The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Rather, he was tiring Daniyar out, his attention focused on his enemy. Pressing, always pressing, and making effective use of Daniyar’s previous wounds by striking at them again. Daniyar hadn’t landed a blow with the poisoned tip of his blade. Nothing seemed to slow the other man’s advance.

  Which meant the answer was to meet him on his ground. So Daniyar plunged forward, leaving his chest unprotected. With a quick feint under the other man’s guard, he leapt at Nevus’s sword, tangling it in the chains that bound his wrists. He jerked the sword straight out of Nevus’s grip, in the process losing his own. Both men scrambled for their weapons. Nevus recovered his first. He slashed at Daniyar’s chest and it was over. The Silver Mage was brought to his knees.

  The great room exploded into noise.

  Nevus raised his sword for the final blow. “Die and die again, unto a world without end.”

  “Hold, Captain Nevus.”

  The Authoritan and the Khanum rose as one. Arian strained against her leash, her eyes urgent upon Daniyar’s face. But even her great need in this moment couldn’t unlock the verses of the Claim seething in her mind, as it had done at the Clay Minar.

  What could she do? Her thoughts leapt quickly over options.

  She had been this powerless only once before in her life—when the Talisman had raided her home. The sight of Daniyar forced onto his knees portended a grief as severe—an endless reckoning of loss she knew she would never be able to face.

  She watched in desperation as Nevus drew back, panting from the effort it had taken him to win. He made a quick bow before the Authoritan, then said, “Khagan, the rites of the Qatilah have not been completed.”

  A smile passed between the Authoritan and his consort. “I am changing the rites.”

  He nodded at Daniyar, bound and on his knees, held there by two soldiers. “The Khanum has persuaded me of the Silver Mage’s value.” He snapped his fingers at another soldier. “Bring the bloodbasin.”

  “Khagan, you dishonor me.” Nevus’s voice was tight. He was unused to being refused any privilege he sought. He was the Khagan’s commander in Black Aura.

  “Would you bloody the hands you would use to bring the First Oralist to bay?” The Khanum pushed Arian to her feet. “Take your prize and go. The Silver Mage is mine.”

  His eyes aglow, the Authoritan swiftly rebuked her. “He is mine, Khanum. Every blade of grass behind the Wall belongs solely to me.”

  Lania made her voice soothing. “Of course, Khagan. That is what I meant.”

  She took the bloodbasin from the Ahdath’s hands to present to the Authoritan. It was a bowl carved of gold, an occult incantation inscribed upon it in a lajwardina glaze. It was deep enough to hold the blood drained from a man’s body.

  “Have what you will of the Silver Mage,” she said. “I have tasted his blood and know its potency for myself. I know it will augment your strength.”

  Nevus grabbed Arian by the arm. She held herself aloof.

  “Do you grant her to me, Khagan?” He spoke directly to the Authoritan, a subtle yet unmistakable sign of disregard for the influence of the Khanum.

  The Authoritan dismissed him with a flourish, smiling with a calculated power. “If you do not wish to observe the blood rites, then go. But do not remove the collar—you would find yourself unmanned.”

  Nevus curled a hand around Arian’s circlet. Though he’d been bested by the Khanum, the First Oralist of Hira was not an insignificant prize. If he could not end his enemy’s life in battle, the taking of this woman would inflict the ultimate wound. When Arian tried to resist, he lifted her struggling body in his arms.

  “No!” Daniyar shouted. A soldier’s blade drew blood from his throat. The Khanum descended the stairs in regal, gliding movements. She held the bloodbasin to the edge of his wound.

  “Cut him again,” the Authoritan said, power raging through his voice. “Cut him deeper. This takes too long.”

  With one hand, the Khanum detached the silken veil from her face. She gazed up at the Authoritan.

  “Khagan,” she insisted again, “taste his blood tonight. See how it empowers your use of the Claim. As the First Oralist will not yield, his blood will give you the weapon you seek. Do not spend it all in one night. You will need it again before long.”

