The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Before the gates, the Immolan blew a small white horn that echoed with astonishing force. He spoke through the horn, his polished voice riding the walls and whispering along the parapets.

  “Khan of Khorasan,” he called, “open these gates. Submit to the One-Eyed Preacher, and your city will be spared.”

  For answer, Cassandane’s archers sent down a rain of arrows that were blocked by Talisman shields.

  The Immolan paused, brushing an arrow from his shoulder. He raised the white horn again. “Is that your answer then?”

  “No.”

  A man gazed down from the ramparts, taking the Immolan’s taunts in stride. He made his hand into a fist and raised it high over the wall, so the Immolan could see.

  A blinding silver light flashed from the center of his hand. It lanced over the vanguard, halting the army’s progress. The man stood straight and tall, a dark brown cloak on his shoulders, his sable hair loose, his quicksilver eyes focused on the party below. The Immolan shaded his eyes. His fingers strayed to the green crest at his throat, seeing its mirror image on the man who commanded the gate.

  “Who are you?” His blunt demand rang across the plain.

  The man on the ramparts had chosen his spot well. Out of the shadow of the Maiden Tower, there was no man in the vanguard who couldn’t see him in the Sacred Cloak.

  “My name is Daniyar. I am of the Shin War.” A flash of light from his ring arrowed through the night. He held up his hand again. “I am the Silver Mage, the Keeper of the Candour.”

  The Immolan checked himself on his steed. He barked a command to one of his men. A spyglass was placed in his hand. He spied the ring and the silver sword at the stranger’s hip. A closer assessment of his face showed he was speaking the truth.

  Then the Immolan took note of the Cloak. “Where did you come across that garment?” His voice was hoarse with rage.

  With effortless authority, the man on the ramparts moved the Cloak to one side with a broad sweep of his arm. “I wear the Sacred Cloak,” he called down. “I am Commander of the Faithful.”

  The vanguard assumed a deathly stillness. Work on the catapults fell quiet. The sappers who were on their knees along the wall slowly rose to their feet. They had last seen the Cloak on the shoulders of a woman; they had been told that her act of wearing it was an insult beyond description. But this man was Shin War, one of their own—he was the Guardian of Candour. If any man had a right to the authority of the Cloak, surely it was him. A murmur of dissent rose from the ranks, the men casting uneasy glances at the Immolan.

  The Immolan was not as easily persuaded. “If you are one of us, why do you stand on the other side of the gate?”

  “May we confer?” Daniyar returned, so the vanguard could hear. “I call for a loya jirga. Call your chieftains in for consultation.”

  As much as he distrusted Daniyar’s motives, there was no way for the Immolan to refuse. It was the Shin War’s strictest code that a course of war could not be determined in the absence of a loya jirga. And whatever the consultations in Candour had been, they had not included the Guardian of Candour.

  The Immolan nodded at his men. “Come down. We’ll meet outside the gates.”

  “Have I your word that a truce will hold until the loya jirga concludes?”

  Against his will, the Immolan of the Shin War nodded. “The code is sacred to Shin War. And you, Silver Mage of Candour? Do you give your word that you make no use of magic to sway the loya jirga?”

  Daniyar nodded, a silver glint to his eyes. “The code is sacred to Shin War.”

  With a flourish of the Sacred Cloak, he moved to the staircase that spiraled down the Maiden Tower. To Cassandane at his side, he warned, “If I do not return within the hour, do not open the gates again.”

  “Understood, my lord.”

  “Fortune fare you well, Cassandane.”

  “And you, my lord Daniyar.”

  Wafa watched him go, a thorny prickling in his stomach. Didn’t the Silver Mage know? How could he trust the Talisman? How had he gone through the gate without fear, entirely on his own? Tears trickled down Wafa’s frightened face. He’d climbed down from the balcony of the Princess’s cell, evaded numerous parties of Cataphracts, and found his way to the eastern gate in time to meet the Silver Mage.

  “What are you doing?” he asked uncertainly.

  And the Silver Mage answered, “Whatever I must to stop this war.”

  Wafa had protested on Arian’s behalf. “But the lady Arian! You haven’t seen her. You didn’t say goodbye.”

