The Blue Eye Read online

  “How many of the Black Khan’s people have you killed or enslaved on your route to Ashfall?”

  The Spinzhiray’s nobbled fingers stroked the soft wool of his beard. “To spread the message of the One across these lands is an act of justice.”

  The Talisman commanders nodded one by one. In their renewed silence, Daniyar’s sharp ears picked up a sound that filled his thoughts with urgency. The actions of the Zhayedan were intensifying: they were preparing to attack.

  He’d known better than to trust the Black Khan, but what other choice had there been? Arian was behind those walls. She was determined to take on the One-Eyed Preacher, even if she did so alone.

  He sought a truce with the Talisman because he’d taken on her cause as his own. He had turned from her once, then promised himself he wouldn’t fail her again.

  “The people of West Khorasan have long adhered to the message of the One. They named their western gate the Messenger Gate after the Messenger of the One.”

  The Spinzhiray’s eyes sharpened . . . hardened . . . and Daniyar knew the battle was lost. There would be no truce with the Talisman this night. Or any of the nights that came after.

  “Their court is corrupt, their practices a barbarity. The Black Khan’s scriptorium houses works of the profane.”

  Daniyar fought not to show his outrage at this characterization of a place dedicated to the preservation of knowledge. “I have visited the scriptorium myself. Treatises on medicine and mathematics are anything but profane.” He debated the wisdom of mentioning the Bloodprint, then decided to keep his knowledge to himself. “The rest is for the One to judge.”

  The elder’s grip tightened on his staff as Baseer rose to his feet.

  “The One has judged. We have come to carry out the judgment.”

  “Spinzhiray, I beg you to put the lives of your men before these notions of judgment.”

  The elder shook his head in disapproval. “The dunya is of no value compared to the rewards of the Akhirah.”

  A standard Talisman formula: the present world was only a means to gain the bounty of the afterlife. The Talisman used the formula to justify oppression. They would spend the lives of the boys in their army, boys he had once sheltered in Candour, without counting the cost.

  “There will be no truce,” he continued. “No retreat.”

  The Talisman commanders assisted the Spinzhiray to his feet. Daniyar collected his sword and sheathed it. Before he could bend to reclaim his ring, a roar shattered the night. The wind was in Daniyar’s eyes as a giant boulder tore through the roof of the tent, obliterating the stove, killing the commanders closest to it.

  Screams filled the air. Orders were shouted across the tent, but what Daniyar’s keen hearing picked up was the cranking noise of the mechanism that raised the Zhayedan’s catapults. He called out a warning to the others to flee, his eyes on the women who crouched at the back of the tent. He wasn’t swift enough to act. A second boulder followed the first, its terrifying heft bringing the tent to utter silence. When the sound of the crash receded, Daniyar looked across to the back of the tent. The corner where the women had sheltered was ripped away. No one had survived, blood and bone strewn across the carpets.

  He was seized from behind by two Talisman commanders who pushed him before the Spinzhiray. The elder’s white robes were flecked with blood and bits of flesh. But the Spinzhiray was used to death. His hands were steady on his staff, his charcoal eyes aflame with rage.

  “The Guardian of Candour engaged in rank deception—you called for the loya jirga knowing the Zhayedan would strike!”

  “No!” Daniyar protested, struggling to free himself, but the two men who held him were strong. They pinned his arms behind his back. “I could not wear the Sacred Cloak and lie—you know this!”

  The Spinzhiray moved close enough that Daniyar felt his breath on his face. He ripped the Shin War crest from Daniyar’s throat, leaving it vulnerable and exposed.

  “I know only this: you are a member of the Shin War without honor. Kill him, Baseer.”

  Baseer, too, was covered in the blood of others, but his eyes gleamed with unholy satisfaction. He nodded at Daniyar’s captors, who forced him to his knees. He heard the sharp, metallic scrape of a well-honed sword pulled from its sheath.

  He raised his head, finding the young men who had known him in Candour.

  “It isn’t true,” he said. It mattered to him to convince them, even if he were to die here. “I came to you in good faith for the sake of our people. To barter for their lives and yours.”

