The Black Khan Read online

  The Black Khan studied Wafa’s trembling form. “Women,” he said with contempt. “No wonder Hira has never ruled an empire.”

  Arian swallowed the impulse to show him the use she could make of the Claim. Instead she said, “Be grateful that is not what we seek. I will train your Warraqeen; indeed we will send Oralists from Hira, women skilled in the nuances of the Claim. But now when the need is dire, you must trust me with the Bloodprint.”

  The Black Khan laughed. “Why would I trust you, First Oralist? Where does your true allegiance lie? Not with the High Companion—I know what you think of her.” His gaze traveled the circuit of the chamber. “With the Silver Mage, perhaps?” The cold fury in the Silver Mage’s eyes promised the Black Khan a reckoning. He shrugged it off. “With this mongrel child whom you defend as if he were a son of the Esayin, instead of what he is—a contemptible scion of slavery. If you would have the Bloodprint, swear your allegiance to me.”

  “You expect me to swear my allegiance to the man who delivered me to the Ark? And left me in the Authoritan’s care? What have you done to earn my trust besides take up the mantle of the Cloak?” Now Arian did use the Claim to emphasize her rebuke. “Do you imagine that wearing the Sacred Cloak renders you Commander of the Faithful? How could that be possible for a man who possesses no faith?”

  The Black Khan flung the Claim back at her, a verse he had snatched from the Bloodprint. But he could not use against her what had belonged to her from her first reckoning of the Claim. He could not cause her injury when he held no faith in the words.

  Or perhaps it was because he did not wish to cause her harm.

  She met his words with an inner strength, retrieving their power for herself. “You demand loyalty from me. But who among your retainers has long since left your side? Why were your outer defenses yielded before the war?”

  The Nizam struck his hands together, startling the others. “Excellency, send her to Qaysarieh collared. Do not let her speak another word. She poisons your faith in your men.”

  Arian turned on him, angry at this denunciation of her history of service. “Yes, I know of your fondness for Qaysarieh. You’ve sent far too many men to die there. But why would the Nizam of the Khorasan Empire detain the First Oralist of Hira? As the Khan’s regent, it is no one’s trust more than yours to receive me as Ashfall’s ally. Have you forgotten what is due your Khan? Have you forgotten yourself?”

  The Nizam moved to confront her, but Arian stayed him with a sharp intonation of her voice. Her gaze was implacable and cold, a ruthlessness stirring within. She welcomed it. It was necessary in this room.

  “The next man who tries to collar me will find himself dead at my feet. Is that what you wish, Excellency? Is that what you wish, Nizam al-Mulk?” She looked beyond them to the Talisman fires. “Should we be fighting amongst ourselves when your empire is at risk?”

  His answer was to bark an order to the commander of the Zhayedan. “Arsalan. You heard the First Oralist threaten me. Take her to Qaysarieh at once.”

  The Silver Mage stepped between Arian and the Nizam, his sword poised in his hand. Arsalan shouldered the Silver Mage aside, sheathing his own sword and holding up his hand.

  “You wished for wisdom at your council,” he said to Rukh. “Now you have it. I urge you to hear the First Oralist.” His eyes expressed his desire to be heeded over the Nizam, just this once.

  But the Nizam intervened again. “You fell under Hira’s spell because of your witch of a mother. But this empire is not under the sway of a heretical coven.”

  The insult to Hira—and to Arsalan himself—was surely grievous. But Arsalan wasn’t a man to be baited at the spur of his temper. He would deal with the Nizam when he thought the moment was right.

  “Yield the Bloodprint to the First Oralist,” he urged Rukh. “Who else within these walls has her fluency?”

  “The Warraqeen—” the Nizam began.

  “The Warraqeen are novices. You know it as well as I do. We must trust the First Oralist now.”

  Talisman horns broke across their council, echoing Arsalan’s words. “The First Oralist could compel you,” he added. “But she doesn’t. Think on that.”

  “No,” the Nizam snapped. “She will take the Bloodprint to Hira, abandoning this city to ruin.”

