“I wonder if your trust in him is misplaced.”
“I wonder if it is my trust in the Zhayedan that is rather at error.” He ignored Arsalan’s swift frown. “Send for him at once. Boy—do not wander off.” As Wafa’s mount sidestepped nervously, the Black Khan reached for the horse’s reins. “You will be in my city soon enough, and there you will have to earn your keep.”
Another signal passed between Arsalan and Rukh, and at the look, Wafa choked back a sob.
The Black Khan dropped the reins of his horse. “I am not a pederast, boy. You do have other uses. You will share with my Nizam what you know of the One-Eyed Preacher.”
If anything, Wafa looked more afraid of this.
The Black Khan made an effort to soften his voice. “Do you imagine you’ve returned to the care of your cruel masters when you’ve escaped to a land of grace? You will not be brutalized here.”
He made the promise carelessly, a hard knot of certainty in his chest that if it was necessary to do otherwise, he would not be bound by his oath.
Wafa’s gaze dropped to the hands he’d fastened around the pommel of his saddle. It was clear to the Black Khan that the boy trusted only to the kindness of the Companions. When it came to men, the boy had learned he would always be at their mercy.
As were they all, he thought.
“Rukh.” Arsalan’s horse cantered back to Rukh’s side. “We must hurry. Messengers should have been sent to the villages that lie outside the protection of the outer walls. I would know why my orders have been gainsaid.”
“Whoever disobeyed your commands will be stripped of rank at once.”
Arsalan shook his head, his counsel more measured. “If that were the only danger, there would be little to fear.”
Rukh looked at him sharply. “Why? What is it you foresee?”
Arsalan reached over and patted the saddlebag that held the Bloodprint. He frowned at the barren ramparts. “What if the Qaysarieh Portal has been breached?”
26
THEY CLOSED THE DISTANCE BETWEEN THE OUTER RAMPARTS AND THE city walls, Wafa straggling behind, too unskilled to match their pace. Impatient with the boy, Arsalan pulled up and shifted him onto his own horse, leaving Wafa’s mount for his soldiers to collect. Wafa sat frozen and anxious before him as they swept past fields of orchard grass bordered by red clover. The path for their horses was a wide avenue, smooth and well worn, unlike the rutted tracks or hardscrabble landscape of the lands to the west. Astride Commander Arsalan’s elegant white horse, Wafa was no longer jostled in the saddle.
A second set of horns sounded at the entrance to the city walls. The walls were built of rectangular blocks of smooth white stone, with guard towers at regular intervals. A turquoise frieze decorated each tower, depictions of ancient battles fought for the Black Khan’s capital.
The walls seemed to stretch beyond the horizon, bursts of hot bright sunlight casting a dazzle on the stone. The radiance of the stone was blinding, standards mounted and flown along its numerous crenellations.
Then they were at the gate, a gate wide enough to admit the entrance of an entire regiment. A symbol was grafted on the shining silver of the doors: the black rook, emblem of the Khan, and of the ancient nobility of his line.
The gate was opened to the sound of the most beautiful music Wafa had ever heard: he didn’t know what could have produced such a sound—gliding wings, gold-tuned strings, the plaintive cry of a throat—but it seemed as if all of history had been captured by the soaring notes.
Their horses passed through to the capital of Ashfall, the gate closing behind them with the same soul-stirring sound. And here Wafa didn’t know where he should look first. He’d seen nothing of the beauty of Marakand, terrified by his ordeal at the Blood Shed. But he didn’t believe for a moment Marakand approached the magnificence of the sight he beheld now.
They had entered Ashfall from the southern gate, bypassing an opulent house of worship that lay just off the city’s axis. As they crossed the gate into a public square built on a scale so massive it dwarfed Marakand’s Registan, it became apparent that the facade of the house of worship was visible from each of the three major structures situated on the perimeter. On the western facade, the royal palace entered by the Illustrious Portal. To the east, an exquisite dome presided over a private house of worship reserved for the family of the prince. And to the north end, the Qaysarieh Portal, its doors guarded by archers stationed at a pair of towers.
