The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  She was mourning. Mourning as if the blood on the page had just been spilled before her eyes. The woman in the white silk dress raised a finger to her lips and turned away.

  “Who—” Darya choked out the word. “Who was that? What did she want from me?”

  The First Oralist didn’t answer, her brow marked by surprise, her eyes glimmering like two mirrors reflecting a coruscating light. And Darya recognized the light. She felt it in the leap of her blood—heard it in the pulsing of her veins.

  The First Oralist hadn’t spoken … she was radiant with the Claim.

  Without answering Darya’s question, she murmured softly to herself, “You are a child of Hira. You belong to us.”

  Darya bit back a sob. It was everything she had yearned for—to be wanted, to be taught, to do something of value with her life—and here the First Oralist offered it as if it had never been in doubt. As if Darya mattered to someone, after all this time.

  Her voice thick with tears, she said, “I cannot read the manuscript. I dare not even try.” She waited for Arian’s censure, for the displeasure that would surely result.

  Instead, the First Oralist held her close and drew Darya to her feet. Tenderly she said, “I will recite it for you, Darya, until you can read it for yourself.”

  She separated the pages of the manuscript, covering the bloodstains with a prayer. She found what she sought several pages back, reading the verse to herself.

  Her recitation was clear as a bell.

  “This is the Book about which there is no doubt, a guidance for those conscious of the One.”

  An astonished whispering met the words. The Warraqeen inched closer to the pedestal.

  “A guidance for those who believe in the unseen, who establish prayer, and who spend out of what the One has provided for them.”

  She read ahead to herself, experiencing both the comfort and the threat of the succeeding verses. She hadn’t been taught to view the Claim solely as a blessing: she had learned to respect its admonition.

  “Do not doubt it, scholars of the Warraqeen. This is indeed the Bloodprint.”

  The young men pushed closer, each straining for a glimpse of the manuscript. Without conscious thought, Arian raised the index finger of her right hand to the sky. Each man in the scriptorium did the same.

  Darya tentatively raised her hand. “What does your gesture mean?” she asked Arian.

  Arian felt a swift stab of anger at Rukh. She stepped away from the manuscript, not wishing to profane it.

  She’d witnessed Darya’s trance, and she knew, as Rukh must have known, that his sister was connected to the Claim—a child of Hira, waiting to be transformed. How could a man in his position have prevented his sister from taking up her calling at Hira? Had Arian not been fighting a war, she would have trained Darya herself.

  “It’s called the shahadah, Darya. I bear witness there is no one but the One. There is no one but the One, and so the One commands.”

  The Warraqeen echoed the words in a chant, their voices resonant with the nuances of their training.

  “There is no one but the One, and so the One commands.”

  The sonorous recitation eased the feeling of oppression that had weighed Arian down since her use of the Claim at the Clay Minar. The Warraqeen’s was a spiritual recitation opposed to the blasphemy of the Ahdath or the proclamation of the Talisman’s tyranny.

  “It will not take you long to learn,” she said to Darya, keeping her voice even.

  “The women of my family are not trained in the legends of the Claim. My brother forbids it.” Darya’s voice was as wistful as a child’s—she had recovered herself. “There is something uneasy in his relationship with Hira.” But as her words sounded in the scriptorium, she hurried to correct them. “It is not for me to speak of my brother’s concerns. He does what is best for Ashfall under the strain of these times.”

  Arian couldn’t help herself. Whatever the strict rules of etiquette at the Black Khan’s court, she knew Darya needed comfort. She needed the grace of self-belief. She hugged the Princess close, speaking so the others could hear.

  “You are most dutiful, Darya. You are an honorable reflection of your brother.”

  “I have always thought so,” a masculine voice drawled.

  The soldiers of the Khorasan Guard hurried to their stations, offering a ceremonial salute. The Zareen-Qalam moved to disperse his Warraqeen, bowing so low before the Khan that his turban trembled on his head.

  “Excellency. Your presence honors the scriptorium.”