  Arsalan swept his arm across the expanse of the windows. “How do you imagine the First Oralist could break the siege? What route do you know that would see her past Talisman lines?” Impatient now at this long delay when he should have been at the walls, Arsalan nodded at Rukh. “Whatever you decide, Excellency, I will see it done.”

  The Black Khan took his time to decide, his hawk-eyed gaze moving from face to face until it came to rest upon Arian. “What can you do?” he asked her.

  Her eyes shone with a crystal-like clarity that made him want to offer her his throne. He followed the graceful sweep of her hand to the silent pages of the manuscript. “I can unlock its magic to bring the Talisman down.”

  Her shining, seductive use of the Claim wove a spell around the chamber, inspiriting the Zhayedan and infusing Rukh with new purpose. Arsalan listened to her voice with the glitter of tears in his eyes. Then he turned away from the Nizam’s perception of his weakness. “Rukh.” He urged his prince again, an indefinable note in his voice.

  Rukh came to a decision. “I will send the Bloodprint to the scriptorium, where you may study it at will. You will have time for reflection. No one will disturb you there.”

  The beauty of Arian’s smile made a mockery of his objections. He found he could not refuse her. Sensing this, the Silver Mage took her hand, as if he had the right to take it in his own, and Rukh felt an internal wretchedness take hold.

  “You honor me with your trust, my lord.”

  Her words urged the sorrow from his thoughts. He felt … conscious … of his own abilities and of his gift to rule. He drew a sharp breath, meeting the speculation in the eyes of his Nizam. Swiftly, he veiled his gaze.

  “Excellency, if I might.”

  Rukh nodded, still feeling the impact of Arian’s voice. He owed his Nizam every courtesy for the wisdom of his counsel. And that included privacy. He arranged for two of his guards to escort his unexpected guests to private chambers to rest. It struck at something in him to witness their close companionship—the unspoken affinity with which they reached for and held each other’s hands.

  “We will speak again,” he assured them. When they’d left, he addressed his Nizam. “When do you anticipate the Talisman assault?”

  Arsalan answered for the Nizam. “As early as the next dawn. Certainly no later than tomorrow night.”

  “Then we still have time for the banquet.” Though the Nizam spoke the words quietly, they were as inexorable as a command.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Arsalan could not prevent his outrage from escaping his lips.

  “Our traditions must not be forfeit.” A cruel smile edged the Nizam’s lips. “Your mother insisted on them, if you recall.”

  Arsalan spoke through his teeth. “The city is at war, Nizam. Rukh—tell him.”

  “The empire is at war. But not this night, Commander, according to your own advice. We must observe the Banquet of the Victorious. You would not wish the Prince to be the first to break with tradition.”

  “Rukh—” Arsalan’s voice was despairing. It was a flagrant abuse of power to take the time for decadence when the enemy was at their gates—the city would fall. The Khan would be captured and executed. He would do everything he could to prevent it. He would do anything he could—including take on the Nizam.

  “Never in the history of Ashfall has a Khan of Khorasan failed to conduct a Banquet of the Victorious. It gives confidence to the people of the city.”

  Arsalan pressed his fists against his temples. “This is madness, Rukh. We should hold the banquet after the battle is won.”

  The Black Khan assumed an expression of hauteur. The Nizam’s appeal to his vanity had made its ill-fa
vored mark.

  “The banquet commemorates the valor of the Zhayedan. It is given as a leave-taking.”

  “I will not attend it,” Arsalan insisted. “Neither will my commanders. We must be at the walls.”

  “Make your preparations,” Rukh said. “The walls can spare you for an hour—the banquet will be brief.”

  “Rukh—”

  “Arsalan. Do you command, or do I?”

  “I would never guide you astray.” His burning eyes were fixed on Rukh’s face, urging him to belief. Something elusive flickered in Rukh’s eyes—something unconnected to his words. Arsalan’s heart thundered in response.

  “Do you imagine my Nizam would? The Banquet of the Victorious will hold the city together. It will give the Zhayedan a deeper reason to fight.”

  “My prince, they are ready now.”

  “They abandoned the outer walls.”

  “At the Nizam’s command.”

  “If they are swayed by his wisdom, all the more reason that we should observe the banquet.”

  “You defeat me,” Arsalan said, appalled. What more could he say? What more could he do?