The square itself stretched out as far as the eye could see, gardens interrupted by fountains, and then laid out again within squares of mulberry and plane trees, a series of orchards framing the whole. Broad thoroughfares dissected the square: the main avenue dedicated to the Khan’s army; others for carters, merchants, and ambassadors of state. A pearl-strewn path was reserved for the royal procession.
The square was organized into an outdoor bazaar, with lanes allocated to artisans and jewelers, brocade weavers, armorers, porcelain-casters, papermakers, gardeners, sculptors, painters, and draftsmen. A separate area, farthest from Qaysarieh, was populated by those recruited to provide entertainment to the court: animal tamers, jugglers, jesters, acrobats, dancers, musicians, and poets.
Music drifted through the orchards, a whimsical breeze carrying the scent of lemon trees. The fragrance of roses from invisible gardens perfumed the path taken by their horses. Wafa’s head swiveled from side to side in wonder.
Rukh observed the boy’s wonder with a mix of amusement and pride.
“Ashfall is half the world.” The Black Khan said it with a hard satisfaction in his voice.
One of Alisher’s more popular verses had recounted the inestimable grace of the cities of Black Aura and Marakand, a verse that had become popular in Ashfall’s alleys and bazaars. But the Black Khan had heard it with contempt.
The holy cities entire could not purchase a single of Ashfall’s glories.
Arsalan didn’t share his contentment. “Rukh. This is not a city that prepares for war.” He nodded at the smooth expanse of grass that bordered the Qaysarieh Portal. A course of equestrian jumps had been set up for a group of riders who were putting their thoroughbreds through their stately paces. “I left instruction. Only one man may countermand my wishes.”
Rukh frowned. “He would not do so without reason, Arsalan. Perhaps his scouts have returned to him with news the advance has slowed.”
Arsalan did not contradict Rukh, though it was plain that he didn’t agree. The two men drew up to the gates of the Qaysarieh Portal. The portal was copiously tiled in blue, the Black Khan’s symbol appearing at regular intervals with a grace and artistry that suggested a belonging to rather than a conquering of the surrounding environs.
Wafa was taken from Arsalan’s horse by two of the palace’s pages. At their inquiry, Arsalan shook his head. “No, he is not meant for Qaysarieh. Dress him and bring him to the Divan-e Shah. Send the Black Khan’s personal guard to meet us.”
Arsalan and Rukh passed under the portal to the palace of the Black Khan. Here the mystery of the perfume of unseen roses was solved. In the skillfully laid gardens within, masses of white blooms crowned the arbors that framed the stairs.
The riders relinquished their horses to the care of grooms. The Black Khan took the manuscript of the Bloodprint into his own hands and carried it before him. Inside the palace, he was met by a reception. Long-lashed women dressed in pearls and patterned silk held up trays filled with jasmine and rose petals. At the Black Khan’s entry, the petals were scattered over the men’s hair, and pious and heartfelt devotions for the prosperity of the Black Khan were murmured. He felt a momentary easing of strain, his sense of homecoming deep and profound with Arsalan at his side.
A sweetly swelling sound rose from a trio of setar players centered in the reception hall. Attendants scurried forth, bringing trays of glasses filled with sherbet, platters of apricots and peaches, and basins of scented water.
In the custom of the Black Khan’s house, Arsalan
and Rukh paused to wash their hands and faces. When the ritual was complete, the Black Khan dismissed the women.
Arsalan summoned a page. “Find the commanders of the Khorasan Guard. Send runners to the outer ramparts, the city walls, and the Qaysarieh Portal. I want to see them at once.”
Their preparations were interrupted by the sound of a glad cry. A young woman ran to meet them from across the vast entrance hall, her slippers tapping on the black-veined marble floor. She threw herself into the Black Khan’s embrace, looping her arms around his neck. “Rukh! You’ve come at last! Your place at court has been empty.”
The Black Khan hugged her close for a moment, then set her on her feet, detaching himself from her embrace.
“Princess, you’re looking well.”