  Baseer poised his sword at the nape of Daniyar’s neck. “You have no people now. You are a traitor expelled from his clan. But that won’t matter to you soon.”

  He raised his sword for the killing blow just as flaming arrows whistled into the tent. Fire licked up the felt walls, collapsing what remained as the Talisman tore them down. Screams scraped against the vastness of the sky. Baseer was taken by an arrow. The two men who held Daniyar released him, fleeing outside into the night.

  Daniyar came to his feet in a powerful lunge.

  “Run,” he said to the young soldiers he knew. “Find your way to Candour.”

  Smoke thickened the air, slicked over his skin, and coiled up into his lungs. Flames devoured the tent, and all around him were the sounds of the Talisman regrouping for war.

  One of the young soldiers looked him in the eye and spit out, “Khaeen.” Daniyar flinched from the viciousness of the word. But unable to hold the gaze of the Silver Mage after naming him a traitor, the soldier turned on his heel and fled.

  Daniyar knew that his own would turn against him now. They would, as the young man had, consider him khaeen; they would erase him from the history of his people. The loneliness of being severed from his clan was a wound that throbbed in his chest, achingly familiar and dull.

  My course was honorable, he told himself. No matter what they say about me, I did not betray who I am meant to be.

  He focused on the other soldier, the one he might be able to persuade.

  His name was Toryal, Daniyar remembered. Toryal pulled the scarf around his neck up to his mouth, trying to lessen the impact of the smoke.

  “You were the Guardian of Candour—we believed in you. We trusted you.” He said the words in a tone so hopeless that it arrowed deep inside Daniyar. “For you to raise your hand against us—you taught us to choose the course of honor—now your honor lies in shreds.”

  Toryal pulled his scarf higher, so that his neck was exposed. A telltale map of scars spread down from his throat into his armor. He had long been a conscript of the Talisman, one of the lost boys of Candour.

  While the young man deliberated, Daniyar took in the fire that blazed a trail through the encampment. The commanders who had escaped were preparing for a counterattack, while the Zhayedan’s catapults continued to pound down destruction.

  The devastating noise of battle was unlike anything Daniyar had ever heard. It crashed into his temples, battered his senses. Choking on the smoke, he said, “I promise you—I was not privy to this attack. But you know it for yourself, Toryal. This siege is not a course of honor. There is another way. Come with me instead.”

  The younger man blinked, reaching for his sword. Daniyar left his sheathed.

  In that strange, suspended moment, both men struggled to breathe, conscious of the rush of others toward them. Whatever else he was forced to do this night, he would not harm Toryal.

  “If I go with you, I’ll have nothing. No clan or kin, no honor to call my own.”

  Daniyar held Toryal’s gaze. “You’ll have me. I won’t leave you to stand on your own.”

  Toryal rubbed one hand over the marks at his throat. Awkwardly, he began to cry. Daniyar stepped closer. When the younger man didn’t back away, he moved to take hold of him, wrapping the folds of the Sacred Cloak around them both. Let Toryal feel the strength that would protect him, even on a Talisman field.

  As arrows burned the ground at their feet, he held Toryal until his sobs began to ease. The scent of wild honey filled the air, rising over the smoke, offering a hint of sweetness.

  Toryal drew back, his blue-green eyes wet with tears.

  “I would have saved the girl,” he said, refusing to look over at the bodies.

  Daniyar assessed him. Made a judgment. “I know you would have tried.”

  “How?” There was a tremor in Toryal’s voice. “How can you know I speak the truth?”

  Daniyar placed one hand on Toryal’s shoulder, stroked the surface of the Cloak.

  “You wear the Sacred Cloak. You cannot utter falsehoods under its mantle.” But what he’d said wasn’t enough. The boy needed more, something that didn’t depend on mysteries he couldn’t unravel, something beyond the sacred. “I remember you, Toryal. You wouldn’t have taken this path if you’d been given a choice.”

