Arian mouthed the words, as well, but she felt the same strange resistance that had pressed against her thoughts the last time she had participated in the rites of the shahadah.
Something was wrong. Something she’d known as a linguist and now forgotten.
Ilea’s glance caught hers, as if she guessed the reason for Arian’s discomfort.
The women fell silent. In a synchronized gesture, the Companions raised their hands, the dim light of the lanterns reflecting off their circlets, then swept their palms down over their faces. The ritual complete, Ilea directed the Companions to take their seats. Her voice possessed the same crystal-edged clarity as her eyes.
Ilea had become High Companion because she alone of the women of the Council had mastered the art of combining voice and language. What she knew of the Claim from memory, she could manipulate with her voice—swaying the Council to her vision for Khorasan’s future. Psalm, disciplined in tactics, was the only other Companion who could resist Ilea’s control. And now she watched Ilea from her seat in the chamber, her blue-gray eyes wary and observant.
Arian wondered at that wariness—did Psalm know who else had been admitted to the Citadel? A second chair had never been permitted beside the throne of the High Companion. And yet it seemed familiar.
A throne to comprise the heavens and the earth.
Arian pushed the memory away. Her mother’s teachings intruded on the rites of the Council more and more of late. In her mind’s eye, she could see the woman who had trained both Arian and her sister in the Claim, with a transparency that pierced her with sadness. Her mother should have been at this Council. Along with Arian’s sister. Instead, the Council had become a battleground between the two highest ranking Companions of their Order.
“I call the Council to order. Do the Companions submit?”
The women answered Ilea with one voice.
“We submit.”
“Then peace be with you, my sisters.” With a small, concise gesture, Ilea nodded at Arian. “First Oralist, your return is most welcome.”
A murmur of support ran around the room.
Arian bent her head. “Exalted.”
“And yet I must question you also.”
Arian felt the shift. Every Companion was now looking at her, except for Sinnia, whose attention was held by Ilea.
“As you wish.”
“You were late to the Summons. I trust you will have reasons, other than your relentless engagement with the Talisman.”
“As the Exalted knows, the Talisman’s power grows stronger, not weaker. To disengage is to cede all the lands south of Hira. The lands to the east have already been lost.”
“It is not your place to determine where the battle should be joined.”
“You would not say so if you had seen the slave-chains. They traverse Khorasan from end to end.”
Arian saw approval in several of the Companions’ faces. Psalm. Ware. Half-Seen, the Collector. Women who came from lands that were free. Yet she had challenged Ilea in front of the entire Council, and she knew the High Companion would not suffer that to stand.
As if to prove this true, Ilea rose from her throne, her gold eyes narrowed to slits.
“To what end, First Oralist? Where do the Talisman take the women of Khorasan? What information do you bring us?”
Shame and regret welled up in Arian’s throat at the High Companion’s words. It was a trick Ilea had mastered in her role as the Golden Mage. A technique of interrogation keyed to the weakness of each Companion. Arian readily admitted she had failed in her pursuit of the One-Eyed Preacher—freeing the women of the slave-chains had been her first priority. But none of the Talisman slave handlers she had captured had yielded an answer to the Preacher’s whereabouts as none could be made to fear death. And Arian could not inflict pain. She could only make these small incursions into the Talisman’s ever-replenishing numbers.
Ilea spoke for her.
“You do not know. You’ve spent years tracking the caravans without learning anything of value. You’ve gained little from your disobedience to the wishes of the Council. It would seem you have killed for nothing.”
Whoever takes a life strikes against all of humanity. Whoever saves a life, saves us all.
Arian bit back her anger. What she had done wasn’t worthless, but it was an argument she’d had many times with Ilea, though never with the full Council assembled. She willed herself to speak calmly, ignoring Ilea’s rebuke.
“We fight the same battle, Exalted. And though you doubt me, I have brought with me something other than death. Something that may raise our hopes.”