  “I trust you with more power than any commander in the Zhayedan’s history. Is that not enough for you, Arsalan?”

  It wasn’t. It would never be enough. Yet how could he admit this when the things he did want could never be shared with his prince? As Rukh had taught him already. He drew up sharply, conscious of the Nizam closely observing his response. Banking his despair, he renewed his pledge in neutral accents, concealing his state of mind. It was his duty to bolster the others, to give confidence to his Khan.

  “Whatever you decide, Excellency, I will see it done.”

  44

  MODELED ON THE ROSE HOUSE AT TIRAZIS, ASHFALL’S SCRIPTORIUM was the wonder of its age; its design married light and glass to a symphony of stone. The scriptorium was separated into two large prayer halls, east and west presided over by massive concave arches, their colors and patterns orchestrated by the divine. The plainest arrangement of blue-gold geometry was balanced by dizzying motifs: rose-pink sunbursts on lapis lazuli blue, an outer fretwork of triangles and diamonds spinning through the scriptorium like a hall of endless mirrors. Slender columns supported beautiful concave arches over a luminous glass floor: when dawn entered the scriptorium, patterns of stained glass broke upon a turquoise sea.

  A boulevard carpeted in rose-pink silk divided the space between the prayer halls. Here young men clustered at waist-high tables, dressed in the robes of scholars: each attired in a long black gown belted with a sash. The sashes were looped with the rings of wooden spindles; these were kamish pens cut from reeds yet to be darkened by ink.

  On either side of the boulevard, arches ran in rows along the vaulted walls. The arches were lined with shelves where the treasures of the scriptorium were stored. On the east side were those treatises of law, mathematics, and medicine that were the inheritance of Ashfall. To the west, the work of miniaturists, cartographers, poets, and storytellers. Above these both, a row of smaller arches paralleled the rows below. These were the great works of philosophers, accessible to the most learned of the Warraqeen.

  The scriptorium’s shelves were labeled in a graceful script that read from right to left, each a description of the manuscripts within. In smaller vertical nooks between the shelves, cobalt-blue bottles glowed in the reflected light of lanterns balanced on steel pillars. Candles were forbidden inside the scriptorium. Any of the Warraqeen found using one would be banished from the chamber for life.

  A bound manuscript thousands of pages long was spread upon a pedestal carved from the trunk of an ash tree. This was the scriptorium’s catalogue. On the far side of the scriptorium, a marble pedestal similar to the one Arian had found at the top of the Clay Minar was reserved for the Bloodprint and sheltered from the light. It was a majestic, awe-inspiring space dedicated to the written word, as hushed as a house of worship. Its heavy outer doors were patrolled. Admittance to the scriptorium was granted by Khashayar, captain of the Khorasan Guard.

  Once one was permitted within, the halls were cool and free of dust. Each of the vaulted nooks was sealed to aid in the preservation of the manuscripts. The tables and pedestals were positioned out of the reach of natural light, illumined instead by lanterns resting upon copper stands. Stacked next to the pillars of the stands were numerous parchment scrolls. These were used by novice Warraqeen to practice their skills as calligraphers.

  The head calligrapher strolled along the rows of desks praising or correcting his pupils. He paused as the door to the upper gallery opened, tilting up his head that so his gray silk turban nearly slipped from his head. Arian raised her hand in the traditional greeting of the Companions. Accompanied by Khashayar, Darya led her down a spiral staircase to greet the Zareen-Qalam. There was an undertone of urgency to the courtesies they exchanged.

  Arian was now attired as Darya had expected to see a Companion of Hira, her clothing and jewelry gifts from the Black Khan. She wore a dress the color of rose dust, and gemstones were strung through the dark waves of her hair. A gold and pearl tiara rested on the crown of her head, and brought out the shimmer of her eyes.

  Though her dress was modest and bared only her arms, her beauty shone through it for the scribes of Ashfall to behold. There was a clumsy scraping back of stools from the Warraqeen’s desks as the young calligraphers gathered around their master.

  Darya stood beside Arian, proud to be the one to introduce her, though she knew well enough that the Zareen-Qalam needed no introduction from her. Still, he made her welcome, and given her recent humiliation at court, she was grateful for his notice.

