The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Daniyar glanced from Rukh to Arian, noting the similarity of their costumes: Rukh had dressed the First Oralist as his queen. If Arian noticed, she disregarded it, giving her attention to the court. Arsalan was the first to greet her, then the royal physician, the royal architect, the geographer, the astronomer, the clockmaker, before finally she was greeted by the artisan who had fashioned her stunning jewels. Other dignitaries included poets, storytellers, and historians. Lastly, she was presented to the Begum and the Nizam al-Mulk.

  Each greeting incorporated a full spectrum of courtesies, with compliments paid to Hira, the Companions, and the lineage of the First Oralist. Nor were courtesies to Sinnia neglected. Mention was made of the justice of the Negus and of the graceful strength of the women of the Sea of Reeds.

  Arsalan took Sinnia by the arm and placed her by his side. His seat was at the Khan’s right hand. The Nizam al-Mulk was at the foot of the table, with the Begum seated to his right. The table could seat two dozen courtiers, each with a place that had been schemed over and was jealously guarded from encroachment.

  Darya was lost somewhere in the midst, though she seemed cheered to find herself across from the Silver Mage. Arian’s place was at Rukh’s left hand, Alisher farther along the table, Wafa out of her reach. The boy seemed overwhelmed by the splendor of the table, hardly daring to breathe and too afraid to speak. He’d never seen such wealth or food in such abundance.

  The Black Khan proceeded to his high-backed seat, a chair of gold raised on carved lion’s feet, higher than the rest. To either side of his seat were the royal spear carrier, who hoisted the Black Khan’s heraldic standard, and the archer who acted as his personal guard, both with remote, black-masked faces. The Khan raised his hand and held up his silver chalice.

  The members of the court raised their cups.

  “A toast,” the Khan said, in his richly provocative voice. “In honor of our guests.”

  He didn’t immediately speak, standing at rest with the sinuous ease of a man unfettered by constraints, wholly in control of his dominion and sharply aware of his allure.

  “Never has the table of this court been so graced. First Oralist, Companion.” His finely shaped head dipped at the Companions of Hira, his gaze lingering at Arian’s neck, where the border of her dress was threaded with his emblem. When his gaze dipped lower still, Daniyar’s hand tightened on his glass.

  Darya’s impetuous voice broke in. Holding her own cup high, she smiled a shy smile at Daniyar. “To the Silver Mage,” she said. “You honor us, my lord.”

  “Darya!” The Begum’s voice snapped a reprimand across the length of the table. Darya flushed, her cup trembling in her hand. Daniyar intervened, smiling at the Princess and taking some of the sting from the rebuke.

  “I was coming to that, Darya.” The Black Khan tipped his chalice at his rival. “My lord, the court at Ashfall welcomes your return.”

  “Excellency.” The steel edge to Daniyar’s voice promised an accounting for the Khan’s betrayal at the Ark. Their eyes met and clashed—a silent and fierce reckoning of will. The courtiers waited in a state of exquisite expectancy. There had never been a man to rival their Khan’s magnificence until the introduction of the Silver Mage. The flawless beauty of his face accentuated the clarity of his eyes, adamantine and bold. And decidedly averse to the Khan.

  The Black Khan resumed his toast with a studied indifference to the Silver Mage’s impact on his court, asserting his dark self-sufficiency.

  “Visitors comes with ten blessings. They taste only one and leave behind nine. To the immeasurable treasure of your gifts. May your blessings be Ashfall’s.”

  The assembly echoed the words and drank.

  When Arian held up her cup of water, for the Companions of Hira were forbidden wine, the table went quiet, eager to hear the First Oralist’s voice.

  “When the One is with you, who then can stand against you? In the One then, let the people of Ashfall place their trust.”

  “May your lips speak only truth,” Rukh said with a bold, erotic glance that struck Arian as profane. His eyes traced the newly bruised fullness of her lips. He interpreted the cause for himself; for a moment his eyes were dark and deadly.