  But this was too open a communication from the Khanum. The Authoritan flicked his hand in her direction, his crimson eyes blank and considering, his power held in reserve. With a painful grimace, she fell silent.

  “I know what it is you seek of him,” he hissed at her. “I know of his visits to your chamber.” A strange intonation wound its way through his voice, and with it an intimation of madness.

  “Khagan—”

  “Be silent.”

  Daniyar’s blood dripped into the bowl, a scarlet oozing against the incantation. Hazily he tried to read it. What was the significance of these arcane pronouncements and rites?

  He thought of the Verse of the Throne, of molding it into a weapon and using it as Arian had used it. If he could aim it like a dagger and fling it at the Authoritan’s throat—

  “Blood will be shed. Blood will be shed.”

  The Ahdath assembled to watch his defeat began to murmur, the sound of the chant rising like a wave.

  “There is no one but the One, Alive and Self-Subsisting.”

  But his voice was too weak, and he wasn’t able to shape the words as Arian had done. He wasn’t an Oralist or a Companion of Hira. He was simply a man of faith.

  He tried to remember the verse Arian had recited during their long journey north.

  A throne to comprise the heavens and the earth.

  The words echoed back to him in the silence of his mind.

  It was Arian—easing him, soothing him, as his lifeblood drained from his body. She was thinking of him, even as she faced her own peril at Nevus’s hands. He shuddered at the thought of the bloodmarked tattoo and of what Nevus would do.

  He felt the steady flow of his blood, his strength beginning to leave him.

  He offered the words again. There would be power in them—they wouldn’t set him adrift.

  “A throne to comprise the heavens and the earth.”

  He raised his head to face the dais, finding a repellent fascination in the Authoritan’s crimson-tinged eyes, as hypnotic as a viper of the steppes. He wondered at the distinctive commingling of bloodlines that had caused this transformation in the Bloodless.

  Then he said, “It isn’t your throne. It isn’t your dominion over the heavens and the earth.”

  A gasp from Lania drew his eyes to her. A secret gesture of her hand warned him not to challenge the Authoritan. But he was no longer at her mercy.

  “Cut his wrists.”

  The Authoritan’s command was heeded by his men. Blood discolored the chains at Daniyar’s wrists, defining the corded muscles of his forearms. Lania moved the bloodbasin to encompass this new flow of his blood.

  He could taste the anticipation of the Ahdath, revenged for their humiliation at his hands. He could feel the Authoritan’s consciousness probing dagger-sharp through his mind.

  He thought of his great trust, the Candour, and the letters that gleamed on its surface.

  Haq.

  The Candour had burned before his eyes, but its teachings were present in his mind.

  Qala fal haqqu wal haqqa aqool.

  Wearily he said, “This is the truth and the truth is what I utter.”

  His defiance failed to strike at the Authoritan, who hovered above him on the dais. Daniyar sagged at the knees. Lania caught him by the arm, one hand slipping under the chains to press the knife wound at his wrist. She did the same with the other hand, her movements so subtle and stealthy, he couldn’t be certain of her actions.

  “Khagan,” she called, “you must taste the blood while it is fresh.”

  She produced a tiny vial from a pocket within her robe, using it to decant a minimal amount of blood. The Authoritan summoned one of the Ahdath to bring it
to his throne.

  The words pressed against Daniyar’s mind.

  A throne to comprise the heavens and the earth.

  Arian. Arian, my love.

  A sharp stab inside his skull brought him fully to his senses.

  He met Lania’s eyes. They were filled with a strange despair.

  Did she love him? Could she love him? She knew his love for Arian now—and that he’d deceived her to that end.

  Think of me, a cool voice said. Think only of me, Daniyar.

  It was Lania who spoke in the once-pristine silence of his mind.Lania—not Arian.

  The Authoritan drank from the vial of blood, tipping back his head to expose the articulated column of his neck. His parchment-like skin was transparent, the viscous fluid oozing down his throat.

  Daniyar shuddered again, slipping to his knees, though Lania tried to hold him, tenderness in her touch.

