The Black Khan Read online

  “As you wish, Excellency.” Because he could, he placed a warning hand on the Black Khan’s arm, nodding to an ostentatious gold chair, positioned at the Khan’s right hand. “Before the council is convened, you should know you have a visitor. It would be best to summon her before we discuss matters related to defense.”

  The fingers that held the Black Khan’s wrist moved in a sequence of gestures, a language that allowed them to speak privately before the court. She is dangerous, the flicker of his fingers told Rukh. She must be sent from Ashfall before she can do you any harm.

  “Present her,” the Black Khan said.

  Darya watched as Rukh strode to the Peacock Throne, unlatching his weapons and handing them to Arsalan, rather than to the page who had sprung up in attendance. If the Nizam of his empire feared this visitor, it was Arsalan he trusted with his sword.

  The garlands strung about his neck would have made a lesser man seem absurd. Rukh wore his garlands like honors, his stature regal and imposing, his will enlivening the court, who were struck into calling out his praise. As he took his seat upon the Peacock Throne, a page brought the Shahi scepter—the scepter of the prince—to his hand.

  The Nizam retreated to an antechamber. He returned with a beautiful woman at his side, and Darya gasped aloud. The woman was dressed in blue silk and wore a gold diadem that blazed with a single sapphire. Her white-gold hair tumbled down her back; her golden eyes were clear and watchful. She bowed before the Khan, her silk cape whispering aside, exposing the circlets on her arms.

  Cries of surprise sounded in the room. The women of the Khan’s family scrambled for a better look. Darya pushed aside the others, hurrying to find a place before the Peacock Throne. In her haste, the heavy gold armlet she wore tore at the silk of her dress. Ignoring the sound of the tear, Darya ran to greet the visitor, taking hold of her by the hand.

  “Darya!” A sharp rebuke came from the Begum, whom the Khan had seated with courtesy at his side.

  Darya was unheeding. Tears trembled at the edges of her lashes. “High Companion,” she whispered, “you honor the court at Ashfall. We have never been so distinguished. You humble us, Exalted.”

  “Darya!” This time the rebuke came from Rukh. At his sharp nod, Arsalan pulled Darya aside, freeing the High Companion’s hand.

  Darya kept her eyes on the other woman’s face, her own expression hopeful. Then she looked to her brother, her dark eyes widening with joy. “Rukh, did you ask the Exalted to come? Have you changed your mind? Has she come to take me to Hira?”

  “Be silent, child.” The Nizam intervened before the Black Khan could react. “Do you imagine the counsels of the Black Khan’s court are convened with your benefit in mind? Commander, take the Princess to her chambers.”

  “No, Rukh, please!”

  “Darya.”

  It was all her brother had to say. She knew what it meant when he uttered her name in that cold, implacable tone. She became aware of the court’s attention: the majestic displeasure of her aunt, the contemptuous disapproval of the Nizam, the mocking laughter of her cousins. She flushed hot and then cold, her arm trembling in Arsalan’s grip.

  She’d hoped for an intimation of welcome on the face of the High Companion. But the High Companion ignored her with a dignified restraint. Her head hanging low, Darya allowed Arsalan to escort her from the room.

  Her back to the Peacock Throne, she heard the High Companion speak. “Excellency,” she said to Rukh. “I have come to reclaim the Bloodprint as agreed. But if it is your wish, I will take your sister as well.”

  36

  DARYA DIDN’T HAVE TO WAIT LONG FOR ARSALAN’S REBUKE.

  “What were you thinking, child? You know the customs of our court.

  Arsalan’s tone was chiding. She heard the pity beneath it and flushed.

  “I’m not a child, Commander Arsalan. I meant no disrespect to my brother; I was simply overcome. The High Companion here isn’t it a source of wonder? Doesn’t everyone at court feel the same? I have so many things I have dreamed of learning at Hira—what I would give to have the chance to ask.”