“Ah, yes.” Ilea pointed to the wooden box Sinnia had placed beside her seat. “Show it to us, Companion.”
Her use of Arian’s lesser title was deliberate, a careful insult intended to disparage Arian before her sisters. Arian shrugged it off. And knew she was right to do so when she held up the Sacred Cloak, so that all the Companions might see it.
A thrum of excitement whispered through the Council.
And then a man’s voice spoke.
“Your faith in your Oralist was not misplaced, Exalted. She brings you a fine prize indeed.”
A gasp of dismay echoed through the chamber.
The Council was barred to men.
But their discomposure was momentary. They searched for the man who had spoken. When he stepped into the light, the Companions held still. No woman took up her veil to guard against his intrusion.
This was the Council’s chamber—it was their ground to hold.
The Jurist made her way down to the waters of the All Ways.
“High Companion! You violate the law. Remove this stranger at once!”
An angry chorus echoed the demand.
The intruder waited, his black gaze lancing over the chamber. He extended a hand to his throne, curling his fingers around its arm.
And at last, Arian recognized the Black Throne, its lacquered back embossed with the pieces of a shahtaranj board, a single piece set in mother-of-pearl poised for the killing strike of shah-mat. It was the black rook known as the castle.
The symbol of Ashfall, the capital of the west. The city of the Prince of West Khorasan.
And the man whose arrogance had breached their Council none other than the Black Khan himself.
8
“Why have you permitted this, Ilea?”
“Shall I, Exalted?” The Black Khan moved as close to Arian as the All Ways would allow. The hand he held out was not to touch her, but to take possession of the Cloak.
The water danced between them in lovely and complex configurations.
“You did not tell me the First Oralist was such a beautiful creature.” His voice was sleek with insinuation.
The Council erupted in outrage. They may have been prepared to wait for the High Companion’s introduction of the stranger, but the stranger’s presumption was an insult to them all.
Arian held up her hand for silence. Though Ilea held the senior rank, it was Arian who commanded the Council’s respect.
Now she turned to meet the Black Khan’s gaze.
For the past ten months, she’d seen nothing but famine and horror. If there had been a note of beauty, it had been at the Shrine of the Sacred Cloak . . . or in the flash of silver eyes.
But the Black Khan had come to Hira out of time. He was tall, clean-limbed, and graceful. His patrician face was framed by waves of hair that fell past his raised velvet collar. The jet-black eyes that glinted at Arian presided over a hawk-like nose and thin, sensual lips. He was dressed as if he’d arrived from his court, in an opulent tunic that fell to his knees. Its silver belt was inscribed with his titles. He wore no crown, but at his throat was an elaborate silver collar that supported the weight of numerous strings of pearls. Set at its center was his emblem, an onyx rook mounted on silver.
Arian read cruelty in the thin line of his lips. His eyes sparked with amusement; she guessed it was at her expense. Her gaze searched out A
sh, who stood rooted before the All Ways. Ash nodded at her to continue, and Arian drew a sharp breath.
“I demand to know why a man has been permitted attendance in the Council. The Jurist will tell you there are no dispensations—not even for the Prince of Khorasan.”
A ripple of surprise met Arian’s disclosure.
Ilea negated Arian’s authority by speaking to Ash directly.
“As High Companion, I have the right to contravene the rules of Council. You know this to be true, Jurist.”
Ash glanced quickly at Arian, before saying, “Yes—should the Council’s need be paramount. I cannot recall a single instance of such necessity, so you must make your case, High Companion.”
Ilea’s response was brusque.
“War is upon the Citadel. The Black Khan comes to our aid.”
For a moment, Ash didn’t respond. Then she gathered her composure and spoke to Ilea’s revelation. “We have protocols for that, as well.”
“Hear me out,” Ilea said, without retreating an inch. “I do not usurp the Tradition. We are at the place of utmost vulnerability, our lands facing the same threat—a common strategy is necessary at this time.”