  The Black Khan waved away the courtesy, his black gaze intent on Arian, beautifully dressed and adorned. “You wear my gifts,” he said, his dark eyes searching her face.

  “Your Excellency was most kind.”

  “Rukh,” he said, reminding her of his name. “Just as I will call you Arian.”

  It was an echo of their first encounter before the waters of the All Ways. He had held her in his arms at Hira, wooing her with the gift of a manuscript sent from his own scriptorium.

  Darya’s eyes widened watching the interplay between her brother and the First Oralist. Surely no one spoke to the First Oralist in this manner? And what of the Silver Mage? Was he not the First Oralist’s consort? His every glance declared it. Though the women of the court were stunningly lovely, ornamented, perfumed, and jeweled, his silver eyes had never strayed from the First Oralist, covered in the grime of her journey. Darya was even more astonished by the First Oralist’s reply.

  “Rukh, then,” she answered with a trace of humor. “I wish you would adorn Darya as lightly.”

  Darya had never seen such a smile on her brother’s face before. He was roguishly amused, yet there was a tenderness to his expression as well. “Stay in Ashfall,” he murmured. “I will carry out your every command.”

  Darya stumbled over the hem of her robe in surprise, the chimes at her ankles disrupting the silent spell woven between the First Oralist and her brother.

  Arian’s reply was formal. “We are all with you until this battle is over: the Companions of Hira and the Silver Mage.”

  “I don’t think the Silver Mage cares to see himself as a champion of Ashfall. Not after what transpired at Black Aura.”

  “That is your own doing. You provoke him without cause; you’ve no idea what he suffered at the Ark.” The light in her eyes dimmed at the memory.

  “If it pained you, I am sorry for it,” Rukh said. “But I did not know you were bound to him. I thought as a Companion of Hira …” His voice trailed off, too gallant to make reference to Arian’s vow of chastity.

  He moved closer without touching her, though Darya could sense her brother wanted to take the First Oralist in his arms. Rukh made no secret of his paramours, but she’d known he would need an heir to secure the future of Ashfall. The eldest daughter of the Begum had relentlessly chased that distinction.

  Now to realize that Rukh might be thinking of the First Oralist in this light was a source of delight to Darya. She could imagine her brother softening, relaxing his restrictions on her freedom. She could see him at his ease for the first time on the Peacock Throne. She could imagine beautiful black-haired children climbing on his shoulders and wrestling with Arsalan for the amusement of the court. She could hear her brother’s laughter. She could envision the First Oralist at her side in the scriptorium. She would learn to read, she would learn to recite—she might even be sent to Hira. She couldn’t hide her elation, her hopes shining brightly from her eyes. Her mind crowded with questions, she opened her mouth to speak. Rukh shook his head at her as a warning.

  Darya melted away, drawing the Zareen-Qalam with her. The Khorasan Guard remained in place, their swords ready in their hands.

  “Arian,” Rukh said, “tell me what you need.”

  It would have been easy enough to tell him he was what she needed, to swear herself to him and acknowledge the pull between them. The light from the room’s lanterns glossed over the concave lines of his cheekbones, giving h
im an aura of mystery and an air of bewitching enchantment. She was flooded by a sense of weakness, her gaze drifting down to his lips, remembering now how her sister had tried to seduce Daniyar. Their kiss was seared in her memory—replayed in her mind during her lowest moments; she knew she could never cause Daniyar an instant of such anguish in return. Nor would she seduce the Black Khan to gain an advantage for Hira. No matter the spell he sought to weave, she couldn’t forget what his betrayal had cost her at the Ark. Though he dismissed his actions as lightly as if he imagined her impervious to pain. How capricious and remorseless he was.

  “Do not say it,” he said with regret when her silence had gone on too long. “I would have preferred the charade.” He gazed down at the Bloodprint. “But you wouldn’t pretend, would you, Arian? Even if I showed you I welcomed it … that I craved it.”

  “I would not deceive you, lord.”

  “Rukh,” he said again, his face closed and remote. “At least give me that much, Arian.”

  “Rukh,” she relented, watching his lashes sweep down to rest upon his cheeks.