  Her dark eyes beseeched him. She was suddenly conscious of the fact that he held her by the arm just outside the door to her chambers. He was close enough for her to feel the heat of his body through his armor. There was strength in the hand that held her, but there was tenderness as well. Though her faults often became Arsalan’s burden to bear, she found he was always kind to her. She shut the scene at the tower from her mind and asked herself whether his tenderness might not be a form of love. What did it matter if he’d spoken of her to Rukh with such matter-of-fact disregard—what did it matter that she’d now refused him as he’d once refused her? She should try to change his mind, just as the Nizam had counseled her to do.

  He would love you, the Nizam had said, if you gave him anything to love.

  “Commander Arsalan.” She tried to make her voice sound alluring. “You are tired and worn from your journey. May I tend to your needs? I could have wine ordered for you—or anything else you prefer.”

  Arsalan’s head was turned toward the Divan-e Shah, indicating his impatience to return. Now his eyes met the hopeful entreaty in Darya’s. With great care, he released her from his hold. “Forgive me, Princess, it was discourteous of me to touch you.”

  Darya reached for his hand and placed it back upon her arm, just above the embrasure of her cuff.

  “Though these hands are hardened from fighting many battles, they are always gentle with me. If you do not desire me, why are you so careful when you touch me? You treat me as though I am breakable, when I’m not.”

  She unfastened the gold cuff that bound her arm and let it fall to the floor. With an encouraging smile, she drew Arsalan’s hand over her arm, emulating a caress. Instead of transferring his gaze to the bare skin of her arm, his eyes remained steady on Darya’s.

  “This is the lesson you cannot seem to learn. Yes, there was wonder in the High Companion’s presence, but you should have stopped to think of what was due to your brother when you abased yourself. Do you not understand the priorities of Ashfall when it comes to the schemes of Hira?”

  “Schemes?” Darya drew a swift breath. “This is Hira you speak of. The Council and Companions of Hira. I did not abase myself, I gave the High Companion her due.”

  “And what of your brother?” Arsalan asked. “When will you comprehend the impact of your actions on his rule? Do you think it easy to govern an empire when war is at its gates? He cannot count on allies, so he forges his path alone.”

  “Why?” Darya demanded. “Why would the High Companion have come if not to offer her help? Why would Hira abandon us? The threat the Citadel faces is just as dire as the army camped beyond our outer ramparts.”

  Arsalan shook his head, turning back to the Divan-e Shah. “There is no teaching you what you do not wish to learn. You are blinded by your desire to worship at the High Companion’s feet. I do not have time to wake you from your half-formed dreams.”

  Stunned by this rebuke, Darya realized she had nothing to lose. She was driven by a mad excitement: Arsalan had never addressed her with such unchecked passion before.

  “Perhaps your kisses would wake me.”

  Now she had his full attention: she squirmed beneath his black gaze.

  “Arsalan—”

  He seized her by the waist and lowered his mouth to hers. His kisses were nothing like she’d imagined they would be, his mouth hard and bruising, urgently self-seeking. She struggled in his arms, beating her fists against his chest. When he was satisfied he’d made his point, he let her go.

  “Is this what you dream of, Princess? Did it help you to come to your senses? Do you see the danger to Ashfall? Do your brother’s needs at this hour ever cross your mind?”

  “Why would they need to when they are always on your mind?”

  She shouted the words at him and missed Arsalan’s sharp look. She pressed her hand to lips that were pulsing from his onslaught.
“You will never love me as you do him. I was stupid to think that you could.”

  She bent to the ground to reclaim her cuff. For a moment she wished she could stay there, sunken in misery and shame. But she was a princess of Ashfall, and self-pity was a luxury even Darya wouldn’t indulge. She nodded in the direction of the Divan-e Shah.

  “Go,” she said. “He’s waiting for you. You belong at his side. Your conduct at court is above reproach, which is more than can be said about mine. And since you seem to agree with the Nizam, you should welcome my departure to Hira.”

  “Rukh needs you here, Darya.”

  She watched in distress as he wiped the taste of her lips from his mouth. She’d mistaken the depths of his aversion. His kindness to her was merely kindness.

  She swallowed her realization, determined to hold on to her pride.

  “For what purpose? He heeds no counsel of mine. He shares neither his thoughts nor his affections with me. He refuses to allow me to see Darius, whom he confines in the depths of Qaysarieh. And now he has denied me the scriptorium. He will not allow me to read.”

