The Black Khan Page 31

  Daniyar stood up. The Talisman drumbeat was echoed by the sound of infantry on the march. The Black Khan’s hawks sped through the skies, their urgent messages arcing back and forth. On the western horizon, he spied a figure he thought was Arsalan striding to the gate.

  “If my counsel is of no value to you, why did you summon me here? Are you able to make use of your gifts? There is a rite I know that would serve the eastern gate.”

  “You mean the dawn rite, the rite of daybreak.” The sensual line of Rukh’s lips firmed. “I haven’t fathomed my abilities. My sole thought has been for the Bloodprint.”

  Daniyar swallowed his disappointment at this news, a savage edge to his voice. “Then I do not know how to help you. Except by taking my sword to stand at Arsalan’s side.”

  A canny look came into Rukh’s eyes. He knew what the Assassin had brought him, just as he knew how to use it. “You would serve me better at the Emissary Gate.” He glanced pointedly at the crest at Daniyar’s throat. “The Shin War would take you for one of their own if you meet with their commanders. You could persuade them to abandon their attack.”

  “They would not heed me without my ring or my sword. With no proof that I still hold the Candour.”

  Rukh nodded at the Assassin to open the narrow box. A dazzling light spilled from it, glinting off the lacquered throne. Drawn by a strange compulsion, Daniyar moved to the box. He withdrew its contents with a muffled oath: the box contained the ring of the Silver Mage and the sword of the Guardian of Candour. He balanced the fine length of the blade in hands that were sure and strong, causing the Black Khan to shield his eyes from its glare.

  Both sides of the sword were inscribed with the Guardian of Candour’s motto: Defend the truth in the face of all dishonor.

  Gripping the sword in his roughened palm, Daniyar faced the Assassin with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “How do you come to have this when it was hidden away?”

  Something cold and menacing moved in the other man’s eyes. Rukh answered for him.

  “Nothing is hidden from the Assassin. He found your tokens and kept them safe. His followers tracked you here; he brought your sword and ring to Ashfall where he guessed they might serve a purpose.”

  He watched in silence as the Silver Mage sheathed the sword and placed the ring on his finger. An arrow of light cut through the room, issuing from the ring’s translucent stone.

  “These may not be enough to hold sway.”

  Rukh had already thought of an answer. His hand stroked the Sacred Cloak, then moved carefully to unlatch it. “The Talisman would trust a man who wore the Cloak. They would know him for the Guardian of Candour, a man of their own tribe, a man who speaks their dialect. How could they deny your legitimacy?”

  He folded the Cloak in his hands, passing it to Daniyar, who now took a step back. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m giving you the Sacred Cloak to wear to the Emissary Gate.”

  Daniyar didn’t touch it. His eyes took the measure of the Khan. Yielding the Cloak spoke of the Black Khan’s desperation. He would rather yield the Cloak than trust to his brother’s abilities.

  “Take it,” Rukh insisted. “I will rely on the Bloodprint in its stead.”

  Daniyar smiled to himself. It wouldn’t take the Black Khan long to learn that the magic of the Bloodprint could be unlocked only by the Oralists of Hira. With the Talisman army at his gates, every choice he made was the wrong one.

  Daniyar’s hands closed on the Cloak. He held it up and let its soft brown folds fall to the floor. He drew it over his armor, closing its clasp at his neck. It fit him as though it had been woven for him.

  “I’ll go to the Emissary Gate, but I ask you to think on your brother. There will come a time when Ashfall will need the abilities of its Mage.”

  Rukh’s lips tightened. He knew he’d been remiss in learning his skills as Dark Mage. He didn’t need the other man’s reminder, but Daniyar wasn’t finished.

  “Nor should you underestimate the First Oralist. For the strongest defense of Ashfall, do not separate Arian from the Bloodprint. Trust to your city in her hands.”

  When he’d gone from the room in a rush of controlled power, Rukh turned to the Assassin. “You’ve spared no thought on behalf of Ashfall. You were wise to bring his tokens here.”

  The Assassin gave a modest bow. “And now, Excellency? What would you have me do?”

  “Follow him,” Rukh said. “See what he does in their camp. I do not trust him at all.”