Rukh’s use of her title was a reminder to his sister of the stringent etiquette of court. Her warmth faltering, she took half a step back. She corrected her posture, standing slim and straight, presenting herself for his inspection. Her dress would have made it apparent she was a princess of the royal court, her resemblance to him even more so. Her hair was silky and dark, its natural curl tamed, her black eyes full of mischief and life. Yet she was not entirely at ease in the ceremonial dress of court, the dozen layers of lustrous silk captured at her waist by a thick embroidered belt, matched by a series of veils that framed her hair. She was also burdened by jewels in a pearl collar too heavy for her neck and gold armlets that extended from her wrists to her shoulders. She wore a pair of jeweled anklets that he had given her. They chimed when she moved, and had been chosen for that reason—so that he would have forewarning of all his sister’s movements. Most marked in her attire was an enormous white pearl that hovered in the space between her well-shaped eyebrows. It signified her rank as princess, yet she still gave the impression of being dressed in someone else’s clothes.
“I’m glad to see you have prospered in my absence.” Rukh nodded at Arsalan. “I am not the only one who merits a proper greeting, Darya.”
His sister blushed, a splash of apricot against her sun-warmed skin. “Commander Arsalan.”
Bowing her head, she murmured a series of courtesies without meeting Arsalan’s eyes. He responded in kind, nothing in his demeanor suggesting she delayed him in seeking his commanders. Rukh did not permit any neglect of the courtesies of his court, no matter the urgency of circumstance. He was watchful for it in Darya, whose loving and whimsical nature resisted his efforts at discipline.
“Where is the Nizam, Darya? It isn’t like him to be remiss in his welcome.”
The Princess faltered at his tone. Her manner became consciously formal.
“His grace Nizam al-Mulk awaits you at the Divan-e Shah. He will relinquish his trust in person, Excellency.”
“He has not been out at the ramparts?”
“Not since you left, Excellency. Is anything the matter?”
Arsalan cut across her words. “What of the Qaysarieh Portal? Has the Nizam visited Qaysarieh, child?”
Darya’s painful blush greeted this form of address. Rukh had made no secret of his desire that she marry the commander of his army. By calling her a child, as he so often did, Arsalan was making it clear that he did not view her as an equal.
Studying the rings that adorned her fingers, Darya answered, “Nizam al-Mulk oversees his Excellency’s commands in the Divan-e Shah. He does no more or less than the Black Khan asked of him. May I ask the reason behind your questions? And your summons of the Zhayedan?”
While Arsalan hesitated over his response, Rukh brushed his sister aside. “This is not the time, Darya. Go on ahead—tell the Nizam I have come.”
Darya bent her head again. “Excellency.”
Of the two men, only Rukh observed her departure.
Arsalan caught him by the arm. Rukh wheeled to face him with a look of menace.
“She’s your sister, not your subject.”
“She is both. She forgets herself, Arsalan. In the absence of our mother, the stature of the court rests upon her shoulders.”
“Darya wasn’t meant for the frivolities of court—you know her talents lie elsewhere. She is wasted in the role of princess.”
Rukh addressed this coldly. “It is not a ‘role.’ It is her duty. Her pretensions are an insult to the court. To prefer the asceticism of Hira to the privilege of her life at Ashfall … Marry her, Arsalan, and put an end to these wayward dreams.”
“I will not marry a woman against her will. Even if that woman is Darya.”
Rukh’s laugh was mirthless. “You think her unwilling? It is because you neglect those pretty attentions that women require that her thoughts ever turned to Hira. Had you not made your rejection so plain—”
“She’s a child, Rukh.”
“She’s a woman. You choose not to see it.”
“You know why. There is nothing about Darya that attracts me. I cannot help that.”
A hostile, weighted look passed between the two men, an unaccustomed tension in the air. Rukh studied Arsalan intently, his narrowed eyes tracing the proud lines of his face—a contrast to the warmth and affection he had always found in Arsalan’s striking eyes—absent from them now as Rukh pushed him without remorse.
“Come closer,” Rukh said, testing him. “Look me in the eye as you refuse.”
A low growl sounded from Arsalan’s throat, a rare glimpse of his displeasure. Angered, he stepped closer, pinning Rukh against the wall with a strong arm at his throat, warning him he wouldn’t be trifled with. He looked his prince dead in the eye.
The silence between them held.
Finally Rukh said in a carefully neutral voice, “Don’t force me to make this a command. Marry her before the week is out—before Ashfall falls to our enemies.”