  The face he found so stern now softened with sympathy. The Silver Mage rested a gentle hand on Wafa’s shoulder. “If I saw her again, I wouldn’t be able to do this. Keep her safe for me, Wafa. I’m counting on you to protect her.”

  Though he was terrified by the sight of the Talisman, Wafa felt a quick surge of pride. Like the child he still was, he clasped the Silver Mage’s hand, seeking some of his strength. Echoing Daniyar’s tone of unwavering resolution, he promised to defend the lady Arian with his life. He couldn’t meet the piercing clarity of the Silver Mage’s eyes.

  “It may come to that, Wafa. You need to be prepared.” The Silver Mage glanced around the ramparts, picking out Arsalan at the gate and Maysam in the square below. Of Arian and Sinnia, there was no sign. “Where is she, Wafa?”

  “She’s in the room of books with him.” The loathing in his voice made it clear whom he meant.

  “Go to her and stay there. The walls are the most dangerous place to be. And it will only get worse.”

  Wafa stared at the Silver Mage with a peculiar look in his eyes. Then he darted forth and gave him a quick hug, so quick that Daniyar didn’t have time to ruffle his hair. He darted away, throwing a few last words over his shoulder.

  “Come back,” he pleaded. “Come back or she’ll be sad.”

  53

  DARYA TUGGED AT HER ARM. HER BROTHER’S GRIP WAS BRUISING HER delicate bones. He had led her through the tunnels of Qaysarieh, and now they traversed a secret route through the gardens to the eastern gate, dodging Cataphract patrols. The enormous square was filled with the noise and fury of activity. Darya had always thought of Ashfall as a city of golden walls and opulent green gardens, with the drifting branches of plane trees catching against the wall like the willowy tails of peacocks. To Darya, the city of Ashfall betokened a fragrant peace. Not this cacophony of ash, smoke, burnished steel, and the movement of machinery. Grim faces masked in black, silver-tipped spears, blazing standards; everywhere the urgency of booted, angry feet. As a patrol passed them by, Darius dragged her into an alcove. The light from a filigreed lantern flickered over his dishevelment. He’d been as hand some as Rukh once, but now his frame was whittled away, his posture hunched, his fine skin marked with lines of dissipation, his bleary eyes set in pouches of flesh. His beard and hair were wildly overgrown, his smile too dim to remember. He retained an air of authority, nonetheless.

  “You were always a good child,” he said to her. “You know the meaning of loyalty.” He nodded to the left. “There. The stairs.”

  To her surprise, he let go of her wrist. “You don’t need to come any farther. Get to the women’s apartments and take shelter.”

  “What will you do?”

  She drew back into the shadows as a lumbering mangonel was wheeled past their hiding place by two of the Zhayedan.

  “I’ll find the Silver Mage. We’ll hold the eastern gate.”

  There was a sudden stilling of noise. Darya heard a fluted horn, followed by a strange metallic voice. She couldn’t make out the words, but the activity on the ramparts had ceased. An arrow of silver darted across the sky, piercing through columns of smoke. The light came from the hand of the Silver Mage. He stood tall and resolute at the eastern gate, and for a moment, Darya believed her city would not fall. She reached up and gave Darius a kiss and made for the gates to the palace. She didn’t think anyone would trouble to detain a wayward princess at this moment. She had to get
to Rukh to tell him what she’d done. He might be angry at first, but he would thank her in time. The Silver Mage and the Dark Mage would unite their magic to hold the enemy at bay, to hold the city a little longer. The Nizam had promised her as much.

  She cast a quick look back to determine Darius’s progress. She couldn’t find him at the foot of the stairs or along the eastern ramparts. She frowned. Then from the corner of her eye, she caught a stealthy moment. A shadow darting this way and that through the humming square where the Cataphracts assembled and prepared for the coming assault.

  The shadow chanced across the path of a flaring torch, and Darya recognized her brother.

  Perplexed, she realized that Darius wasn’t searching for the Silver Mage. He was headed across the square on a path to the Messenger Gate.

  Darius was headed west.

  54

  DARYA RACED THROUGH THE PALACE TO FIND THE NIZAM, TERRIFIED OF what she’d done.