  The Assassin melted away. There was no need to remind the Khan that he was the one who’d proven to be unworthy of trust.

  Daniyar returned to his chamber for his weapons and found Wafa curled up at the foot of his bed. He’d expected Alisher to offer his aid, but Alisher had deserted them for the wonders of the scriptorium. It was just as well; they’d asked too much of the poet’s resources already.

  Wafa recognized the Sacred Cloak at once. He swallowed twice without speaking; then he pointed to it with a finger stained with pomegranate juice.

  “Did you kill him?” he asked, his dark eyes hopeful.

  “No,” Daniyar said, this talk of killing from a child of Candour disturbing to his ears. He began to fasten his weapons to his belt, taking care with the Sacred Cloak.

  “Why not? You know what he did to Lady Arian. You should have killed him.” Daniyar studied his reflection in the tall glass. The Cloak now covered the armor and his weapons. The Shin War crest flashed green at his throat—a symbol he’d once worn with pride, assured of his standing within his tribe. The way he’d once defined himself meant nothing to him now. His city had been transformed into something he didn’t recognize, something he no longer valued, reduced again and again by the Talisman’s creeping dread.

  The Cloak was beauty amid desolation, sacredness against outrage, peace measured in its absence. The Black Khan had touched it with pride of ownership, with satisfaction at a weapon in his arsenal. Daniyar felt its power shimmering through his bones. He understood the Cloak for what it was: a holy mantle of love.

  “I’ve killed too many men,” he said. “Today and tomorrow, more will die at my hands. It doesn’t help, Wafa. It injures me.”

  Wafa stared at him, wide-eyed. He sucked pomegranate juice from his fingers. “But the bad man hurt the lady Arian. It’s good that he fell dead.”

  Daniyar nodded, sweeping the Cloak aside to sit next to the boy on the bed.

  “The Authoritan was destroyed by the power of the Claim, the power that resides in all of us. There are men I have killed in Arian’s defense, and I will do so again. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. What would you think if I did?”

  “He’s like them,” Wafa said. He sketched a rook in the air to indicate whom he meant.

  “I’m not sure of that yet. He’s desperate, I think. Frantic to save his city, though he won’t show the depths of his fear. It may not seem like it, Wafa, but he’s thinking of all these people, the ones who live within these walls. The Princess who was kind to you. She’s his sister and she loves him. Do you think she would if he were as bad as you say?”

  Wafa looked confused. “The Princess cries,” he said. “At night, alone in her room.”

  “If the city falls, the Princess will have other reasons to cry.” Daniyar made for the door, where he paused to look back at the boy. “It’s not always easy to decide why people act as they do. We cannot know what we will do until we are put to the test.” He held up a corner of the Sacred Cloak. “I hope to be worthy of this Cloak. I hope to find a way other than raising my sword. Think about that, Wafa. Think of what it means to be a citizen.”

  But Wafa couldn’t understand when he thought of himself as a slave.

  49

  “THAT WAS TERRIBLE,” SINNIA SAID. SHE WAS SWEATING UNDER HER circlets, feeling Darya’s humiliation as if it was her own. “Why would he banish his sister like that?”

  She was seated on a swing whose chains were twined with honeysuckle vines, ablaze in fl
aming pink. Hummingbirds hovered above their heads, darting their beaks into the small, soft trumpets of the petals. The beating of their wings and the perfume of the vines engulfed her, drowning out the tang of Talisman fires. She was waiting for Arian to finish changing into her armor. They were due back at the scriptorium, every moment with the Bloodprint precious.

  “There is a great deal under the surface of this court. Schemes, machinations, power struggles.” Arian yanked her armor into place.

  Sinnia snorted. “Darya is scarcely more than a child. What could she have plotted?”

  “Daniyar could tell us whether the Princess is guilty of conspiring to unseat her brother, though in this case the Princess seems to be governed by a generous heart.”

  “It was cruel what the Black Khan told her about her brother.”

  “Yes, he can be cruel.”

  The Black Khan disturbed her tranquility. She remembered the urgency of Daniyar’s kisses, the glowing excitement that had pierced her. If Daniyar believed his gifts could be called on, he would sacrifice himself without question, a repayment she had earned for her stubborn allegiance to Hira. She said nothing of this to her friend, though, for despite Sinnia’s habitual humor, she knew that Sinnia still suffered from the effects of the experiments at Jaslyk.

