The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Now she tried to reconcile this hidden truth with her notions of the Black Khan’s general, a man who was relentlessly forthright. After a moment she said, “I do not think you errant, Commander. Love is a gift to be given, wherever it arises.”

  He turned to her, a frown of surprise sketched on his brow. “I thought Hira held that those of my kind are errant from the path.”

  “Yet you honor Hira and its teachings,” she said gently.

  “Without question,” he answered. “My mother was a member of the Council, though she died many years ago.”

  Sympathy swelled in Arian’s breast at this point of connection between them. “I am sorry for your bereavement, Commander. It is a loss I share.”

  He bent his head in a courteous bow. “Your story is known to me, sahabiya. But I think there must be mercy in her passing. She would have thought me errant, and it would have grieved her.”

  Though she hesitated over what to say, Arian made herself speak. She was a Companion of Hira; it was her duty to offer the promise of renewal and the hope, one day, of love. Especially as she had witnessed the reason for Arsalan’s pain. She touched her circlet with her undamaged hand and pressed it softly to his heart.

  “Those are the teachings of the old world, Commander, I do not deny it. But when I have thought of this, I have thought of it differently. It is for the One to know our hearts’ desires, and the One speaks only of love. Your path was laid before you, just as mine was for me.”

  Arsalan bowed his head, the silver tracks of his tears disappearing into his collar. “Your kindness has long been rumored,” he said, “but that you would touch me with a gentle hand or offer me your understanding when the Talisman—and others—promise only hate … The stories do not do you justice.”

  His eyes met Rukh’s over Arian’s head, a haunting desolation in his own. Rukh’s words echoed in his head.

  Don’t ever assume I share your corruption or that I ache for your touch.

  Yet his agony was reflected in Rukh’s eyes.

  He didn’t know what it meant. He didn’t want to know if it would only cause him greater pain. Better to go on as he had, accepting what he was granted without pushing for more. Because he couldn’t bear the thought that Rukh would send him away.

  Not here … not now. Not ever.

  The history of their long association passed between them in a glance—love, friendship, loyalty, respect, but also competition, discord, anger. Never, though, envy or distrust. Had Rukh’s bitter insult altered their perception of each other? And if it had, was it the kind of loss that could never be redeemed?

  He realized that Rukh was speaking to him, uncertainty weighing down his voice. “Forgive me, Arsalan,” he said. “I should never have said such a thing.”

  But the truth was now open between them, and Arsalan’s sense of honor would not allow him to renounce it. “If this was how you thought of me, you should have said it sooner.”

  Rukh made a sound of protest. “I couldn’t … I don’t.”

  Tears glittered on his lashes, and Arsalan was vanquished by the sight. “You were always a danger to yourself, Rukh.” He couldn’t bring himself to smile, but his voice was immeasurably soft.

  Rukh drew a ragged breath. He had played with Arsalan’s feelings, just as he would have used anyone who could serve his ruthless ambition. Yet to have done the same thing to Arsalan and now to witness its effect made him shudder with self-disgust. Nor could he blame his actions on the bloodrites’ taint of corruption—he went still as he realized that he’d used the same word to slander his closest friend.

  He wasn’t worthy of Arsalan’s forgiveness, yet he couldn’t let his selfishness destroy the one thing he valued most. If only honesty would serve him, why not confess the truth?

  He’d never been as lost.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  He turned back to his view of the Talisman, unable to conceal his dread. Quietly, he wondered, “And now that I am bereft of any claim to magic, what do you say I should do?”

  Arsalan moved to his side, observing the army at the gates. Tentatively he touched Rukh’s shoulder. For a moment the Black Khan tensed. Then he accepted the touch, leaning into it … drawing strength from it. Arsalan’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

  Arsalan raised his chin, his voice low and firm with conviction. “Now we fight, my prince. Now we fight and we win.”

  They looked at each other again. Then they moved as one. They locked their forearms together, pulling each other close. Just as swiftly, they broke apart.

  Arian observed this in silence, sole witness to the truth.

  However Rukh had hurt him, Arsalan loved him still.

