The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  45

  SINNIA WAS ALONE WITH THE BLOODPRINT. THE KHORASAN GUARD stood a short distance away to give her these moments of privacy. She had welcomed a bath and a change of clothes as luxuries she had almost forgotten. And now she stood before the Bloodprint in a dress lovelier than any she’d had the pleasure to wear, her profile drawing the admiration of the young Warraqeen. It was a reverence she ignored, her attention occupied by the manuscript on the stand.

  One hand crushed the gold stuff of her dress; the other she raised to the Bloodprint. Beholding it now, she thought of the oath Arian had sworn to Larisa.

  Come unto that tenet that you and we hold in common.

  It was the Bloodprint they held in common.

  Wafa had described the beauties of its encasement to Sinnia, employing a vocabulary unequal to it. Sinnia had gathered the sense of things. An extravagant profusion of gemstones, an emerald to rival anything in the Black Khan’s court, diamonds, rubies, sapphires—as with Arian and Rukh, the treasures of the encasement meant nothing to Sinnia at all. The manuscript itself was enough. The manuscript was everything to her. She drew a shaky breath and placed her hand on the page.

  Believe in that which is beyond the reach of human perception.

  She did. Even before she’d crossed the Sea of Reeds, she’d had a profound sense of her calling to the One and of the clarity of the Claim. It spoke to her ceaselessly, its fuller qualities awakened by the Technologist’s experiments. During those moments on his table, her heart had become a black stone, adamantine and shrunken, driven by an urge to power. To work the Claim like a miracle of self-ascendance! She could do it. She would do it, as she’d planned at Jaslyk.

  Until Salikh had reached into her thoughts. He’d helped her. He’d revisited the Claim, unveiling the current of integrity that underlined its words. These discoveries hadn’t come to her on that last day when she’d been at the mercy of the Malleus—Salikh had been sowing them in her mind from the moment she’d arrived at Jaslyk, supported by the echo of his followers. He’d shut off that dark impulse as powerfully as the Technologist had chosen to expose it. He’d shown her a place of beauty. And courage had flooded her heart.

  Do not fear the Claim, he’d whispered. The Claim will not unmake you. You are Sinnia, queen of the Negus. The Claim will show you yourself.

  She touched the tips of her long fingers to the bloodstained page, humbled to stand in its presence. The ancient manuscript was plain, yet it gleamed like a jewel from its heart.

  She turned its pages slowly, treating the vellum with care. When she reached a certain page, she felt her fingertips ignite. She paused to read the words on the page, her eyes falling upon a single line.

  We accepted your solemn pledge that you would not drive one another from your homelands.

  A sob broke from her throat like a gasp. She knew what the Claim was telling her; she felt the gravity of her calling.

  She belonged by right to the sisterhood at Hira. And she was meant to fight for the consequence of women in the Council of Hira’s name.

  46

  DANIYAR KNOCKED ON THE DOOR TO ARIAN’S CHAMBER. HE WAS HER escort to the Khan’s banquet. Even with a city braced to fall, the rituals of the court were carried out. He thought it preposterous, but there were mysteries at this court that he had yet to unravel. If the Khan had assembled the city’s luminaries in honor of the First Oralist’s visit, then they would have to attend on the chance they might gain an advantage he wasn’t able to name.

  Even as battle raged around them.

  Gifts of dress and tokens of rank had been provided to them all, not excluding Alisher and Wafa. He himself was attired in robes befitting his status as Silver Mage. Though the courtesies of court made Daniyar impatient, he needed allies at the Black Khan’s table, allies who could be won through the use of his influence and magic. Abandoning his armor for a night seemed a small price to pay in exchange. Doing so as Arian’s consort helped to soften the blow.

  Yet when she didn’t answer his knock, he nudged the door to her chambers open.

  The Black Khan had allotted her the finest rooms available to guests at the palace. The private apartments known as the Khas Mahal were linked by a canal that ran through a passage of marble wreathed in floral motifs. The silky stream of water was a vivid turquoise green. Above it, the sunset burned in a sky that was deepening to a smoke-singed gold.