  Sinnia stretched out her limbs. She was well fed and cared for, and had been treated with the honor due a Companion of Hira. Several of the nobles of the court had visited the lands of the Negus, speaking warmly of its regent. The news of home was reassuring, and she’d learned one of the Prince’s many cousins had married a man of her country.

  She knew the Talisman were advancing across the plains, yet for the span of a night she had enjoyed luxury and peace, seduced by the comforts of Ashfall. On the balcony, the golden glimmer of the lamps offered solace; the twilight shadows and rich, soft air caressed the bare skin of her arms. The city of Ashfall rose on three sides around a giant square, its domes gently curving, its balconies and towers sculpted against the night, peacocks adrift in the gardens, their gemlike tails fanning behind the plumes of their small imperial heads.

  It was a city of golden, glowing walls and emerald-green gardens, where flowered crimson trusses framed the arbors and sheets of wisteria flared violet against the crushed gold of stone. Hawks as dark as midnight raced against the sky, carrying messages between the walls. Sinnia was brought out of her reverie at the sight. Salikh had taught her the Claim; he’d opened her senses and spirit to it and urged her to make use of her powers.

  Fight, he’d told her. Fight.

  And now, profoundly strengthened by those moments with the Bloodprint, Sinnia knew she would. She would stand at Arian’s side, and Arian would stand at hers, never to be divided again.

  “Where do you see us as most useful, Arian? What role can we play in the defense of Ashfall? I could lend my aim to Captain Cassandane. I liked her very much.”

  “I could see that she respected you.” Arian fastened her weapons to her belt. “But there are many archers behind these walls, and only two Companions of Hira.”

  Sinnia’s dark eyes flashed at her, the whites a sharp and bold contrast. “Has the Black Khan agreed to gift you the Bloodprint? Does he know that you were trained to read it?”

  Arian pressed her fingers to her temples. The Black Khan’s attentions were more than just insistent, they were disturbing. She wondered if he used the powers of the Dark Mage in some secret way to coerce her. She and Daniyar had talked about the Authoritan’s compulsive grip, the violence he’d enacted in their minds. Rukh was too subtle for violence, unless his relentless pressure against her senses was a similar intrusion.

  “I have asked him,” she told Sinnia. “And I read from the Bloodprint what I could under the eyes of the Zareen-Qalam. But it wasn’t enough. I need time, and I need you there with me, to catch nuances I might miss.”

  Read, Sinnia, Salikh had urged. Read and blaze, sahabiya.

  “I’m not as fluent as I’d like to be,” she told Arian, a hitch of hesitation in the words. “There was nothing to study from in the capital of the Negus, and my training at Hira was brief.”

  “The Claim itself will teach you. It knows your heart; it knows you as the lioness of the Negus.”

  “I think you may be right.” Sinnia’s voice was full of wonder. “I have spent some time with the Bloodprint. I’ve learned to trust myself. I know now what I fight for.”

  In her voice was a silent recognition of the suffering behind the Wall. Sinnia had had a taste of it: the women they’d left behind and the leaders of the Basmachi—they knew a darkness too monstrous to describe. A darkness at odds with the beauty and elegance of Ashfall.

  A hummingbird settled on her wrist for the space of a heartbeat. “The women of Ashfall are treated with grace, as they are in my homeland. But these are things you’ve never known.”

  “No,” Arian said. “Not for a long time.”

  “Could the Khan entreat you with his city? Or his scriptorium? Or … his person? He wants you for his queen.” She gestured with a hand. “Look at the dress he gave you. He couldn’t have made it more obvious.”

  Arian sighed. She knew what Rukh wanted. He would take her sweetness as a matter of course, but what he truly coveted was magic. He believed he would conquer and hold through the use of her gifts. How poorly he understood the Claim.

  How poorly he understood her.

  She watched the Talisman advance from the safety of the balcony. They came for her and Sinnia, for every woman behind these walls. They came for the scriptorium, for each delicately preserved manuscript. Like the raiders of the steppes centuries ago, they would burn the city to the ground.

