search each house, each building. Break down the doors if you have to.”

  Arian cursed under her breath. As she’d feared, she’d led the Talisman straight to the Hazara. It was a Talisman mastiff she had sensed on the pass, his white fur blending into the snow, taking his discovery back to his masters.

  “You must leave now,” she hissed to the Alamdar. “The mastiffs are tracking dogs. They followed me here.”

  “My men will fight if they must.”

  “Your people will die. A white flag is no match for the Talisman. They are skilled warriors, hardened by years of war.”

  The Alamdar looked faintly pained.

  “I thought a Companion of Hira might know about my people. You said two of your sisters are Hazara.”

  This was not the time for a conference on the rituals of Hira or the reasons the Companions kept secrets from each other, more secrets than Arian had guessed.

  “What do you speak of, Alamdar? You must lead your people to safety!”

  He stood immovable, his people ranged in silent ranks behind him, their animals lower down on the rise.

  “The alams of my people possess their own power.”

  Talisman soldiers tore through the Hallow, breaking the door, despoiling the carpets, cracking the lanterns, stampeding through the corners of the hall, smashing the faience as they searched.

  They found nothing.

  The mastiffs circled the building from end to end without picking up a trace of the trail through the tunnels.

  The search was ending in other parts of Firuzkoh, as well, the methodical sweep having turned up no trace of the Companions or of the dwellers of the valley.

  Arian felt tension seep out of the line of women and children, who had shown such resilience in the eye of the storm.