  Then with a breach of etiquette that stunned the court, he set his silver chalice on the table without drinking from it—a negation of the toast he’d just made. He drew out Arian’s chair, his sleeve catching on a sapphire strand woven through her hair. With a shimmer of dangerous promise in his eyes and the brush of his hand against the bare skin of her neck, he untangled the threads that bound them. His hair swept forward on his forehead like the fall of a raven’s wing—a polished and glossy black with iridescent tints.

  Before the others could take their seats, Arsalan raised his cup to the Khan and proclaimed, “Beautiful to behold is the Khan. Bounteous is his table.”

  The words completed the rituals of the banquet. Rukh dipped his dark head at Arsalan, a curious response in his eyes.

  This time the courtiers’ echo rang with pride. Wafa shrank into his seat, overcome by the sound of so much splendor. He looked at Arian forlornly, his blue eyes wide and unblinking. Arian smiled at him, trying to reassure him without speaking. Rukh bent close enough to her that his lips brushed the rim of her ear.

  “Tell me what preoccupies you, Arian. Did my gifts fail to please you? For I can offer others more suited to your radiance.”

  Startled by his trespass after their discord in the scriptorium, Arian murmured her thanks in the fulsome language of the court. Shifting away slightly, she added, “I wonder if Wafa might be moved next to me or Sinnia.”

  For answer, the Black Khan snapped his fingers at a page. The cousin seated beside Sinnia was displaced, Wafa ushered into her place. He gripped Sinnia’s hand, ducking his head before the court. For a long moment Rukh’s eyes stayed on Sinnia’s radiance, caught by something new in her expression; then they returned to Arian.

  “If all your wishes were as easy to gratify.” He laced the words with soft innuendo. Arian kept her gaze on Wafa, and he asked, “What is this Hazara to you?”

  The table paused to hear her answer. Arian gestured at the Sacred Cloak on the Black Khan’s shoulders. “He is an orphan, my lord. As such, he is my trust.”

  Wafa found his voice, repeating a familiar formula. “I am Wafa, and I will be loyal.”

  Rukh smiled his insinuating smile at Arian. “You’ve named him in a word of our language. You honor me.”

  Arian didn’t protest that the honor was intended not for the Khan, but rather for the boy. She nodded politely, bearing the full weight of his renewed attention. He was trying to suggest an intimacy between them, but whether it was purely to torment her or whether he sought to provoke the Silver Mage, she couldn’t be entirely certain.

  She sought to deflect the conversation. “Your city is beautiful, my lord. Your labors have transformed it since my last visit.”

  “Every jewel requires an appropriate setting.”

  Perhaps she felt Daniyar’s tension across the table because she was so closely attuned to his thoughts; he gave no sign of his displeasure to the members of the Black Khan’s court. But when their eyes met, she knew he was angered by the Khan’s insinuations. She shook her head. They knew what they needed to achieve. Arian bowed her head and Sinnia followed her lead. The Khan asked for a blessing over his table. Quietly Arian gave it.

  Now the conversation moved apace, and Arian took in her surroundings in more detail.

  A long wooden table with a ceramic inlay glistened beneath a light fixture composed of crystals. The crystals were reflected in a surface of white porcelain decorated with scenes of the hunt in turquoise, vermilion, and green. The central motif was of a river that flowed from one panel to the next, monarchs reposing at leisure upon its banks, while servants brought news of the chase.

  Around the table, place settings were marked by gold plate and silver, the light from the chandelier’s crystals dancing upon the plates. Of g
reatest interest to Arian were the slip-painted serving bowls, inscribed with Nastaliq script beneath a transparent glaze. She cast a glance at Sinnia, dressed like a queen of the Negus in shimmering bronze silk, her close-cropped curls beaded with pearls, a gold diadem the perfect complement to her circlets. She radiated the power and pride of a dignified Companion of Hira.

  Though the table was laid with the trappings of a feast and illuminated by the treasures of the court, the sight of the plain earthenware bowls exhilarated both Companions. The vessels were piled high with sugared pilafs dotted with raisins and cherries. They were formed like any other platter, except for the lines of script along the rim, the written word taken as a commonplace.

  The Black Khan dipped his sleek head at her, noticing her fascination. “In your honor, First Oralist.”

  “Were these bowls excavated from the ruins of Nightshaper?”