  She rolled her gold cuff between her hands. “He dresses me in these cuffs that weigh me down, these anklets that give me away wherever I choose to run, and he does not allow me to seek wisdom in the scriptorium. Is this why you think he needs me?”

  Two pages appeared outside the doors that opened onto the Divan-e Shah, searching for the commander of the Zhayedan. He dismissed them with a curt nod.

  He took the cuff from Darya’s hands and fastened it back in place. It locked on her arm with a click, reinforcing the power of her words.

  “Your words are treasonous, Princess. Be grateful you speak them to me. The Nizam would send you to join Darius.”

  He adjusted the wayward pearl on her forehead, touching the jewel without touching her. He was close, so close she could feel the heat of his hands and taste the wild, sweet scent of his breath. Why hadn’t he kissed her as she yearned to be kissed? With the reverent and tender care he expressed with every other gesture? Tears fell silently from her eyes, and now he did touch her, brushing them away with his thumbs. The gentleness of the touch undid her, rendering her powerless before him. And she wondered—did she need to be powerful in her dealings with Arsalan? Was everything between a man and a woman meant to be fought like a battle?

  “I know what you carry, Princess. I think I’ve always known.” His quiet admission revealed nothing of his thoughts or of his inner struggle. If he regretted his plainspoken censure or his harsh embrace, it was something he didn’t confide. And she would be foolish to ask.

  “You hurt me,” she said at last. “I didn’t think you would hurt me.”

  “Darya—”

  She should walk away while she still had her pride intact, and let him return to the prince he wished so ardently to serve—but what if this moment didn’t come her way again?

  He stood tall and strong before her, a man who had only to speak to be obeyed, yet who wore his command lightly, attuned to the welfare of his warriors, focused on the safety of his city. She wouldn’t meet a man of Arsalan’s caliber again.

  “Darya.”

  He tipped up her chin with a finger. This time when he pressed his lips to hers, the kiss was soft and unhurried, drawing her from herself, a shimmering sense of delight coursing through her veins. Darya kissed him back, her arms stealing around his neck, eager and vital in his embrace.

  “Afaarin.”

  The single word dropped into the silence. Arsalan raised his head to meet the Black Khan’s gaze. Rukh clapped his hands, an unreadable expression on his face. “I didn’t think you had it in you to be so bold with my sister. It explains your absence from council, an excuse I suppose I must accept.”

  He was not as forgiving with Darya, his speech becoming clipped. “You forget yourself, Darya. You are a princess of Ashfall.”

  Again, Arsalan intervened. “It was I who imposed myself.” His tone brooked no further inquiry. “The Princess could hardly refuse me.”

  “Resist you, you mean.” The Black Khan’s voice was dry, mocking Darya’s confusion. She had not been as quick to recover herself as Arsalan, lost in the excitement of his kiss.

  Rukh studied his commander, noting the way he shielded Darya’s dishevelment. “I cannot wait on you any longer. I trust the Princess will release you.”

  Darya’s arms were still wound about Arsalan’s neck. She dropped her hands and vanished into her room—her moment of joy fleeting, diminished by her brother’s reproof. She listened to their voices as they left her behind, until the sounds had faded into nothing.

  Just as I do, she thought.

  Why?” Arsalan asked. “Why do you speak to Darya with so little regard for her feelings?”

  “Are you her champion now?” Rukh returned. “I was under the impression you found her unbeguiling.”

  “Do not test me, Rukh. You set me to an impossible task, then censure me for doing it. I’m not an untried girl like Darya. I will not permit you to insult me.”

  “I will accept that once you accept that you cannot instruct me on matters related to my sister. I will deal with Darya as I choose.”

  Arsalan came to a halt. “Not if what you choose is cruel disregard. I expect better of you, Rukh. I demand it.”

  Rukh scowled. “You’re the commander of my army, not the guardian of my morality. Don’t overstep your bounds.”