  “You were right.” The Authoritan spoke to his consort, a hint of surprise in his voice. “The blood of the Silver Mage is unlike anything else I have tasted. It renders me unassailable.”

  He raised the vial high above his head, his crimson eyes alight, his thin lips stained with Daniyar’s blood as he glided to and fro. He toasted his Ahdath.

  “Blood will be shed,” they roared.

  “Everything south of the Wall will burn.” He examined the crystal vial in his hand, holding it up to the light, where it pulsed like an orphic heartbeat. Then he pointed at Daniyar.

  “This is the truth and the truth is what I utter.”

  Daniyar glanced up at Lania, still holding him in her grasp.

  And caught the subtle smile that edged her lips.

  21

  ARIAN FOUGHT NEVUS EVERY STEP OF THE WAY TO HIS CHAMBERS, DIVIDED between the urgent need to consider her own safety and the sight of Daniyar bleeding to death at the Authoritan’s pleasure.

  She needed to use the Claim. But the more she attempted to do so, the tighter the leather collar squeezed the muscles of her throat. Her larynx was swollen and raw. She didn’t know if even freed from the collar, she’d be able to recite at need. She wasn’t deterred by the thought of failure: Arian intended to try.

  She intended, as ever, to fight.

  Nevus dropped her onto a narrow wooden bed, scarcely large enough for two. She scrambled back against its headboard, trying to get her bearings. She was bound and painfully gagged. She searched the room with her eyes for anything she could use to delay or subvert the inevitable confrontation. The room was smaller than she’d expected—hardly the opulent quarters of a captain of the Ahdath. The air was unscented by incense or aromatic oils, with an absence of silk curtains hanging about the bed. It was sparsely furnished and without ornament, the room of a disciplined man who spent most of his time at the Wall and rarely engaged in frivolities.

  A narrow window looked out over the courtyard of the Ark. From the void beyond, she heard the call of soldiers giving orders from the Wall.

  Nevus turned his back to her, engaged in the task of removing his gloves. Arian slid off the bed, moving closer to the unbarred window. There was nothing she could use to anchor herself, to slip below to the courtyard—and even if she were able to reach its safety, she would be at the center of a company of Ahdath. She needed another way out. She turned her gaze back to Nevus.

  He had paused before a table, unlatching his crimson breastplate. He set it aside on a chest at the foot of the narrow bed, exposing a blue-glazed table to her view. It was the only note of beauty in the room, a table embellished and inscribed, profligate in the use of verse. But these were not verses of the Claim, and Arian couldn’t make out the script.

  Her resolve firmed as she examined the items Nevus had placed on the table. A collection of stiletto blades was arranged over a runner of white silk, laid out from the blade with the thinnest tip to the widest. Each had an ornamented haft worked in filigreed silver. At the far end of the table, a group of delicate decanters surrounded a bowl painted with a lajwardina varnish. It was a miniature version of a bloodbasin, and on seeing it, Arian felt her determination flare anew. She could not let herself be blooded. She would not.

  As another piece of his armor came off, Arian moved closer to the table, plotting her escape. The crystal decanters were filled with liquids in different jewel tones. One was clear and transparent; another was filled with mare’s milk. A thin gold ladle rested in the center of the miniature basin, traces of blood staining its lip.

  “You needn’t worry,” Nevus said behind her. “I have other uses for you.”

  Arian’s palms searched behind her for one of the stilettos on the table.

  Nevus’s smile distorted the bloodmark on his cheek. Arian watched it ripple against his skin. There was another item on the table, an item whose purpose she guessed. It was a silver brand with a leather grip that would fit inside a man’s palm. The brand was in the shape of a square, with dozens of sharp silver needles. She couldn’t contain a shiver at the thought of the needles pressed to her skin.

  Nevus laughed, then rang a small bell beside the door to his chamber.

  He advanced on Arian, removing the blade she had gripped behind her back with little effort. His touch was light. He used no more force than was necessary to restrain her.

  “Sit here.” He led her to a narrow bench placed before the window. A breeze drifted through the curtains to stir the waves of her hair.