He spoke with utmost seriousness, his dark eyes candid and soft.
Breathing heavily, Arsalan shifted his arm from Rukh’s throat and punched his fist against the wall. He took another breath, then stepped back. When he looked at Rukh again, all emotion was wiped from his face—replaced by the same hard calculation Rukh knew could be read from his own.
“I would protect her with my life, regardless.”
A half measure. It would not serve with Ashfall at the edge of collapse.
“That is not why I demand it. Do you refuse the honor I confer? Do you dare refuse a princess of Ashfall—and one who loves you, besides?”
“Would you truly have this of me? Would you do such a thing to your sister?”
Arsalan’s voice was harsh. Rukh ignored his rebuke.
As idly as if he had nothing at stake, he replied, “Yours is an honorable bloodline, Arsalan. If my brother’s machinations succeed, there is no one else I would trust to see to Darya’s safety. The marriage could not be set aside—she would be safe from Darius’s brutes.”
“Darius would have me beheaded at Qaysarieh. Then Darya’s state of widowhood would offer her as much protection as if we hadn’t married at all.”
“Then you do refuse your prince. I didn’t think this day would come.”
Rukh knew he was pushing Arsalan too hard, just as he knew he’d been left with no other choice.
For the sake of the empire … for his sister … even for the friend he loved …
Suddenly weary, he rubbed a hand over his eyes. He expected no reprieve from the difficulties ahead, but he’d believed that Arsalan would stand with him until the calamitous end. He opened his eyes to find Arsalan watching him with an unexpected softness in his face.
And then he had what he’d sought when Arsalan yielded all at once. “I have never refused you anything. I will not begin now.”
He was shaken by this proof of Arsalan’s allegiance, but it was a weakness he could not betray lest Arsalan change his mind. He shook back his hair from his face with an insolent tilt to his head.
On a sly note of mockery, he said, “I trust you will find a way to rise to the occasion. Darya has her … charms.”
Arsalan checked him with a hard shove o
f his shoulder. “What transpires between the Princess and myself is none of your concern.”
27
IN THE THRONE ROOM, DARYA CONVEYED THE BLACK KHAN’S MESSAGE to the Nizam, who expressed no surprise at the news. He removed himself from the throne, taking the seat of the Grand Vizier.
Her message delivered, Darya retraced her steps, seeking the comfort of her brother’s presence. She came to an abrupt halt in an alcove along the long hallway that led to the Divan-e Shah. Her brother and his commander were speaking of her in low voices.
It was too late to retreat. She melted into the shadows where she couldn’t see them, thankful her dress was dark.
But as she continued to listen, a tide of humiliation washed over her. Her brother was threatening Arsalan—coercing him to a course he clearly did not want. And to hear Arsalan say the words …
There is nothing about Darya that attracts me.
She drew in a harsh breath. How well she knew the truth of it.
When the Black Khan had first set his seal on her betrothal, she’d listened to the news with an incandescent joy. If she’d doubted her brother’s love of her, his choice of Arsalan as her husband had chased away her fears. There was no man she would rather have chosen for herself than Arsalan, commander of the Zhayedan. He was charismatic and powerful and all that a princess of the court could hope to find in a partner. She’d spent long hours dreaming of a future at his side, her heart beating faster whenever she was in his company.
And though he called her a child and spoke of her as one, he was the one man at court who treated her with respect. When she was present in the Divan-e Shah, Arsalan sought out her opinion and pointed out the wisdom of her counsel. He’d been an advocate and an ally, though she’d never thought to ask him to intercede on her behalf. She had no claim over the Zhayedan’s commander; she couldn’t ask him for favors. But if he was her betrothed, she knew things would be different. There was nothing she might not entreat from Commander Arsalan now.
And what Darya wanted with her whole hopeful heart was the chance to study at Hira, where she might be instructed by the Companions she so deeply esteemed. She knew Rukh feared the Council of Hira’s influence over his only sister, but what she found difficult to accept was the fact that his wishes mattered more than hers. He wielded his power so completely, yet Darya had dreams of her own. Rukh had dismissed her dreams out of hand. She hoped Arsalan would be kinder.
The Black Khan Page 15