  Arsalan’s hand shot out to Rukh’s arm. He pivoted through a quick movement that brought the Black Khan to the ground. He followed him down, pinning him with a knee to the chest, the heft of his full weight behind it. Rukh looked up at him through narrowed eyes. His arms were braced to challenge Arsalan, yet he knew he couldn’t defeat him one-on-one—he’d learned that from a lifetime’s practice. Arsalan held him in place, his breathing slow and unhurried, the speed with which he’d brought Rukh down a testament to his skill. Wondering how far he would go, Rukh coiled his muscles to spring, angered by the effortless strength that held him pinned to the ground. He waited for Arsalan’s next move.

  When it didn’t come, he became aware of the quickening of Arsalan’s breath, followed by a flare of heat. He allowed his gaze to drift over Arsalan’s face before settling on the taut lines of his mouth. Arsalan’s eyes became hooded. He waited for an invisible cue. Rukh raised a hand to Arsalan’s face. He traced one cheekbone lightly—his touch careful, exploratory, provocative—while Arsalan simply watched him, a searing heat in his eyes. He shifted his hands to either side of Rukh’s head, caging him in with his arms. He was tense with anticipation when Rukh dropped his hand to his side.

  Neither man uttered a word.

  When Rukh said nothing more, Arsalan came to a decision. He eased back a little of his weight. In a voice made harsh by disappointment, he growled a warning at Rukh.

  “Act the Khan of Khorasan when others are around, but don’t play your games with me. I know exactly who you are, and I will not tell you again: Do not test me, Rukh.”

  He meant every word, but for emphasis, Arsalan dug his knee deeper. Then he sprang to his feet, pulling Rukh up beside him with more force than was necessary.

  Rukh eyed Arsalan warily, rubbing the bruise on his chest. “You’ve made your point, Arsalan.”

  Arsalan stared back at him, undaunted. “And?”

  “And I concede. You are the only enemy I do not care to make.”

  37

  IT WAS WORSE THAN ARIAN HAD FEARED. THE TALISMAN ENCAMPMENT stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, the plains dotted by hundreds of fires, the darkness punctured by standards bearing the bloodstained flag. Ahead of the Talisman army, a procession of drummers advanced toward Ashfall’s outer ramparts. The standard-bearers were horsed, while the rest of the army traveled on foot, its supply chain at the rear.

  The Talisman’s purpose was singular. There were no slavechains in its wake. Instead, their aim was to defeat the Black Khan and thereby conquer his empire. Arian knew what that
would mean: Ashfall’s scriptorium would burn, its Warraqeen would be slaughtered, and the women and girls of the city would be ravaged and sold to the north.

  Unless her strengths were greater than she knew.

  “Arian.” Sinnia squeezed Arian’s hand. “What if they’ve reached the Citadel as well? Our first duty lies there.”

  “If we’re to make our stand at Hira, we must recapture the Bloodprint. It’s the only thing that can save us.” She looked at Daniyar, who was measuring the strength of the Talisman through his spyglass. “What is your assessment?”

  “There is a passage that is open, but there is a more pressing issue. There are very few guards on the ramparts.” He lowered his spyglass, shaking his head. “The Black Khan has left his city undefended. The outer ramparts will be taken before this night is through.”

  Their horses were lined up on a ridge overlooking the plains, where a chill had descended on the camp.

  “What of the villages outside the city walls? Have they been abandoned yet?”

  Daniyar scanned the plains again. “Until we pass through the ramparts, there’s no way of knowing. If the villages have been overrun, there’s no answer for the Black Khan’s neglect or its consequences for the fate of Khorasan.”

  He spoke to his horse, the same gentle murmur he’d used on the Ahdath’s horses in the turquoise mines at Nightshaper. He’d used his gifts to turn the Ahdath’s horses against their riders. Now he encouraged his own mount against the terror that lay ahead.

  “Does the Black Khan wear the Sacred Cloak?” Arian asked. “Can you find him on the ramparts?”

  “There is a token force at the outer walls: a handful of archers and a single company of Zhayedan spread out along the walls. I see no sign of the Khan.”

  “Then we must be the ones to help them hold the outer walls.”

  Daniyar’s eyes ranged over their party: two Companions of Hira and a youthful poet whose trembling hands on the reins of his horse reflected the depths of his fear.