  “First Oralist, you return under this new administration.”

  When the First Oralist smiled at him, several of the Warraqeen flushed red. “I am honored you recall my first visit, Zareen-Qalam. The scriptorium is lovelier than anything I’ve seen—even the scriptorium at Hira. Your work here is to be reverenced.”

  His dark eyes warmed with pleasure. His hand strayed to his pointed beard. “You remember when you first came—how difficult it was to persuade the Khan of the necessity of this effort. Our history would have been lost otherwise. Even at this moment things are changing. Each of the Warraqeen were selected by me, their backgrounds … considered … for outside influence.”

  They shared the glance of two who spoke each other’s language. A single Warraq with Talisman sympathies could burn the scriptorium down, inflicting ruin without raising a hand to arms.

  “You have a new Khan now,” Arian said. “And he endorses your efforts. Except that he does not allow women to be instructed in this effort.” She motioned to Darya. “I understand the Princess wishes to train as a linguist.”

  The Zareen-Qalam led the two women across the scriptorium to the pedestal where the Bloodprint was held. Two members of the Guard stood to either side of it, swords drawn, black eyes sharp and suspicious. The Zareen-Qalam bestowed a gentle smile upon them, urging Arian forward. To Darya’s astonishment, the weathered faces of the soldiers of the Khorasan Guard softened into warmth.

  “Sahabiya,” both murmured. “You honor us with your return.”

  “Peace be with you,” she said. “And with the people of Ashfall.”

  “You are most welcome here,” one of the guards said. “The city needs your benediction.” They drew away to allow her privacy with the Bloodprint.

  “What do you think of it?” she asked the Zareen-Qalam, her own sense of wonder scarcely dimmed. How insignificant the trials of her journey seemed compared to the manuscript itself. Then she remembered Turan, whose sacrifice had enabled her to reach this moment, endowed with the power of the Claim.

  “I wept,” the calligrapher said simply. “I could not believe it was real. But when I read it—” His voice became a whisper. “Sahabiya, only you could have given us this miracle—you and no other, not even the High Companion.” His tremulous hand hovered above the fine vellum of the manuscript. “I confe
ss I cannot read as fluently as I would wish. We have had no means of studying its language.”

  Arian nodded. She beckoned a diffident Darya forward. The Princess had been waiting to one side, her dark eyes wide, her mouth slightly agape, stunned into silence by the presence of the holy text. Tears trembled at the edges of her lashes, threatening to the fall to the page. She brushed them aside with her hand, staining the blue sleeve of her robe.

  “Can this truly be the Bloodprint?” She stared wonderingly at Arian. “Can it be possibly be real?”

  “Come closer,” Arian pressed her. “Decide the truth for yourself.”

  Darya blinked, bewildered by the suggestion that she could be worthy. Or that the First Oralist might deem her so. Trembling from head to toe, she bent her head to view the strong square script under the mark of blood. As she drew close enough to touch it, a bolt of fire singed her veins. She felt as though she were falling … and that she continued to fall, through time and darkness and distance, with nothing to anchor her in place. She heard a welcoming sound—the soft cascade of water rising through rooms of stone—and she saw the image of a woman against the backs of her eyelids—a woman old enough to be her mother, dressed in a long silk dress—looking back at Darya and whispering a single word …

  Read.

  But Darya heard the rest in her mind.

  Read in the name of the One, the One who created all there is in existence …

  She bent to the manuscript to obey. The script danced before her eyes. But the bloodmark on the page began to take the shape of history spiraling out its golden forms—ah, in the name of the Citadel of Hira—in the name of the glories of the One—the blood of a man spilled at prayer—she shaped the pattern of it in her mind, felt the grief strike clean to her heart—the centuries of loss—one man in a moment on his own—a consecrated script alive with hope on the page … it was speaking to her and it was saying, Come to me, come to Me, child …

  Darya staggered to her knees at the force of the summons in her mind. It was a long while before she came to herself again, to find she was sobbing like a child, held in the First Oralist’s arms, her throat raw with a sorrow she wasn’t strong enough to bear.