  The Nizam interrupted. “And how did you guess that, First Oralist?”

  Alisher cleared his throat. He read the verses on the outer rims aloud, delivering them with the cadences of a poet. The table fell silent to listen.

  “‘Some long for the glories of this world, others for a paradise to come. Lovers take their treasures in this life … to earthly delights they succumb.’”

  “Afaarin.” Rukh murmured the word of praise. “I didn’t know you had a poet in your train.”

  The seated courtiers echoed his praise. Alisher gazed around the table in surprise. Like Wafa, he’d been cleaned up and dressed in a suit of new clothes, grateful for his change in circumstance.

  “I was trained at Nightshaper,” he said. “It was there I first read the verse.”

  “Who was your teacher?” Rukh asked. Like all the members of this refined and civilized court, he recognized the name.

  “The lady Zebunissa.”

  The table chattered with excitement. Even the Nizam looked impressed.

  “You amaze me,” Rukh said. He clapped his hands for wine. It was served from copper basins that were cast, tinned, and inlaid with black compound. “We honor poets in this land. Consider me your patron at Ashfall.”

  Alisher bowed from his seat. He didn’t dare raise the issue of the city’s imminent demise.

  Darya watched as her brother indicated the single earthenware bowl in black: it was poised before his place setting, its transparent glaze cracked. The large black bowl was empty. The inside rim featured Nastaliq script picked out in white against an ebony glaze. “Can you tell me what this says?”

  The poet didn’t ponder why he was being questioned in place of one of the Companions. “It’s a benediction,” he said. “‘Generosity is the attribute of the occupants of the afterworld.’ But why is the bowl empty, Excellency?”

  Darya answered in Rukh’s place, eager to contribute to the conversation. “This bowl is always kept empty at my brother’s table. It symbolizes that though we feast at Ashfall, others go hungry in the south. No meal is served at the Black Khan’s table without an equivalent gift to those suffering the famine.”

  She looked around the table and saw her interjection wasn’t welcome. Though she had only meant to share her knowledge, perhaps she had sounded boastful. Another misstep in a series of missteps. Trying to cover her mistake, she turned her attention to the Silver Mage. “You must be very tired, my lord. Your journey here was a perilous one. It is said you were injured at Black Aura.”

  “I regret it wasn’t I who suffered.” Unable to help himself, his glance sought out Arian, remembering the urgent press of his lips against the shadow of her bruises. Darya followed his gaze, struck by a new discovery.

  “It was the First Oralist, you mean.”

  “Yes.” Daniyar didn’t elaborate.

  Darya hesitated. “Does the First Oralist always have this effect?” She waved a hand, her cuff nearly knocking over her cup. She set it back on its stem, hoping the Silver Mage hadn’t noticed. He was still staring at the First Oralist, his eyes like pale stars in a beautiful, dark face. There was something in his glance—something fierce and possessive and almost cruel.

  “Oh,” Darya said. “You’re—She’s your—”

  She fell silent under the impact of those eyes.

  “My what, Princess?” His tone warned her to be careful.

  But Darya failed to heed the warning. “You love her.”

  “How does that concern you?” The hard edge to his voice made Arsalan’s head whip around. Darya began to stammer.

  “I mean—I meant—she’s a Companion of Hira. She’s First Oralist of Hira. You cannot love her. And she cannot love you. Have either of you—”

  Darya’s judgment caught up to her chattering tongue, and her young face blanched at what she’d foolishly spoken aloud. She caught the jeering glances of her cousins, and her hands began to shake. The pearl at the center of her forehead bobbed with her inner trembling.

  The restraint the Silver Mage imposed on himself now became evident to her. Without raising his voice, he delivered a warning to Darya. “You may say what you like to me, Princess, but it isn’t wise to insult the First Oralist to my face.”

  The insult lay not in the implication that Arian and Daniyar were lovers: it was the public suggestion that Arian had renounced the vows of Hira.

  Darya braced her hands on the table. If she hadn’t, she might have fallen from her seat at this rebuke. Her sense of humiliation was amplified by the fact she had brought it on herself: the Silver Mage could have been crueler and far more to the point. “My lord, forgive my impertinence—”

  The Begum cut across her words.