  He touched her shoulder and stepped away with a lithe, coordinated movement, facing her across the pedestal.

  “With what I learned firsthand of Ilea, I didn’t expect such reticence from you. I should have listened to you at Hira.” He studied her bare hands. She wore the jewels he had given her; the pearl tiara, the strings of gems wound in her dark hair. Pursuing the subject further, he asked, “If you are promised to the Silver Mage, why do you wear none of his tokens?”

  Arian ducked her head. “It is a private matter between us.”

  Rukh’s glowing eyes slid to hers. “If you were mine, this ring would be on your hand.” The silver of his signet ring flashed in the lantern’s light.

  Arian swallowed. She couldn’t help herself. It wasn’t just what Rukh offered her—it was the magnetism with which he offered it, the richly alluring certainty of his desire. His eyes burned in his dark, arresting face. There was some element in him that called to her, raising a restless excitement that pierced her like diamond-sharp blades. But to offer her the symbol of his line, the symbol of his own integrity—what had she done to merit it? She offered him the same resistance she’d once shown to Daniyar.

  Into her mind flashed another memory: the Silver Mage in the valley of the Ice Kill, offering the Candour to the Lord of the Wandering Cloud Door, giving away the heart of himself in order to serve her cause. Because of her, the Candour had been destroyed. What harm would befall the Black Khan, who claimed to be under her spell?

  “Rukh,” she said at last, wishing she had the right to speak to him as he deserved or the courage to deny him outright. She was torn in a way she couldn’t explain. What value was she to anyone when her life and gifts were bound elsewhere, her deepest allegiance to Hira? She touched the pages of the manuscript, seeking to draw its power into herself, to illuminate her doubts and set them aside for good. His hand shot out to cover hers, letting her feel the vitality that pulsed beneath his skin.

  “You need not fear for Hira. The High Companion was here. The Zareen-Qalam transcribed the verses she asked for. She has taken them to the Citadel. Did she send you no message that your Audacy is complete?”

  Arian studied the Bloodprint sadly. Had the Talisman not risen, the discovery of the Bloodprint would have heartened all of Khorasan. Instead, each person most concerned with Khorasan’s fate conceived of the Bloodprint as a weapon. And never as a consummate gift.

  “You were there when I took the shahadah. You know my Audacy will rule me until I am offered release. I’ve had no word from Ilea. But this isn’t what we need to discuss.”

  “No?” he asked. “It seems to me your first thought is for the Bloodprint. And when it isn’t, it is of the Silver Mage. You are duty-bound, consort-bound. I’ve come to accept this truth.” He faced her with the reckless arrogance she’d come to expect from him.

  She flashed him a glance full of urgency, her delicate features beseeching him.

  “Such a queen at my court,” he mused. “What I would grant you, you can’t imagine.”

  “You imagine my choices are painless. Or that I refuse you lightly.” She freed her hand from his, sketching an arc that mapped the breadth of the scriptorium. “You gave me a manuscript as a gift, a history of my own family.” Her breath was coming faster now. “Can you truly believe I am not conscious of what you offer?” She dropped her voice, aware of the Khorasan Guard. “Or that I am not … affected … by your allure? If so, you mistake yourself, and you mistake me.”

  Stunned by her admission, it took him a moment to answer. His hooded gaze dropped to her deeply molded mouth, a dangerous deliberation in his face. “I am not the Silver Mage.”

  “No,” she said, standing her ground. “You are not.” No man could be what Daniyar was to her—and there was only one man she loved.

  “Then why tempt me to forget myself, Arian?” He said it blankly, expecting a rebuke.

  Arian made a futile gesture with her hand. “I am asking you to consider that I may have been tempted as well.”

  He raised his head, his face full of a glittering intensity. “You forget. I’ve seen you with the Silver Mage. I have no wish for crumbs.”

  They were at an impasse. He thought of her as an antagonist he could seduce to his side. She had hoped to make him see her as an ally—possibly as a friend—one who could be as loyal to him as his commander of the Zhayedan, as long as they sought the same end: the renewal of the written word.