  And from the anguish in Rukh’s dark eyes, it was plain he loved Arsalan as deeply. Yet Arian couldn’t have spoken to the nature of that love.

  56

  BEHIND THE WALL AT BLACK AURA, LARISA SALIKH DARTED THROUGH passageways under the Ark. She was searching for a prisoner named Uktam. She needed his report on the Khanum’s plans to defend the Wall, now that the Khanum ruled in the Authoritan’s stead.

  And there was more she needed to learn.

  An Ahdath patrol swept by. She hid in the shadows, a pair of daggers braced in her agile hands. She was murmuring the Claim to herself, no longer doubting its power to guide her. The alleyways slanted down, darker, deeper, steeped in the stench of decay, except for the occasional hint of peach blossom carried down to the cells by a teasing, evocative breeze.

  She moved from cell to cell, her eyes scanning the faces of prisoners. This time she did more for her confederates than she’d been able to risk at Jaslyk. She unlocked each door with the same set of instructions. They had to wait until she’d found Uktam. After that, they were free to wreak whatever havoc they could.

  At the farthest end of the deep decline, a skeletal figure was hunched in one corner of a cell. He held up a finger to his lips. A pair of yellow snakes were coiled before him, predators who watched him with narrow, fearless eyes. Larisa pried the lock loose from the door. With swift and sure movements, she used her daggers to fling the snakes out along the passageway.

  “Uktam.” She passed him a roll of bread she’d stuffed into her pocket. He fell on it with a ravening, insatiable hunger. She waited until he’d finished to offer him her canteen. When she thought he was ready to speak, she made quick work of her questions.

  “Who does the Khanum send to take charge of the Wall in Marakand? Who commands the forces of the Registan? How many men, and how soon will they arrive?”

  Uktam tried to squeeze more water from the canteen. “Is it time to escape, Larisa?”

  “Yes.” She cast a brisk glance up the incline, searching for signs of ambush. “You’ve been here long enough. You’ve done all that we asked for and more.”

  “Then you’ll take me with you?” The prisoner’s eyes were haunted by pain. A whisper of hope trembled in his voice.

  “I’ll carry you myself, if I have to. First, answer my questions. Who does the Khanum send to Marakand?”

  “Temurbek. When Nevus and the Authoritan were killed, Temurbek seized his chance.”

  Larisa nodded. She helped Uktam out of the cell, pained at the sight of what he’d been forced to endure as a Basmachi spy. His clothes were reduced to rags, and through the tears on his cotton shirt, she could see the marks of the six-tailed whip.

  He spilled his secrets into her ear, secrets she had waited to hear, struggling closer to the Ark. Her purpose hardened inside herself as she listened to him speak.

  There was still a chance, then. A chance to take down Temurbek before he reached the Wall. A chance that she and Zerafshan would take Marakand for themselves.

  Dragging Uktam along, she hurried back the way she’d come, sowing chaos in her wake.

  57

  FLUSHED WITH FEAR AND WORRY, DARYA CLUTCHED AT THE THIN FABRIC of her dress. The Silver Mage wasn’t at the eastern gate, nor could she find Darius. She’d confessed her actions to
Arsalan, and though he’d told her to retreat to the safety of the women’s quarters, she refused to do so. She had to know what kind of calamity her careless actions had wrought. Perhaps she could do something to help. She blamed herself for not guessing at the Nizam’s treachery. He’d tricked Rukh into attempting some form of dark magic, just as he’d arranged for her to set Darius free—who knew what he planned for the Silver Mage?

  Where was he?

  Despite the crackling thunder, the Talisman were quiet, a pitched tent at the center of the vanguard guarded by Talisman infantry. What transpired inside the tent at this hour? Darya wished she knew. She wished she knew anything at all.

  Moments later, Arsalan and Rukh strode past her to the head of the gate, Arian with them. Of the three, it was the First Oralist who seemed most in control, certain of the outcome of battle. Arsalan split from them to make for Captain Cassandane at the Maiden Tower. She followed him back with a group of her best archers. Rukh pointed to the tent under guard.

  “There,” he said. “Light your arrows, burn it down. As soon as the loya jirga scatters, the Zhayedan will rain down fire from the mangonels.”