  The apartment opened onto a lush garden through a colonnade topped by sandstone arches. The cornices were limned with a dusty, subtle gold worn away by the wind. Pale curtains screened the pillars, lifting in the breeze from the gardens below. Sheets of bougainvillea hung from the balcony, flinging petals onto the lawn against the fragrant peace of night.

  Exquisite furnishings filled the room, patterns of marble and jade playing upon silks and brocades. On every surface, peonies blossomed in shades of rose. The scent of sandalwood and ambergris rose from censers in the room—too musky to suit Arian, he thought. The outer chambers were empty, so he moved past a marble lattice, as finely filigreed as lacework, following the path of the canal. The turquoise waters teemed with silky-soft clusters of jasmine.

  Behind the lattice, the marble floor opened onto a deep rectangular pool from which rose a curtain of steam. The pool occupied most of the room, a turquoise gem in a mother-of-pearl setting, framed by a roof that was diamond-patterned in bits of obsidian and jade. It was a sight of such elegance and artistry that for a moment, Daniyar stood there and took it in—the marble colonnade, the figurative arabesques, the tessellation of the smallest nook, the dazzling symmetry of the hall.

  Then he noticed Arian, her head resting on the lip of the pool, her long hair streaming behind her onto the marble floor. Her eyes closed, she was bathing in the pool, her body floating beneath a sea of jasmine that shielded her from his view. There was a sheen of mist on her face and her shoulders; her skin was lightly flushed. Her circlets lay to one side of her head; her dress hung upon a mother-of-pearl screen paneled with trifling bits of glass. Beyond this was an inlaid table covered with censers worked in silver, each exuding a scent lighter than those in the outer chamber. A set of treasures rested on the table beside these—a lacquered comb whose teeth were made of ivory, a gold-and-sapphire tiara, a curtain of stones mounted on a gold band. These gifts of the Black Khan were meant to honor the First Oralist. But to Daniyar, they presaged more: together with the jasmine-filled pool and the flowering masses of peonies, they were intended to entice Arian—to flatter and pursue her. He didn’t like it, but he could fully appreciate the Black Khan’s fascination when he was held by a similar spell. She could bring a man to his knees simply by speaking his name, and he wasn’t thinking of the coercion behind Arian’s use of the Claim. To Daniyar, Arian’s graces were unparalleled. With her beauty, her magic, and her rank, it was inevitable that the Black Khan would wish to pursue her as his consort.

  He trailed a hand through the sapphire ropes scattered on the table, wondering at their purpose. He moved to a spot where Arian could see him and quietly spoke her name.

  She opened her eyes. He was caught in her dark green gaze, a flush upon his skin at the intimacy of his transgression. She waited for him to say more, sinking a little lower beneath the cover of jasmine.

  “Take my hand,” he said. “Let me help you dress.”

  She held his gaze, her lips slightly parted. He could read her yearning from across the pool, sense the heavy beat of blood beneath her skin.

  “Daniyar.” In his name he read denial.

  “Let me look at you,” he urged, his voice low and caressing.

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I’m not—” She crossed her arms over her breasts, her shoulders rising from the water.

  “You’re not what, Arian?”

  He held out his hand. She shook her head again, shrinking away from his touch.

  He thought she would use the vow she’d taken at Hira as a reason to deny him. Instead, she raised her bandaged wrist to trace t
he line of her throat.

  “I’m not whole. My wrist, my throat … my back. My hands are callused from the use of my sword.” She hurried over the words. “And with the famine in the south—I’m not the woman you knew. I’m damaged.”

  Nothing could have surprised him more. It pained him that she doubted her physical self. That she felt lessened in her own eyes, a diminishment impossible in his. She was fiercely bewitching to him, more so now that the Claim had made her over, more so with a decade of trial behind her. But his words would not suffice to soothe away her concerns.

  So instead he knelt beside her, scooping a handful of jasmine from the water and spilling it over her hair. He held the image in his mind—the gently furled white blossoms caught in her midnight hair, a thing of beauty to set against the darkness.

  His fingers traced a path from the gleaming skin of her shoulders to the wound from Nevus’s blade, testing the damage beneath. She held her breath, heat flaring under his touch.

  “Does this hurt?”

  “No.”