  She’d thought that if she made herself vulnerable to him, he might respond in kind—seeing what she hoped to achieve and deciding it would serve them both. But she would always be the First Oralist to him … a tool he hoped to exploit. It was only Daniyar who was able to see the woman behind the myth.

  As Rukh’s eyes pierced hers, she could sense the distance between them, a distance that increased with his refusal to understand.

  “I wasn’t suggesting I needed a lover. I hoped you would see me as a friend.”

  The jet-black eyes flashed at her. “Impossible. When you are a creature of Hira.”

  Arian set the insult aside. “You refuse to accept that I hold convictions of my own. Don’t you see what it is that I serve?”

  He gripped her arm with deceptive strength, drawing her close to the hard warmth of his chest. A current of awareness spun between them; he laughed under his breath, a soft, sensuous sound. “You serve a sisterhood of witches. Who knows where you fall in Hira’s grand design?”

  “I serve the One. I serve the people of Khorasan.”

  But he couldn’t be persuaded. Moreover, he presumed. Not in handling her, though his physical allure was challenging enough to oppose. There was a faint violence in the way he drew her to him—a masculine presumption. He contrived to harness her powers, something she could never allow. In the end, his insistence brought them to the same point. She would have to use the Claim against him, and she would do so as an instrument of Hira’s.

  “The Bloodprint belongs at Hira. Without it, the Citadel will fall. Our history will be erased.”

  “What is Hira to the prince of an empire?” He spoke with stunning contempt. “What are the claims of the Companions against those of the people of this land? Stay and defend this city with your gifts. Tonight I give the Banquet of the Victorious. Tomorrow, who can say? Perhaps both Ashfall and Hira will fall.”

  Arian drew a sharp breath. “Doesn’t that hurt you, Prince of Khorasan? All of this lost for good when Ashfall is your trust?”

  The hand that held her arm now feathered over her throat, his touch a delicate tracing. A thrill of excitement coiled along her spine; for a moment she was under his spell, a prisoner of his enchantment. She wanted to be held, caressed … cherished. But not by the Prince of Khorasan, whose heavy-lidded gaze had caught the enthrallment in hers. Heat flared in his eyes, gilding the lean distinction of his face with dark, sensual power. And she knew she’d failed to reach him in any way
save this.

  His black gaze whipped over her face, a savage edge to his voice. “You know nothing about me, Arian. How I rule, why I rule. You haven’t the least idea. To use your gifts to track slave-chains … how could you serve as queen of an empire when your vision is so constrained?”

  Pride stiffened her bones, an agony of feeling so intense, the power of the Claim flamed through her, shattering the spell he wove. She removed his hand with a grimace. “The women of Khorasan are not disposable. Their freedom is the calling I serve. You speak of me as your queen, yet you know a queen wields power of her own, and that isn’t what you want at all.”

  He looked as if he were moved to strike her. She didn’t flinch away, holding him in place with the Claim’s irrefutable command. When it had done its work, a weary resignation settled in his eyes. He spoke to her without anger, though his words were bitter and quiet.

  “You know nothing of what I want. But that is a future beyond us at this moment. At present, we face the same enemy. And in the end, what choice do you have, Arian? There is no route to Hira that would see you safely to the Citadel. So you make a fruitless bargain.”

  A horn sounded from the walls, its clarion notes reaching the scriptorium. They listened to it in silence. It was followed by the indistinct throbbing of drums, the first herald of the Talisman approach.

  “You misconceive my intent, if you think I will not fight for Ashfall at its most perilous hour. But there is a war beyond this battle—and an Audacy I must fulfill. Very soon will come a time when you will have to let me go.”

  The Bloodprint seemed to pulse on its stand. He gave a disconsolate shrug. “As to that, how could I stop you?”

  “And the Bloodprint?”

  The supple lines of his mouth tightened.

  “Go and rest, First Oralist. Refresh yourself. I would like you to dress for the banquet. If there is a tomorrow, we will speak of the Bloodprint then.”