  For a moment, a dazed sense of wonder appeared in Toryal’s eyes. He brought his hand up to the Cloak, stroking its unfathomable texture. Silky, yet heavy as wool. Enfolding him in warmth, yet soft and cool to the touch.

  Remembering himself, he dropped his hand. He stepped away from Daniyar, remorse darkening his eyes. Mourning the things he knew he would never be able to have.

  “I can’t follow you,” he said. “There’s nothing for me save this. Every man in Candour has been conscripted to the Talisman cause. There’s no way out of it, though many of us have tried.” His fingers ran over his scars. “Those who agree to fight are guaranteed the safety of their women. Those who refuse . . .” He dragged his tunic open, yanking at his armor.

  At first Daniyar thought the pattern across his ribs were lash marks left by a whip. But the raised flesh was red and blistered, the texture of the flesh thick and waxy. Toryal’s body had been
burned.

  A swirling torrent of rage and grief rose inside him.

  “You could still come with me. You could bring those like you to the gates, and the Black Khan would give you shelter. It isn’t too late for you to choose another course.”

  But Toryal was shaking his head, desperate and unsure.

  “Don’t offer me a future I know I’ll never see. All I have left is my hope that my sisters will not be sold.”

  And, with his sword gripped in his hand, Toryal disappeared.

  The strange lethargy, the almost-hope that had seized Daniyar and held the battle at bay now evaporated in a rush. He moved through the tent, stepping over bodies, searching for the bowl that held his ring. But its piercing light failed to penetrate the smoke.

  Then there was no more time to search. The stench of death in his nostrils, the heat of fire at his back, he swung around to face the group of Talisman who advanced.

  He drove forward into the fray, his sword flashing out into the night, the Cloak streaming from his back singed by trails of fire. The sight of the Cloak gave one of the Talisman pause; the rest rushed to meet his sword. Daniyar was heavy with muscle, but he moved with the grace of a predator, his skill in combat honed by the years he had stood against the Talisman. Bodies fell as others surged to take their place. The Talisman had no strategy beyond an inarticulate fury they intended to assuage. Daniyar took a slash to his arm, another to the opposite shoulder. It slowed him but didn’t bring him down.

  The fury of the Zhayedan’s mangonels brought him a moment or two of rest, and then he was thrust upon his mettle again: more of the soldiers recognized him as the man who had promised a truce during the loya jirga.

  Under the rage, he read their contempt for a man who could betray his own. He shrugged it aside, blocking a bold attempt at his throat, another under his armor. But in the end, he couldn’t stand against them all. His arms were tiring; there was nowhere to escape to. Sweat dampened his hair, seeped under his armor. Clouds of smoke stung his eyes. There was no sign of his ring, no other powers to call upon, when he needed his every breath to fight.

  But then the Talisman fell back, bodies collapsing to the ground, arrows through their necks or rising from their backs. These weren’t fletched like Teerandaz arrows; they were black-tipped, lethal in their accuracy. He blinked to clear his bleary eyes. Two men were fighting at his side, raising their swords when his movements were too slow. They were sheathed in skintight leather, expressionless behind their masks.

  They fought back the press of the attack, and when the Talisman’s attention turned elsewhere, one of them grabbed Daniyar’s arm.

  “The field is lost,” he warned. “The only way out is with us.”

  1

  A narrow chamber led off to the right of the Qaysarieh Portal. A faint scent of dampness emanated from within, overlaid with traces of jasmine. When Arian peered inside, the sight she encountered brought her to a halt. A moment later, her escort became aware that she’d fallen behind. Khashayar, a captain of the Zhayedan army, signaled his men to wait. He strode back to join Arian at the entrance to the chamber.

  “Does something delay you, First Oralist?”

  He spoke to her with the respect her status as First Oralist demanded. More, his manner set an example for his men, who had balked at abandoning Ashfall while the capital was under attack. Yet the order to accompany the First Oralist on her mission had come directly from the Black Khan. The Zhayedan might find little merit in chasing a holy relic while their comrades fought a battle for survival, but they would obey their Khan, and through him Khashayar. The city would have to hold until they returned from their quest.