And when did you decide that? Arian wondered. Are the stratagems of the sisterhood now determined in the western capital?
The chamber grew still. Arian listened carefully as Ilea relayed her news. She spoke of a fresh insurgency, of the One-Eyed Preacher’s recall of his militias, and of his new deployments. This, at least, was news to her—she hadn’t realized how far to the west the Talisman’s reach had extended. If the Talisman were to advance from both the western front and the south, the Citadel’s position would be perilous. It would need the best defence the Companions of Hira could mount, with the aid of the most skilled commanders of their Guard. She shot an apprehensive glance at Psalm, who nodded at her grimly.
But Arian wasn’t convinced they had come to a moment when they would seek beyond their sisterhood for aid, willing to trust the Black Khan as an ally.
Ash was listening, as well—when Ilea concluded her presentation, she ruled in the High Companion’s favor, though not before expressing her misgivings.
“What we permit in dangerous times must be held as exceptional. The traditions of Hira are sacrosanct—they must never be profaned again.”
As she returned to her seat, the Black Khan inclined his head.
You need me, his bold look said. And you will come to know it, soon.
The legitimacy of her actions strengthened by the ruling, Ilea dismissed Arian to her seat.
“Replace the Cloak, Arian. The Black Khan and I have much to impart.”
Straight-backed, Arian did as bidden, but not before she heard the Black Khan murmur, “Your name is Arian? Whose history have you claimed, I wonder.”
She answered coolly, “None but my own.”
And then Ilea was speaking, in the ritual incantations of the shura, recounting the history of Hira.
“The words of the Claim have been sown in these lands for centuries. The wars of the Far Range destroyed the ancient capitals, but they did not eradicate all traces of the Claim. Inscriptions on ruins and tombstones still exist. Suhufs have been found in caves, the treasure of those who protect them. They hold the line against the One-Eyed Preacher, who would reserve the Claim’s power to himself. His Immolans burn scripture wherever they find it, all but assuring his ascendancy.”
As Arian feared from watching Sinnia’s rapt face, the High Companion was giving them more than a history lesson. She was using her voice to match her words to the fears and hopes of the Companions. She was reading each one of the women as she spoke, but finding Arian impervious to her probing.
Arian felt the hooded gaze of the Black Khan upon her—she kept hold of Sinnia’s hand. It was all she could do to protect her friend during Ilea’s recitation. The Black Khan appeared to have no need of such protection. Ilea freshened her voice.
“His Talisman hordes set Khorasan aflame—we are the last to stand against them. But we are not winning this battle.” She paused, turning her attention to Arian. “Tell me, Arian, have you learned anything of the Preacher that would be of assistance to this Council?”
Arian stared back at Ilea, impassive.
“He remains as elusive as the Claim.”
“You were assigned to uncover his identity. That was your only task.”
“Trust that I did not forget that task. But what of the slave-chains?” Arian challenged. “Was I to abandon the women of Khorasan to their fate?”
“You were to complete your Audacy,” Ilea snapped. Like a jagged blade, her sudden use of the Claim slashed at Arian’s composure, taking her by surprise. Ilea’s powers had grown.
“Thanks to your disobedience, the Preacher remains a mystery. We know his mission, but nothing of his origins. His philosophy holds sway over Khorasan, variants of it have spread to the Empty Quarter and to the lands of the Negus. We hear nothing from the mountains, unless you can tell us otherwise?”
Arian held herself still, tamping down her anger. “No.”
“No. So what do we have? Ten months in the south lost, with even less to show for the decade before that, the decade you spent in Talisman country.”
“The Talisman have no country.” Arian bit out each word. “These are the lands of our people. And I would not count that decade lost, Exalted. Every manuscript in Hira’s care is one I rescued from the flames and delivered to you personally.”
“Yet none, not a single one, contains so much as a couplet of the Claim.”
