The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  She checked herself at once, ashamed of the way her imagination had run wild. She shouldn’t be speculating. She need think only of herself and Arsalan. She followed him around the palace like a shadow, but he didn’t share her passion, and he’d never been her lover. Why did she assume the First Oralist requited the passion of her consort? Perhaps because Darya herself had found him so starkly beautiful. The silver eyes, the fine-grained skin, the hair sleek and dark like a raven’s wing …

  He hadn’t denied loving the First Oralist; he’d simply challenged her right to speak of it.

  Sick of her own stupidity, Darya sank down on the cot in her cell. It was night-dark outside the windows, and though her balcony was draped with the sleeves of lemon blossoms, she felt frightened and oppressed by Qaysarieh. She knew there were dungeons where the conditions were unspeakable, where the wails of prisoners haunted the murky halls, but she also knew her brother was not in the habit of inflicting torment. The beating of Wafa had been driven by necessity. But as she’d always told Rukh, cruelty would yield him nothing. It was kindness that had won her Wafa’s secrets.

  She started at the sound of pebbles skittering across her balcony. She waited a beat and the sound came again, a light clatter that broke through the noise of Talisman drums. She leapt to her feet, unencumbered by her headdress or cuffs. Her bells chimed sweetly at her ankles as she moved out onto the balcony.

  Far below in the square, the Cataphracts, commanded by Maysam, were engrossed with preparations to meet the coming assault. The Zhayedan’s shock troops were capable of inflicting heavy casualties. They were busy assembling catapults, and the muzzles and projectiles that would be launched en masse over the walls. Maysam moved with relentless focus, scanning the western gate for orders from his commander. Of Rukh, there was no sign, though he should have been at the wall.

  Her heart skipped a beat. The morning would bring great danger to the two men who shaped her world: Arsalan and Rukh. What else it might bring to the women of her city, she didn’t dare to think. Even as Arsalan had removed her jewels, he’d pressed a powder wrapped in parchment in her hands. “If I cannot defend you,” he’d said, “you will be able to choose.”

  A shadow darted out from among the noise and bustle. Darya ducked.

  “Who is that?” she whispered. “What do you want?”

  She peered over the balcony again. It was the blue-eyed Hazara boy.

  “I’ve come to rescue you,” he said, sounding unconvinced.

  Darya couldn’t repress a smile. “How exactly? And how did you know I was here?”

  “I followed the guards. Can I climb up?”

  He tested the flourishing vines that trailed down the city walls, ferns and mosses entangled in cane flowers.

  “These walls are fifty feet. The vines will never hold you.”

  Wafa didn’t listen. Lithe and surefooted, he scrambled up the vines. When one came loose in his hands, he jumped to another. Darya watched in horror. Surely one of the Zhayedan would see him and an arrow would bring an end to his climb. She drew back into the shadows of her cell to avoid drawing attention to him.

  Several minutes later, he hauled himself over the balustrade and landed at her feet. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the way down.”

  “What?” she said, aghast. “There are thousands of soldiers in the courtyard—we stand no chance of escape!”

  “But they don’t know,” Wafa said. He motioned at the place where her headdress should have been. “They don’t know you’re not the Princess anymore.”

  His words struck Darya painfully. Was she no longer Princess of Ashfall? Had her actions tainted her, stripping of her rank? She wasn’t taken by the privileges of court—she had meant it when she said the Begum was welcome to her place. No, what she thought of was Arsalan, slipping beyond her grasp. Why would he pledge himself to her if she was no longer the Princess? She could think of no reason why he would.

  She’d let her hair fall loose around her shoulders now that it was no longer supporting the weight of the imperial headdress. She felt young and free again, yet also strangely bereft.

  Wafa’s sharp blue eyes followed her every gesture. “Come on,” he said again. “I don’t want to stay here.”

  Something in the drooping lines of the boy’s mouth showed her he’d known a kind of suffering she’d never had to consider. There had been no distinguished guardian to offer the boy a choice.