  Arian raised her eyes to Khashayar’s face. He was black-haired, with dramatic dark eyes under an aristocratic brow. Though he was no relation, in appearance he resembled Rukh, the Black Khan. He was young to be charged with escorting her to Timeback, but his youth was a matter of years, not experience. He carried his command with poise: disciplined, experienced, yet adaptable enough to recognize why Arian’s mission mattered to the fate of his city.

  “What is this chamber?” she asked him.

  “A cistern. We use it to collect rainwater.”

  “There’s a prayer nook in the wall.”

  Khashayar nodded, but his head was inclined toward the sounds of combat beyond the city walls. When she still didn’t move, he said, “It was built at the request of the Begum Niyousha—the Black Khan’s mother. She observed her worship here. The Princess Darya followed her example.”

  A shadow crossed Khashayar’s face. The Princess of Ashfall had been killed during a skirmish on the walls. She should have been safe in the Al Qasr with the rest of the Khan’s household, yet she’d raced to the western gate to prevent her half-brother, Darius, from striking against the Black Khan, her death as chaotic and impetuous as the way she’d lived her life.

  “May I take a moment for prayer before we leave?”

  Khashayar’s black gaze skipped over the First Oralist’s confederates—Sinnia, the Companion from the lands of the Negus, and Wafa, the blue-eyed Hazara boy under the Companions’ care.

  When he hesitated, Arian tried to reassure him. “The blessing is important, otherwise I wouldn’t delay.” A graceful hand swept out from under her cloak, the gold circlet on her upper arm agleam in the muted light. She gestured back at the square they had passed through where the impact of the battle was felt. “I will pray for the deliverance of Ashfall, as much as for our journey ahead.”

  Khashayar gave the order to his men to proceed. He settled himself at the entrance to the cistern, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll stand guard.”

  “Don’t wait,” Arian said to Sinnia. “Go with the Zhayedan; I won’t be far behind.”

  She waited until Sinnia had departed, tugging Wafa along with her. Hesitant now, she nodded at Khashayar. “I will require privacy.”

  She flushed a little under the keenness of his gaze.

  “I won’t intrude, sahabiya.”

  Something in his expression told her she could trust him, though all had come to chaos in both her city and his. His integrity shone from his eyes, his dedication a bond that pulsed between them in the room.

  Bowing her head, she slipped past him to make her way to the prayer nook. The vaulted ceiling of the cistern sloped down to a sandstone colonnade. Lanterns in rich blue turquoise were hung between columns of gold above an elongated pool. Between two of these columns, a single pillar, almost like a plinth, had been placed in the center of the pool. The glow of torchlight shone on amber walls, whose high periphery was lined with geometries of tiny blue tiles. At the northeastern corner, a mihrab was fashioned against cold stone like the plume of a peacock’s tail, feathered in emerald green, the exquisite tessellation sheened with light. Beneath it, the golden threads of a well-worn prayer rug reflected echoes of that light.

  Arian knelt on the rug. She held words of prayer in her mouth until they bloomed into blessings. Benedictions sought, tumultuous griefs confided. Her fears confessed to the One.

  What were they coming to?

  What hope did she have of turning the tide of this war?

  For years she had battled the tyranny of the Talisman and the greatest cruelty of their reign: their enslavement of the women of the east.

  The Companions of Hira were all that stood between the Talisman and total devastation, fighting to preserve Khorasan’s plural heritage, a battle they waged without recourse to force of arms. Instead, they relied upon the scripture of the Claim, the sacred magic passed through oral transmission; its written counterpart had vanished over time, destroyed by the Talisman’s purges.

  For a decade, Arian had used her gifts as First Oralist of Hira—First Oralist of the Claim—to disrupt the Talisman’s slave-chains. Then Ilea, the High Companion of her order, had assigned her a new task: to procure the Bloodprint, the sole surviving record of the Claim. Anchored by it, the Companions would have worked to overthrow the Talisman. Months ago, Arian had set out on the trail of the sacred text, but the Black Khan’s machinations had brought the Bloodprint to Ashfall instead.