“You know the manuscript of the Claim was a missing treasure long before the Talisman surge. None of the Companions have ever gazed upon a verse. Neither has anyone else.”
“I have,” the Black Khan inserted smoothly. “That is why I have come.”
He crossed one leg over the other, the immaculate surface of his riding boots gleaming in the play of lamplight over water.
There was an instant of dumbfounded silence. Then a murmur of disbelief rose from the assembly. The Companions’ words were lost in the clamor of voices demanding to be heard. Ilea’s hand went up sharply, and the chamber fell silent again. She challenged Arian, directly.
“Do you see now? Do you see that you are not the one to forward the purposes of Hira? I know what the Talisman are. We have no better strength against them than a written proof of the Claim.”
Every woman in the chamber knew Ilea’s words for the truth.
The Talisman’s chief weapon against the people was its rigid understanding of the Claim. With none to dispute him, and no proof offered as refutation, the One-Eyed Preacher had spread his philosophy unchallenged from the city of Candour to the threshold of the Ice Kill. North, south, east, and west, his joyless rhetoric had taken root. His law had superseded the law of Khorasan, Khorasan’s parliament disbanded, its leaders and scholars scattered or killed. The Talisman flag had been raised over the ruins of Khorasan, and the Houses of Wisdom, which could have explicated the emblem on the flag, had been fed to the fire, along with their inhabitants.
The Talisman Assimilate was a codification of the One-Eyed Preacher’s teachings, a doctrine none could dispute.
Unless the Companions of Hira had something more credible to offer in its place.
No hand had dared strike at Hira yet, but the Companions’ power was weakening, and soon the protection the Citadel afforded the Council of Hira would erode.
The killing of the Immolan at Arian’s behest would accelerate it.
Even her presence unfettered and free in the streets of Candour had been in violation of the unwritten law, the Assimilate recited from Talisman pulpits, no more than a series of strictures:
No woman could leave her home, unless in the presence of her husband or guardian.
No woman could practice any trade, study at any House of Wisdom, or give or receive the care of the healers.
No woman could speak in public, even if suitably accompanied.
An unaccompanied woman would be sold to a slave-chain without delay.
An uncovered one would be beaten first.
The Talisman’s penalties for violations of the law were of a severity unmatched in Khorasan’s history. Any act of joy, great or small, earned its commensurate punishment.
In the Talisman’s new ordering of the world, even birds were not permitted to fly.
And Arian and Sinnia had appeared in the streets of Candour, astride the exquisite khamsa, with their arms bare and their heads uncovered, and taken the Sacred Cloak.
The taking of it had been a bold gesture, breathtakingly defiant and proud. At its heart, Arian had hoped it would be the one act sufficient to undermine the Talisman’s authority. But proof of the Claim was the only thing that could deter the Talisman, the written word writ large over the face of Khorasan.
Had the Black Khan truly seen a written proof? And had he come here to share it with the Council?
Arian found herself shaken by his pronouncement—she could only stare at him. His hawk-like face was closed; she found she couldn’t read him. Perhaps he had learned to shield himself through his close association with Ilea.
He came to his feet, his movements measured and elegant.
Arian rose to meet him.
“Does the Black Khan bring this treasure to the Council?”
“You will address him as Excellency,” Ilea reprimanded her.
He waved a dismissive hand at the High Companion, a gesture that echoed Arian’s disdain.
“You may call me Rukh and dispense with titles, just as I will call you Arian. And no, I have not come to offer you treasure.”
“Then why have you come?”
A gasp of anger sounded through the chamber, as the Black Khan’s hand stretched through the waters of the All Ways to grasp hold of Arian’s arm.
His touch was warm, insinuating. She flinched from it, taking a step back.
And saw at once that this was what he’d intended, causing her to lose ground on the very ground that was hers to defend.
His action shamed her. And it made her angry. She hardened her voice, raising a hand to her tahweez.
The Bloodprint Page 5