  The door was locked and a grate was on its window, which meant the only route out of the cell was to risk the climb down the vines. But Darya knew she was clumsy and didn’t trust herself to try. Besides, if she and the boy managed to reach the ground, one of the guards would find her, and this time she wouldn’t be sent to a cell reserved for members of the court. She would find herself in the tunnels.

  She heard footsteps outside her door. “Hide!”

  Startled, Wafa cast a frantic glance around the cell. Seeing no other option, he rolled his small, wiry body under Darya’s cot, pulling the coverlet down. Darya sat down on the bed. A knock sounded on the door.

  “Princess, are you asleep?”

  The man spoke in the cultured, faintly disdainful tones of the Nizam. Darya darted to the door. “Nizam al-Mulk! Has my brother had a change of heart?”

  His scornful eyes dismissed her question. The key turned in the lock and the Nizam let himself into her cell. She scanned the empty space behind him. He had come without his personal guard. With his sleekly sculpted eyebrows lowered into a scowl, he seemed more forbidding than usual.

  “Have you come to set me free? Perhaps there is something I could do to assist in the city’s defense, if only to be a comfort to my aunt.”

  The Nizam’s reply was cruel. “You must know by now, Princess, that your aunt finds no comfort in you.”

  Darya’s sensitive mouth betrayed the pain this caused her. “Then why?” she asked. “I would be happy to serve the Companions of Hira or the Silver Mage.”

  The Nizam sniffed at that. “As would every woman at this court, but I think not, Princess. We do not send royal blood scurrying about like servants.”

  Darya bent her head. “Yet I would like to serve. I just do not know how.”

  “Yes, your uses have always been limited. Still, you’ve managed to bring Arsalan to heel.”

  “I love Arsalan,” she protested. “I would not coerce him against his will. Or do anything to cause him grief.”

  “He’s accepted the betrothal,” the Nizam snapped back. “If you persist in your foolishness, you will lose him to the First Oralist, who was able to entrance him without effort. Did you not see his gallantry at the banquet?”

  Tears sprang to Darya’s eyes. The Nizam could always make her doubt whether she had any value to the court or any attraction as a woman. “I saw his courtesy to me and that is all.”

  “Yes, he is ever willing to stand as your champion.”

  “Because he loves me,” Darya said heatedly.

  “No,” the Nizam said thoughtfully. “I do not believe he does. But he is a man of unswerving loyalty, and he does as his Khan commands for the greater good, as I’m afraid must you.”

  “What do you mean?” Curiously childlike, Darya looked up at the Nizam, bright tears drowning her eyes. She could feel the power of his presence in her room, feel herself compelled by the weight of his exceptional stature.

  “There is no doubt of it,” he said. “The city will fall by morning. I cannot allow that to happen.”

  “But the Silver Mage … the Companions—”

  “You said you wanted to serve, Princess, so serve you shall.”

  “How?” Darya asked again. “What do you think I can do? Tell me and I’ll gladly do it.”

  His face seemed to relax. “You must see your brother.”

  “Rukh doesn’t want to see me. I’m the last person he wants near him now. He relies on you and on Arsalan.”

  “Your other brother, Darius.”

  Darya’s mouth hung
open. “But why? How?”

  “Don’t you want to?” There was a peculiar twist in the Nizam’s voice.

  “Of course I want to—I miss him. You know how much I’ve missed him. I can’t bear to think of him suffering in the dungeons. But if I go to him, it will be treason. You know this.”

  “What I know is this: we need every weapon at our disposal. Darius is the Dark Mage.”

  “I—I thought Rukh was—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, girl! Your brother’s pursuit of the Bloodprint left him no leisure to learn the secrets of the Mage, whereas Darius is skilled in those arts.”

  “But what could Darius do? Could he save the city alone?”

  “No, not alone. But the Silver Mage is among us, and a Conference of the Mages would strengthen us in ways the Talisman could not withstand. Combined with the power of the Companions—”

  “But the Talisman’s army vastly outnumbers ours.”