  The stiffness of her voice gave away the lie in her response. For a brief instant he paused; then he lifted her face to his. He dipped his hand in the water, then raised it again, sprinkling jasmine over her face, crushing it against her lips.

  Arian reached for him, her arms linked around his neck, her torso twisting to meet him. When they broke apart, blossoms were caught in the full line of his lashes. She brushed them away, caught by a dark excitement. He held her close, tasting the jasmine on her lips. His kisses deepened: he drank the sweetness from her mouth until she was consumed by a shattering delight. Then his lips moved to the shadow of bruising at her throat, each kiss a tribute to her pain. It wasn’t enough. Her hands tested the disciplined strength of his back, urging him on with a delicate violence. His mouth closed hungrily over hers.

  A brisk knock on the outer door broke them apart. It was Sinnia, come to fetch her.

  “Just a moment, Sinnia. I’m not ready.” She motioned to the screen, urging Daniyar to move behind it.

  “What have you been doing?” Sinnia called.

  “Bathing.”

  Flustered, Arian rose from the pool, petals of jasmine clinging to her skin. She reached for the drying cloth beside her dress, brushing the petals to her feet.

  “I’ll help you dress. Your arm must be tired and sore.”

  “No!” Arian said in a strangled voice. “I can manage on my own.”

  There was silence from the other side of the door. Then dryly Sinnia said, “I’ll wait for you in the banquet hall, shall I? As you’re not in need of my assistance.”

  Daniyar’s quiet laughter reached both women’s ears, and Sinnia laughed too as she let herself out of the room.

  When Arian was dressed, she took up the ivory comb.

  “Let me.”

  Daniyar’s eyes met hers in the mirror, the memory of their kisses deepening the shadows. He plied the comb through her hair, catching the remaining jasmine in its teeth, holding her gaze all the while. When he’d finished, he looped the tails of her hair around his wrist, reaching with his hand for the censers on the table.

  He sniffed the first. It was rose. The second smelt of orange blossom—he replaced it. The third was jasmine. He removed its stopper and raised his other wrist, spooling out the tresses of her hair. Then he wove the censer in a circle, scenting her hair from above and below. He set the censer back on the table and buried his face in her hair, feeling a quick, hot rush of desire.

  “You should always wear jasmine. It’s how I will imagine you now.”

  Her startled eyes flew to his.

  He offered no apology. “If Sinnia hadn’t knocked, I would have forgotten the banquet.” He gave her a moment to take in his meaning, his gaze hard and steady on hers.

  He reached for the sapphire tiara and placed it upon her hair, then fingered the curtain of stones. “I must confess I don’t know how to dress you in this.”

  Marveling at the tenderness of his attentions, Arian showed him how to fasten the band. The sapphire ropes tangled in her hair, glittering through its waves. She came to her feet, savoring the intimacy between them.

  “You don’t mind this?” she asked. “Waiting upon me like a handmaiden at Hira?”

  His silver eyes darkened. “Only grant me this privilege each day.”

  With great care, he raised her arms and fastened her circlets, tying the ribbons of her sleeves. He took a step back, holding her by the arms to look at her in silence. He hadn’t seen her dressed like this since their days at the Library of Candour. He discounted the manner in which she’d been displayed at the Authoritan’s court—the transparent silk of her robes had been intended as a humiliation. This was more subtle and therefore lovelier to his eyes.

  The lustrous satin of her sapphire dress was molded to the lines of her body, the skirt draped in folds at her hips. The neck of the gown was wide, its satin collar embroidered with thread in the Black Khan’s motif, a trail of silver rooks. The sleeves were similarly patterned and fell away from her arms to reveal delicate wrists, deceptive in their strength. If she wished to reveal her circlets, she had only to reach for the ribbons and her sleeves would come apart. The dress must have been designed with a Companion of Hira in mind.

  Arian? Or Ilea? It didn’t matter. His attention was transfixed by Arian, aglow in the Khan’s sapphires. Daniyar shook his head at himself. He should have been the one to gift Arian with these treasures. He thought of the ring of the Silver Mage, the gift she’d once refused. It was all he’d had to offer her, his inheritance looted by the Talisman. He knew none of this mattered to Arian, yet still he felt the weight of his regret. Then he thought of the Damson Vale, the gift he would one day give her.