  Darya crept closer. She could now see the outrage on the face of the First Oralist. “You cannot fire on the loya jirga. Daniyar convened it at your request. Any break of faith will seal his fate.”

  Rukh shrugged. “What choice do you imagine I have? The Silver Mage wasn’t thinking of you before he left these walls.”

  “He went to them because he thought of me. There’s nothing you can say to make me doubt him.”

  A tongue of white fire licked the sky above the tent.

  Rukh nodded at Captain Cassandane. “Fire.”

  Arian grabbed Cassandane’s arm. Confused, the captain waited. She turned to Arsalan for guidance.

  “Do not fire,” Arian said with impotent fury. She turned on Rukh. “What kind of man are you? Can you never be trusted to keep your word—even after what you suffered in your chambers? Give Daniyar a chance to see his mission through.” She thrust his signet ring back at him. “I would never have worn your token if I’d known that this was what you’d planned.”

  Rukh jerked Arian around to face the walls, his hands biting into her shoulders, his jet-black eyes ablaze.

  “Do you see their army? We’re outnumbered a thousand to one. Their commanders are gathered in a single place, and you ask me to hold my fire?” He glanced back at the golden walls of his palace, cracks running through their foundation like a tracery of opened veins.

  “You think of one man. I think of every single soul I’ve promised to defend.” He grabbed her wrists and drew her close. “You wouldn’t aid me with the dark rites that might have saved my city, so think of a way to help me now! Use the Claim. Use the Bloodprint—I gifted it to you.”

  Arian fought him off. “I won’t utter a single word if you fire on the loya jirga.”

  Darya held her breath. A strange, fierce tension arced between the First Oralist and her brother, their eyes caught in a merciless duel—a duel they had clearly fought before. For a moment, Darya thought she saw her brother’s face soften as he glanced at Arian’s hand. Then he thrust her aside.

  “Captain.”

  Cassandane and her archers fired.

  The arrows swooped through the dark fall of sky, their progress silent and sure, silver tips aflame, a trail of ruin configuring the night.

  Arian’s cry rent the silence; Darya caught a glimpse of her brother’s wretchedness before he steeled himself again.

  “Wait,” he said. “And see.”

  But the arrows had been timed with precision. The tent was alight; the Talisman commanders tore it down themselves.

  “Arsalan.”

  A quick chop of Arsalan’s hand and the mangonel pounded forth destruction. A boulder landed in the loya jirga’s midst. A second mangonel was loaded and fired.

  Arian’s scream was terrible to hear. She wheeled from the wall, pushing past Cassandane and Arsalan, making for the Maiden Tower.

  “Arian!” Now Rukh begged her. “Everything else is lost to us. I need you at my side.”

  But in a moment she was gone, flying down the stairs to the courtyard below, desperate to find a horse that would take her through the gates.

  Darya stole to Rukh’s side. “Brother, I must speak.”

  “Darya, I’ve no time. Surely you can see—”

  She cut him off, no longer afraid. “The Nizam told me to set Darius free and I did. He told me he was wanted for conference with the Silver Mage, but he was lying. Darius has disappeared. I don’t know where he went; I don’t know what he’s planning.”

  Rukh’s hand swept up, a furious, instinctive reaction. Before it could fall, Arsalan blocked it, the blow bouncing off his armor.

  Rukh staggered back, his face suddenly haggard. “The Nizam—my teacher? My father? That’s not possible.”

  There was a very real despair behind the words as he considered now what the Nizam had intended by asking him to try the bloodrites. He had shielded himself from the machinations of the court, but with his Nizam he’d been as vulnerable as a boy. He felt the pain of it bite deep, a wound he could not reveal.

  He didn’t love you, he told himself harshly. You were a means to an end.

  Then there was no more time to talk. The Talisman assault had begun, with mortars launched by their catapults. They pounded through the square, deafening the company on the wall, showering destruction upon the gardens, though the Cataphracts were just beyond their reach.

  A horse and rider were at the Emissary Gate demanding exit.