  “You must forgive the Princess of Ashfall, my lord. She is barely out of the schoolroom and still thinks like a child.”

  Worse and worse. Waves of shame washed over Darya; she was drenched by a scalding heat. A red tide rose in her cheeks, a tight knob of pain forming in her throat. Tears burned behind her eyes; she willed them not to fall, her gaze fixed on her plate.

  Those seated at the head of the table turned at the Begum’s words. Arian and Sinnia looked curiously at the Princess’s downbent head, Arian signaling a silent question to Daniyar. But it was Arsalan who intervened, his scowl formidable.

  “Have a care, Begum. You speak to my future bride, and I do not view her as a child.” His voice softening, he addressed the Silver Mage. “Darya is of a romantic disposition, my lord. She meant no offense to the Black Khan’s guests, least of all the First Oralist, whom she so admires.”

  “Of course.” Daniyar focused on Arsalan’s news. “May I be the first to wish you good fortune, though the time for joy is brief.”

  His words brought a hush to the table.

  This was the first time either Arsalan or Darya had made public reference to a betrothal; the table should have erupted in blessings and salutations. But in the deep quiet of the hall, lit by lanterns that gleamed through traceries of steel and the heavy musk of flowers, the uppermost sound was the thudding of Talisman drums, sounding ever louder, ever closer. Darya couldn’t help but think it covered the pounding of her heart.

  The Black Khan reclaimed the table’s attention with a sardonic rebuke.

  “A feast before dying?” An elegant hand called for new dishes to be brought. “Nothing so cavalier, Lord Daniyar. No enemy has ever taken Ashfall. And with the Bloodprint, the Cloak, the Companions, and yourself—the city has never been mightier.”

  Arian’s eyes flickered to Daniyar’s. The time had come.

  “It’s not enough,” Daniyar said. “We must confer at once. I would seek the assistance of your brother.”

  Darya’s head came up with a gasp. She looked hopefully from the Silver Mage to Rukh. Again she broke in when she should have remained silent.

  “Darius? You’ve come for Darius? Do you think he can save the city? Please listen to the Silver Mage, Rukh. Please free Darius from Qaysarieh.”

  There was nothing Arsalan could say now to save the Princess. To speak of the half-brother imprisoned at Qaysarieh was to public
ly announce her treason. Darius had poisoned the Black Khan’s chalice with a distillation of aconite from the plant commonly known as monkshood.

  The Black Khan studied his sister with hooded eyes, his thoughts shuttered. “You would aid Darius despite everything he stands accused of?”

  Darya nodded, oblivious to the danger. The nobles waited, their shining eyes expectant, anticipating Darya’s downfall.

  “It was a mistake,” Darya said. “Darius knows that now. He’s said as much many times.”

  “Hmm. Did he also tell you this, Darya?”

  “Rukh, don’t.”

  The Black Khan ignored Arsalan’s sharp interruption.

  “I don’t understand …” Darya answered.

  “Of course you don’t—why should that surprise me? It should be obvious to you that Darius views you as a trifle. You remember his inner circle—what did he call them, Arsalan?—the Darian Guard?”

  “There’s no need to tell her. Let it go, Rukh.”

  It said something of Arsalan’s state of mind that he didn’t use the Black Khan’s title in the presence of the court. Rukh’s black gaze switched to Arsalan. Whatever secret conviction he saw in Arsalan’s face, he decided to discount it. His fingers tapped his silver chalice.

  “You shelter her too much, Arsalan. It’s why she refuses to take on her responsibilities. It’s why I continue to rely on the Begum in her stead. I tire of it.” He bowed to Arian. “Forgive me that I air this unpleasantness before you, but treason cannot go unanswered.”

  Darya’s eyes widened, the implication of her brother’s words finally becoming clear. “I would never betray you, Rukh—you know that.”

  “Do I?” He played with his chalice idly. “But then, I didn’t think Darius would offer his own sister to his guard as a prize in a game of darts—they came to your rooms to besiege you.”

  “No—” Her voice dropping, Darya repeated it. “No, that isn’t true.”