  “That is why you must do this. You must go to your brother and release him. Persuade him to use his gifts as Dark Mage. The Silver Mage awaits him. He sees the wisdom of this course as well as I do.”

  “All right,” Darya said uncertainly. “But why isn’t the Silver Mage with you, then?”

  The Nizam grabbed her by the wrist and led her to the door, impatient now for action. “He sees to another matter for your brother. He will come, you can trust my word.”

  “Of course.” It had never occurred to Darya to doubt him. “And Darius? If his help is so vital, should you not speak to him yourself?”

  She cast a hurried glance behind her as the Nizam locked the door to her cell. Wafa was trapped in her room, unless he scampered down the vines as nimbly as he’d climbed them. She couldn’t worry about that now, lest the boy be discovered. Instead, she let the Nizam jostle her along the dark, dank corridors of Qaysarieh. They reached the majestic pishtaq, painted and patterned with tiles, two giant archers poised on either side of the gate. The archers had the torsos of gleaming golden lions and the scarlet tails of dragons. Each archer held an enormous bow in his arms, but the faience that supported the archers had chipped away over time, the legend of the archers incomplete.

  Qaysarieh hadn’t always been a prison. Before the wars of the Far Range, the gates had led to a magnificent bazaar thronged by hundreds of merchants. An ancestor of the Khan had transferred the bazaar to the square. The sloping arches and narrow tunnels of Qaysarieh had been converted into a prison.

  The night was cold around them, the torchlight showing up like mellow gold on the walls, which seemed to curve with the land, the ceilings dropping ever lower. A pair of soldiers was stationed wherever the tunnels intersected. No one challenged the Princess, tugged along by the hand of the Nizam. Certainly, none challenged the Nizam al-Mulk himself, the guards standing at attention, their arms crossed over spears they had sunk into the ground.

  Cries of lamentation wound up through the tunnels, echoed by the rush of an underground river. Some cried for water, others for food. Others sobbed the names of loved ones lost to them. The most common plea was for the mercy of the Nizam. The cells were cramped and recessed against the walls, the torchlight occasional and dim. Darya couldn’t make out the faces of the prisoners. Their wails pressed upon her soft heart, but she knew these men had found their way to Qaysarieh for crimes against the Black Khan or for treachery against the realm.

  When they had reached a final crossroad, the Nizam came to halt. He pointed Darya to the narrow alley that ran to the right, pressing a single key on a giant ring into her trembling hands. “Darius is held in this section. Tell him what is happening outside the city walls. Tell him he must do this service for his brother, and tell him about the Silver Mage.”

  Darya stared at the Nizam, wide-eyed. She was terrified by the gloom of the tunnels, certain she spied the movement of small and shuddersome creatures in the dark.

  The Nizam grabbed her wrists and jerked her around to face him. “You’ve never been the slightest use to your brother or this city. Can you be trusted with this mission?”

  The harsh words acted as a spur to Darya’s wounded pride. “Yes!” With an obstinate lift to her chin, she grasped the key in her hand.

  “Then do not fail me.”

  He spun around, his black robes swirling around his booted feet.

  “Wait!” Darya called. “Where am I to send him? If Darius agrees, where should he meet the Silver Mage? Where will he find my brother?”

  “Leave the Khan to me. Send your brother to the eastern gate.”

  51

  DARYA CREPT ALONG THE LANE. IT WAS BLACK AS PITCH, AND SHE SHIVERED as she felt something small scuttle across her slippers. She moved closer to the wall, losing the sound of running water. In the abandoned alley, all was quiet and remote. Like the afterworld, she thought with a shudder, conjuring up images of demons in her mind.

  She felt the dampness of the walls, a stickiness she seemed to breathe. Then her fingers brushed iron bars, rusting in the damp. There was no light, no sound, just the fetid stench of centuries of decay.

  “Darius,” she whispered, the darkness smothering her voice. “Darius, are you there?”

  He didn’t answer, and still the tunnel sloped down.