  Nevus seated himself on a corner of the carved wooden chest. He studied Arian’s face in the light that flickered from a lantern by the window.

  “She looked like you when she first came here, and I thought to have her, as I now have you.” His tone was conversational. “The Authoritan kept her to himself. He trained her, he raised her up, and soon the notice of an Ahdath captain was beneath the Authoritan’s consort. She lost no opportunity to make that clear to me. Are you much like her? I wonder.”

  He unfastened his leather greaves, then removed his boots.

  Arian shook her head, persuading him with a softening of her eyes. She could do nothing as long as she was bound, so the first necessity was to convince him to remove the collar.

  “You think to speak to me? To answer my questions? The Authoritan warned me against it.” He moved closer to the bench, reaching behind Arian to unfasten the chains that linked her wrists together. He sat back on the chest, giving a slight nod of his head at the daggers on the table. “I do not like to see you constrained, but I warn you, my aim is unerring.”

  Arian nodded her understanding, the movement tightening the collar. She winced, gingerly stretching her arms to ease their ache. Sensation flooded back to her upper arms, throbbing under her skin. Carefully she put her hands up to the collar and gently massaged her throat. When tears slipped from her eyes, it was a ruse intended to soften Nevus, aided in part by the tumult of her imprisonment at the Ark. Her inner purpose was undeterred.

  Nevus braced his hands on his thighs. His bloodmark rippled, as a muscle tightened in his cheek. With a careful hand, he brushed a lock of hair over Arian’s shoulder. He touched the same hand to the moisture on her face.

  “Who do you cry for—the Silver Mage? Or do you cry for yourself as the reward I earned for besting him in the Qatilah?” His hand traced the path of the collar, working its way from the outline of her jaw to her throat, too lightly to feel the bite of the silver spikes. He brushed the front of her dress, molding the silk to her body. Deliberately, Arian brought up both hands to still the movement of his.

  “Do you think you can delay this?” Nevus asked. “Do you imagine I will not claim you as my own? I wouldn’t have forsaken the bloodrites for anyone other than you. Your magic is powerful; its essence will renew me. But I need not be cruel to you. I am not a man who is savage with women, though there are many of that ilk among my soldiers.”

  He took one of her hands in his, kissing it lightly before letting it go.

  He resumed his seat on the chest, watching her for a reaction. Arian crossed her arms,
gripping her circlets with her hands. A subtle strength flared from their inscriptions, reminding her that she had brought down men more powerful than Nevus, often unaided by the power of the Claim. She gave him a measured smile, probing out his weaknesses.

  His words were gentle, his touch careful on her skin, but what he discussed so calmly could not be mistaken for other than what it was. This night in his chamber wasn’t a seduction. And the threat of sexual violence—to herself, to Sinnia—had been present whenever they had disrupted a Talisman slave-chain. She had learned to set it aside, or the fear would have paralyzed her abilities. She remembered that now and used it to draw strength into her body. She focused her attention on the man who held her captive, the man who thought her powerless. She cast a demure glance at him, and even that was edged by covert invocations of the Claim.

  She raised one brow in an imitation of her sister. Offering him her obedience in a glance filled with promise, she raised her hands to the latch at the back of her collar.

  Watching her, he reached for the smallest of the ornamental blades. His gaze drifted to her breasts, outlined by the silk of her dress.

  “I am warning you,” he said thickly.

  Arian slid the bolt from the lock that held the collar together. It came apart in her hands. She held it out to Nevus, docile and utterly harmless.

  “You have no need of this,” she assured him, arranging verses of the Claim in her mind. Her voice rasped against her throat, each word painful. She forced herself not to think of Daniyar, pressing ahead to a single end. She made her words careless, lightly mocking.

  “Is it me you seek to use or my sister? Was she the prize the Authoritan denied you when you’d sacrificed so much in his service?”

  Nevus took the collar she held out and dropped it to the floor, its silver spikes striking the marble. He pulled her into his arms and fastened his mouth to the bruises at her throat. Arian went lax in his grip, demonstrating submission. His attentions grew more urgent, and only then did she try to slow him.