  Arsalan gave the order to bar the gate. Zhayedan leapt to block the rider’s path. She wheeled back around and brought her horse to the steps of the tower. Cornered by Zhayedan and unwilling to use the Claim against them, Arian raced back up the steps to Rukh.

  “Where is he? Do you see him?”

  They searched the smoke for a sign of the Silver Mage. Thick clouds of smoke rose up over the walls, bringing the scent of burning flesh.

  “We must press our advantage—it’s all that we have left. Think of your trust, First Oralist.”

  She speared him with a glance. “To think I pitied you once.”

  “Hate me until I draw my last breath, but defend the people of this city.”

  Her green eyes burned with rage, her earlier vows forgotten. Though she had never intended to do otherwise, she acted now to give cover to Daniyar. She’d had little time with the Bloodprint, interrupted by Rukh’s summons to his chambers, so she used the Verse of the Throne. She rained it down on the Talisman, letting it burn through their ranks, scattering men and materiel in columns of blood and smoke.

  Their ears bled, their progress faltered, but there were too many to be overcome. As she drew men away from the loya jirga, the sky overhead cracked in two, a bolt of fury aimed down at her head. She was thrown to her knees by a furious tackle, a scrap of a boy who threw her out of the way.

  Wafa grabbed her hand and dragged her into the shadows. “Don’t use it!” he cried, motioning to his throat. “Don’t use it—he’ll find you!” The boy’s face was grimy with smoke, his hands as dirty as she’d ever seen them, his new clothes torn and stained with blood.

  “Wafa, where have you been?”

  “Everywhere,” he said with feeling. “But the Silver Mage told me to keep you safe. He trusted me with you.”

  Tears formed in Arian’s eyes at this proof of how much she was loved. “They have him, Wafa. I must do what I can to save him.”

  “Please,” Wafa begged. “The Silver Mage will find a way out. You need to watch for him.” He pointed at the sky.

  “Who, Wafa? Who is it you fear?”

  Wafa couldn’t say the name.

  “Arian!”

  They were interrupted by a voice from below. Arian rolled across the parapet and scrambled to her knees. Sinnia was crossing the square, too far away to be heard, a terrible urgency in her stride. The thunder moved west, rippling
across the wall. Arian grabbed a spyglass from one of Cassandane’s archers. She squinted down at the square, losing sight of Sinnia through the movement of the Cataphracts. She used the Claim to find her and heard its response from Sinnia. Urgently, she centered the glass, expecting to see the Bloodprint wrapped in Sinnia’s hands. But Sinnia’s hands were empty: there was a bloody lump on her forehead. She was shaking her head, desperate for Arian to understand. She spread her hands wide and bent her head to imitate the gesture of reading. Slashing one hand through the air, she mimicked the closing of a book.

  Arian’s heart dropped, the blood stilling in her veins before leaping forth again in a glittering presentiment not of danger, but of total devastation.

  She seized Wafa in her arms. “Who do you fear, Wafa? Why do you tell me not to use the Claim?”

  A sobbing breath broke from the boy. He tipped his sweating forehead against Arian’s, tears of fright leaking from his eyes. He was huddled in on himself, trying to appear small. “He speaks it, too. He knows how to find you with it.”

  Arian shook the boy lightly. “Tell me, Wafa, please.”

  “Him.” Wafa’s voice cracked. “The One-Eyed Preacher has come.”

  Thunder cracked to the west of the Maiden Tower. A disembodied voice filled the air. “Come!” it commanded.

  Come and nothing else.

  A chill set in Arian’s bones. She thought of Darya’s tearful confession. Her head swept around. Arsalan at the Maiden Tower, Rukh at the opposite end, shouting orders to his men.

  And the Messenger Gate to the west, as yet undefended.

  She sought out Sinnia in the courtyard. Sinnia was headed west. Suddenly it was clear. She had to reach the gate before Sinnia. Sinnia couldn’t stand against the One-Eyed Preacher on her own.

  “Look!” Darya gasped. She was moving slowly, a step at a time, to trace Arsalan’s footsteps to the Maiden Tower. Halfway along the wall, she had an unhindered view of the Messenger Gate.