  If only she was as brave as Captain Cassandane or as fiercely powerful as the First Oralist. But she wasn’t, and she shrank from doing her duty. Several times, she thought of turning back. What if she encountered a prisoner? Or a guard who didn’t recognize her? Only two thoughts compelled her to keep going: the first being that at last Rukh had need of her, and the second that she would finally be reunited with Darius again.

  She clutched the key on its chain, forcing her feet to move.

  Her bells chimed softly in the darkness, and she had the idea that if she lost her way, she could separate the bells and leave a sparking trail to follow back to safety. But where was safety? Up in her cell on the ramparts? Under her brother’s wing? At Arsalan’s side at the gate? Or cowering in the royal quarters with the other women of the court?

  A sudden revelation darted through her mind. None of these, she realized. She belonged to none of these. The only place for her now was the place she’d been forbidden. The place she’d witnessed in her vision.

  “Darya?” A ragged voice speaking from the darkness shattered her nerve. She let out a small shriek.

  “Darya, it’s me—Darius.”

  “Darius?”

  Darya found him by pressing her hands against the iron bars.

  “Help me.” His voice was ragged with despair. “Free me. I’ve been in the dark so long.”

  Darya clutched the key ring in her hand, fumbling for the lock with the other. She had just fit the key into the lock when she realized she hadn’t passed on the Nizam’s message. She pulled the key away.

  Darius groaned. “Darya, please—”

  “Listen to me. Do you still have your powers as Mage of this city?”

  A sudden silence. Then “Why?”

  “Don’t you hear the drums? The city is under attack.”

  “What?” His voice cracked.

  “You know it’s been coming all these years. Rukh went in pursuit of the Bloodprint.”

  Darius lurched against the iron bars, reaching for Darya’s hands. “And? Isn’t it enough?”

  Darya held his hands, the key pressed between them.

  “It doesn’t seem like anything will be enough. The Nizam asks you for your help. Please, Darius. You’re needed at the eastern gate. The Silver Mage will meet you there.”

  She could almost hear her brother’s frantic thoughts in the silence.

  “He’s there now? Does the Nizam plan—”

  “Yes. He calls a Conference of the Mages.”

  “But we two alone—”

  “The High Companion may return in time to aid us.”

  “And the Mage of the Blue Eye?”

  Darya shook her head. Darius squeezed her fingers. A moment later the key was in his hand, grating in the
lock.

  “Wait!” Darya cried. “You won’t … you won’t … the monkshood, the aconite … You won’t think of harming Rukh again?”

  She caught the black glitter of his eyes as he freed himself from the cell. He grasped her delicate wrist and pulled her along behind him.

  “I need you to show me the way.” A rare smile flashed back at her, caught in the gleam of a solitary torch. “Rukh can keep his titles and his court—I have no need of either. I am the Dark Mage of Ashfall. The city belongs to me.”

  52

  SIGNAL FIRES BURNED ON THE EASTERN PLAINS, RAVAGING THE VILLAGES that lay between the outer ramparts and the city walls. Some had pressed ahead, gaining the safety of the city walls before the eastern gate was sealed. But most had been unable to flee, the warning coming too late. Those had been left to die or had been taken by the Talisman as hostages.

  The Talisman army was divided in two, a force of a thousand men near the gates, additional battalions behind the ridge. Save cavalry, the Talisman had everything: infantry, archers, firelancers, catapults, and mangonels. The men who’d been sent ahead were further divided into three groups: sappers, who scouted the weakest parts of the wall; engineers, who operated the stone and wood-hewn catapults; and infantry, who led the charge, prodding villagers before them as shields. A red-bearded Immolan with a Shin War crest rode a chestnut horse to the gate, accompanied by men in black capes bearing the Talisman’s standards. A fourth man carried a flag on a lance; this he rammed into the gate as a forewarning of conquest.

  From the field behind, an ominous chant arose.

  “There is no one but the One. There is no one but the One.”

  Rather than an invocation of the Claim, the words were twisted like the coils of a serpent, a writhing, rampaging force that swathed the city in darkness.