  “I don’t know if I find you more beautiful like this or dressed only in your skin, rising from the water.”

  A warm, bright color stole into Arian’s face. He brushed his fingers against her cheek, feeling the heat that pulsed beneath it—the singing clamor of her blood.

  “I forget myself,” he said. “I shouldn’t speak to the First Oralist in this manner—it’s enough that I think these thoughts.”

  Arian reached up and pressed kisses along his jaw. He folded her closer with care, though she was instantly aware of his strength. He bent and took her mouth in a sweet and fiery exchange.

  “I’m not the First Oralist with you. And you haven’t let me look at you in turn, or tend you as you’ve tended me.”

  “Your turn will come,” he promised.

  But she wasn’t content to wait. She stepped back a little to view him. He was dressed in a black tunic that outlined his powerful shoulders, a stroke of green at his throat, a patterned cape flowing down his back. His tunic was threaded with diamond shapes, silver stitched upon silk by the skillful hands of a master. His leather boots gleamed with polish, and he wore a ceremonial sword, inscribed in the dialect of Ashfall. Each verse was the ode of a lover to his beloved, a few so explicit as to cause Arian to blush.

  His beard was trimmed, and his indigo-black hair had been restored to order under a crown spiked with pearls. Arian looked at it closely—it was an approximation of the crown of the Silver Mage, reworked by a Khorasani silversmith. The leaves of trees native to Candour were appended to its pointed tines. It was the gift of a prince to a prince, its glittering shine picked up by the glint of Daniyar’s eyes, as extravagantly luminous as diamonds.

  Arian didn’t know she was holding her breath until Daniyar raised an eyebrow in polite query. She exhaled in a rush, stumbling over the words. “My lord puts the stars to shame.”

  She didn’t realize what she’d said until she saw the look of startled pleasure on his face.

  Had she truly offered him so little of her love, so measured in her approval? Didn’t he see what he was to her after the way she’d kissed him? She felt a slashing pain at his beauty and resolved to be more generous, repeating the words again, this time in a stronger voice.

  His featur
es relaxed into tenderness. Arian caught her breath, drenched by an intolerable sweetness. To step away from the war into his arms was a thing she’d begun to believe in.

  “It’s you who puts the stars to shame, Arian. The stars, the moon, the night.”

  “You’ve been reading the poet’s verse.” She glanced teasingly at his sword, and he smiled, a swift flash of light across his face.

  “If I had,” he said wickedly, “that would not be how I praised you.”

  He surprised a laugh from her. “Daniyar—”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I’m still a man,” he reminded her, bending to kiss her cheek. He caught the look of yearning in her eyes, and the kiss transformed into a fierce necessity. He held her against the screen, devouring her mouth with his own. When he raised his head again, she was trembling in his arms with need, her hair disarranged by his hands. He combed it through with his fingers, then led her by the hand to the banquet.

  At his side, Arian answered, “As if I could forget.”

  47

  WHEN THE SILVER MAGE PRESENTED ARIAN ON HIS ARM, THE COURT seemed to take a collective breath. The nobles of the court were dressed with a grandeur that pretended the war drums beating beyond the capital were merely accompanying the musicians, but even their resplendence faltered before the presentation of the Black Khan’s guests.

  The First Oralist of Hira exuded a shining authority. The masculine beauty of the Silver Mage quieted the gossip of the court, as a murmur of appreciation took its place. The Begum of the court, Rukh’s eldest aunt, welcomed the Silver Mage with grave deco rum, reminding him of their earlier meeting. The young women jostled one another to make his acquaintance, the cousins and nieces of the Khan rustling around Daniyar until he was borne away to his seat. But not before he’d taken note of the Khan’s ceremonial attire.

  Rukh had traded his customary black for a deep blue tunic over silk trousers and a sapphire-studded sword that matched his crown. He wore the onyx rook mounted in its collar, but the ropes of pearls that descended from it had been replaced by strands of sapphires. Over all this, he wore the Sacred Cloak. And in his calculated splendor, he held his courtiers in thrall.