  Rukh can keep his princely titles. The city belongs to me.

  What could Darius have meant?

  A thunderous noise sounded through the palace, shaking it to its foundations. It sounded as though the sky had cracked open, and Darya’s bones were jarred. The Divan-e Shah was empty, as was her brother’s war room.

  She moved on flying feet. Where would the Nizam be now? She hadn’t seen his black-robed figure on the walls. Perhaps he conferred with Rukh in the scriptorium. She changed direction, her bells a plaintive echo as she ran.

  At the threshold to the scriptorium, a hard hand caught hold of her arm. She paused, catching her breath. It was the Nizam; in his eyes was a furious anger. “Where is Darius?” he demanded.

  “Please, Nizam al-Mulk!” Darya tried to free herself from his grip. He was holding the Shahi scepter in one hand, and he struck it hard against the ground. Darya went still. “I did as you asked,” she said. “But Darius didn’t listen. He makes for the western gate—I don’t know what he’s planning. I don’t think he plans for a Conference of the Mages. I have to tell Rukh what I’ve done.”

  For the second time that night, Darya found herself dragged along by the powerful grip of the Nizam. She found herself in his chambers before a giant enameled wardrobe. They were alone in his rooms. With a speed and agility she wouldn’t have guessed him capable of, he bound her hands and her feet with a pair of silken cords.

  She tried to twist away and failed. “Nizam al-Mulk! What on earth are you doing?” A gag was thrust into her mouth.

  “Your brother doesn’t need to be distracted from his councils by you.”

  A heavy fist pounded the outer door, but Darya couldn’t scream. She was bundled without ceremony into the Nizam’s wardrobe, the doors sealed shut behind her. She heard the Nizam stride to the door of his chambers. There was no space for her to maneuver. She was so tightly hemmed in by the Nizam’s costumes that she couldn’t even thump her feet in the hope that her bells might sound. The most she could do was turn her head. She had no idea why she’d been imprisoned, but she struggled to overhear, her ear pressed to the door. She recognized her brother’s voice.

  “The Silver Mage has called for a loya jirga. The Companions are in the scriptorium. I prepare to ride out with the Zhayedan. The city is in your hands. If the eastern gate is taken, you must hold the palace.”

  “My lord, one more man at the head of the army makes no difference to our fortunes.”

  “I must be with my men. What would you have me do?”

  “Trust Arsalan. They are as loyal to him as to you. We need the magic of the Bloodprint. We need the First Oralist to unlock its secrets—we cannot delay any longer.”

  “She does the best she can. The Companion, Sinnia, also. Indeed, she seems just as capable as the First Oralist—an advantage I did not expect.”

  “It won’t be enough, Excellency. I have spoken to you of this. The time to act is now. Go to her. Ask her to awaken your abilities.”

  “The First Oralist is not a Mage of Khorasan. How could she undertake this task?”

  “Her vocation as First Oralist does not mean she is unschooled in the arts practiced by the Authoritan.”

  A brief silence fell. Darya wondered what was happening. What did the Nizam mean? She didn’t have long to wait for the answer.

  “You speak of the arcane arts. Is this your counsel, Nizam? You believe me to be blackhearted?”

  Darya’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. She wanted to offer her support to her brother, but she couldn’t muster a grunt.

  “To serve as Dark Mage is not tantamount to villainy.” Rukh’s refusal was pained; Darya could have wept for it.

  Another crack of thunder shook the foundations of the palace.

  “What was that?” Rukh asked.

  He was frightened, Darya realized. And if the Khan of Khorasan was afraid, she should be terrified out of her wits.

  “It’s something we cannot fight if you do not do this.”

  “What of the risk? What if I am suborned or overtaken by the occult? What if Ashfall loses its prince at the moment it needs him most?”

  The Nizam’s response was gentle. “You have answered your own question. I know you would give your life to win Ashfall another hour. There is no villainy in that.”

  The silence deepened, and no more was said. Both men left the room. Darya worked at freeing herself, terrified by what she’d heard. The cord bit into her wrists. She could feel the throbbing of her blood. She drew back her head, prepared to slam it against the wardrobe, though it was too late for Rukh to hear. But one of the Nizam’s attendants might.