  “When I complete my Audacy, I’ll be able to think of myself. This isn’t that time. Even my hope to pledge myself to Daniyar means nothing as long as I observe the duties of a Companion. And I cannot think of leaving if another is not trained in my place. How can I forecast a future I do not know? Unlike Lania, I must take my fate as it comes. Until then, if the Bloodprint is to remain here, so be it. I will use it to train the Warraqeen. That is the only future I am able to see.”

  “But if the Bloodprint were to remain in Ashfall, neither Ash nor Half-Seen would have access to it. Surely their gifts would aid you more than mine would.”

  “You asked me if I could be tempted. That’s what would tempt me, Sinnia.”

  “And the Black Khan?”

  She shook her head, refusing to consider her earlier weakness. “There is only Daniyar for me.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the screeching of hawks diving down to the western gate, summoned by a whistle.

  Arian and Sinnia rose to follow their progress. There was movement to the west, and they caught the gallant figure of Captain Cassandane at the head of her company of archers. As she strode forth with bold assurance, her attention was directed at the Commander of the Zhayedan, who walked beside her. Daniyar wasn’t with them.

  Arian’s hands tightened on the marble railing. She tested the muscles of her throat—the time for the Claim was at hand.

  The Black Khan appeared on their balcony. He was dressed in battle armor, two of the Khorasan Guard at his heels. “Come with me,” he said. “I have urgent need of you now.”

  Rukh took his signet ring from his hand and slid it onto Arian’s finger, locking her hand in his own as she tried to pull away.

  “Please, Arian.” His voice was darkly entreating. “My ring will give you the authority to visit the scriptorium at will.”

  “Where is Daniyar?” Arian spoke through stiff lips, her heart pounding a drumbeat.

  Wordlessly, Rukh shook his head. “He’s with the Assassin.”

  The Assassin.

  Now Arian knew why she’d felt that frisson of fear at the sight of the black-gloved intruder. The Assassin’s name was a whisper, his deeds a daunting legend.

  “Where did you send them?”

  “To the eastern gate.”

  “The Talis
man advance from the east.”

  “I know that. I’ve had to close the gates to my own people. Many were left behind. The Talisman are using them as shields.”

  His black eyes glittered feverishly. He brought Arian’s hand to his mouth and kissed it, pressing his ring against her fingers.

  Arian snatched her hand away. “Tell me the rest.”

  He looked away from her for a moment. “For the sake of those who were captured, the Silver Mage has gone to treat with the Talisman. He’s asked to meet with the leaders of the Shin War.”

  “No!” Arian’s cry rang out against the night. “You must permit me to go after him!”

  A strange inflection in his voice, Rukh said, “He’s safe enough at the gate. Your presence by his side would put him at risk, for you are the Talisman’s enemy. Let him trust to his own strengths now.”

  Fury surged through Arian’s blood, clawing at her temples, striking sparks against her thoughts. She welcomed it. It held her deepest fears at bay. If she could have struck the Black Khan down, she would have.

  Recognizing this, he covered her mouth with his hand. “Yes,” he said with savage satisfaction. “That is what I need. Come to the scriptorium now, without delay. I relinquish the Bloodprint to your hands. Study it until you master it. When you’re ready, come to the gate.”

  50

  DARYA HADN’T BEEN TAKEN TO THE DISMAL QUARTERS WHERE DARIUS awaited his fate. Once past the ominous pishtaq that framed the Qaysarieh Portal, she’d found herself in a room with a balcony that overlooked the plains. The ramparts bustled with activity, companies of archers divided between the three approaches to the city, for none would come down from the north.

  None, she thought, save the Companions of Hira, and the Silver Mage, whose masculine beauty had held the court of Ashfall in thrall. Each of Darya’s cousins had thrust herself forward for his notice; Darya herself had felt a thrill at the burning lance of his strangely magnetic eyes.

  For a moment, she lost herself in a daydream. She wondered how the First Oralist responded to the power of those eyes. Did she retain her magnificent composure, or did she flow like mercury in the arms of the Silver Mage, enslaved by the ravishment of his kisses? They had to be lovers; no man could look at a woman with such unrestrained hunger and consent to be kept at a distance, no matter the First Oralist’s vows.