  She felt suffocated in the wardrobe, the heavy fabrics pressing against her, cutting off her air. She tried to stamp her feet and fell. Now she couldn’t move at all. It was impossible to climb to her feet. Her hands felt along the floor for anything she could use, something sharp-edged and deadly, but she grasped only cloth.

  The thunder cracked through the palace a third time, then a fourth. Now she could feel it in her heartbeat, her teeth jarred, her bones rattled. Clothing fell onto her head. She was sweating, suffocating, completely submerged. The wardrobe began to shake. She had a fleeting thought for the city walls. The gates were all that stood between the Zhayedan and the Talisman.

  Another crack and the wardrobe was jolted from its moorings. It swayed twice, then tumbled to its side, its heavy doors cracking open. As it shifted again, Darya tumbled from the wardrobe, her head badly knocked and her bruised wrists bleeding. She looked up to find she wasn’t alone in the room.

  Wafa reached for her, making short work of her bonds with a sheepish air of satisfaction.

  “How—”

  “The Silver Mage sent me to find my lady. But I saw the bad man take you, and this time I was brave.”

  Darya hugged him to her. “Wafa, you’re always brave!”

  “Come with me to the books.” He fidgeted at her praise.

  But Darya had made sense of the Nizam’s counsel to Rukh. She shook her head, determined on a new course. “Wafa, will you do something for me? Will you keep the First Oralist far away from my brother? I need to find Commander Arsalan.”

  The boy’s blue eyes looked a question at her.

  “He’s the only one my brother will listen to. He might hurt himself—he might hurt the First Oralist.”

  Wafa didn’t need to hear anything else. He parted ways with Darya outside the Nizam’s apartments. Though he was growing fond of the Princess, his heart belonged to the Companions. He wouldn’t let the lady Arian come to any harm.

  The Silver Mage trusted him to keep her safe.

  With the thunder threatening to sunder the palace, he hoped that he wasn’t too late.

  55

  ARIAN LEFT SINNIA WITH THE BLOODPRINT, STUMBLING AS A RUMBLE OF thunder jolted the ground at her feet. She knew in her bones that the thunder wasn’t something the Zhayedan could fight. Perhaps that was why Rukh had summoned her—to consult on a plan of battle. But his guards didn’t lead her to the war room. Instead, she
was taken to a set of rooms not far from the Khas Mahal. The guards left her at the door, then stood to either side of it, an action that made her frown.

  The Black Khan was waiting inside, a somber expression on his face as he watched her examine the room. His private chambers were far less opulent than she’d expected; in fact the marbled room was nearly empty. A pair of enameled tables held a selection of scrolls, one of which was unfurled on its surface as if the Khan had been reading. A giant canopied bed on one side of the room was hung with black silk panels embroidered with silver rooks. The panels were reflected in the mirrored doors of a wardrobe placed across the bed. Close to it, a marble arch opened onto an antechamber, where a fresh breeze wafted inside from a gallery of cantilevered windows.

  In the center of the room was a paneled wooden table with a pair of stools set before it. A meticulously crafted bowl rested on its surface, a jug of water beside it.

  The Black Khan beckoned her closer. Arian stayed by the door.

  “Why do you call me to your private chambers? What is it you would have from me here?”

  She thought uneasily of his reference to her vow of chastity. Did he know the verse that bound the Companions to their duties? Did he seek to undo it to hasten her construal of the Bloodprint? Or had he misinterpreted her confession in the scriptorium or her acceptance of his gifts?

  His eyes flicked briefly to the bed. He shook his head. “If my empire was not at stake, perhaps I would attempt to persuade you to choose me in place of the Silver Mage.” He held up a hand before she could react, ushering her to a stool. “But I have greater need of his talents than you, so in his absence, I turn to you.”

  Not entirely convinced, Arian took the seat he held for her, her long hair falling forward in a curtain. He brushed it back over her shoulder, inhaling its subtle fragrance.

  “You will need to see,” he explained. He clasped his hands together in a gesture that was almost prayerful before he took the stool by her side.