The Bloodprint

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Horses thundered into the camp, bringing with them the lethal flight of arrows.

  Daniyar threw Arian to the ground, covering her body with his.

  With the cry of battle in his throat, Turan took up a post in front of the women’s tent.

  “To the tent!” he called to his men, but they were already engaged.

  Leather-clad warriors on barrel-chested horses cut through the Talisman ranks. The warriors turned their horses expertly in the narrow encampment, moving with precision, sparing none in their path.

  Arrows thudded into the snow at Daniyar’s head. Bodies fell around them, the Talisman taken by surprise, unprepared for the skill of the horsemen.

  A tall man mounted on a proud stallion called out an order in a language unknown to the Talisman. His men gathered around him in formation.

  Two lariats flew through the air, capturing Sartor, then Turan.

  The horses surged forward, dragging the men off their feet.

  Sinnia and Wafa appeared, daggers in hand, astonished by the sight that met their eyes.

  “Wait!” Arian called to them, the air squeezed from her lungs by the pressure of Daniyar’s body. They hesitated and were captured by the men who’d taken the camp.

  Two men prodded Daniyar and Arian from the ground, forcing them to their knees. The laborers who tended the fires had fled into the mine. The remaining Talisman guards were rounded up by the horsemen and slaughtered.

  Four or five men guarded their captives, ignoring their shouted threats.

  The rest collected the bodies of Talisman they had dispatched, to send them over the mountains.

  Sartor stuttered his displeasure at this treatment and was cuffed across the face. Turan watched the work of the horsemen in silence. Their actions were swift and methodical. When they had finished, they arranged themselves in military rows behind the captives, turning as one to wait for their leader’s command.

  Arian appraised the field.

  The Talisman were dead. Of their ranks, only Turan and Sartor remained alive. Many of the laborers had been killed in the crossfire.

  She, Wafa, and Sinnia had been spared for the moment.

  And Daniyar. Grouped together with the leaders of the Shin War tribe.

  A dozen men had brought four times that many to their knees, their swiftness and skill making up for their lack of numbers. They rode horses of a kind unfamiliar to Arian, with dark coats that flamed red in the firelight. The horses’ legs were short, their bodies barrel-chested, their lungs powerful. Their nostrils steamed in the aftermath of battle.

  Their leader’s horse was of a different breed, its profile scalloped like a bowl, the legs long and lean, its bearing regal.

  In the shadows of the Sorrowsong, its coat gleamed white as snow. Planted beside the horse in the snow was a spear that rose into the night. Flowing from its head was a banner woven of horsehair.

  The man who commanded the horsemen strode into their midst. Tall and heavy with muscle, he was clean shaven with pale gold hair that fell past his shoulders. His high cheekbones and icy eyes suggested an origin high in the Transcasp. It was an arresting face, if not a handsome one, backed by his powerful bearing.

  He was dressed in a leather brigandine covered with small, square plates. Like his men, he wore leather greaves and gauntlets, a sword on one hip, a beautifully carved horn on the other. At his waist was a brace of knives.

  What set him apart from his men was the thick, white cloak that fell from his shoulders to his heels. The coat was made of yak’s fur, fastened with a leather choker. Mounted in the center of the choker was a rectangular blue stone threaded through with glimmers of white.

  Arian caught her breath, astonished.

  The stone was inscribed with writing.

  28

  The commander of the horsemen came to a halt before the Shin War leaders.

  “Kill them,” he said in the Common Tongue.

  “Wait!” Arian cried, struggling to her feet. “Call your mother, my lord. Your women are safe, you will find them inside.”

  There was no rumble of protest from the horsemen that a woman had addressed their lord. Nor did the commander strike her across the face. Only Turan became alert.

  The commander held up a hand to stay his men. Arian’s cloak had fallen from her hair, and he studied her with bold interest.

  “By the Blue Stone, you are beautiful. What misfortune brought you to this camp, I wonder.”

  Daniyar stirred at the man’s words, but could do little else for the blade pressed to his throat.

  “Yeke Khatun,” the commander called out, “I have come.”

  Arian had little time to marvel at the resonant tones of the commander’s voice. She had no sooner translated his words as Great Empress, when Storay flew out of the tent. She launched herself at the man, flinging her arms about his neck. His high-planed face broke out in a smile. He lifted her high in his arms.

  “Storay, you are not hurt?”

  “None of us are. We knew you’d come, as soon as we heard the Plaintive. They were terrified by the sound of your horn.”

  Tochtor proceeded from the tent in a more stately fashion than her daughter. When she reached him, her son took both of her hands in his own and kissed the palms. As one, those of his men who were still horsed dismounted. The riders sank to one knee.

  “Yeke Khatun,” they echoed. “May she be blessed, may she be honored.”

  The golden-haired man raised an eyebrow at Arian.

  “You do not kneel in the presence of the Empress?”

  Arian bent her head. She was mulling over the fact that Tochtor had shared her name instead of her title.

  “I meant no discourtesy, my lord. I kneel only before the One who raised the Eternal Blue Sky.”

  The answer seemed to please him.

  “Aybek!” One of the riders rose from his kneeling position to grasp Daniyar’s head by the hair. He pressed his blade against the throat of the Silver Mage. “Those who took the Yeke Khatun must be punished.”

  The leader of the horsemen nodded. “Those who took any of our women must die.”

  Tochtor replied before Arian could.

  “You will wait until you are asked to speak, Altan.” She glared at the young rider who had spoken out of turn. Then she turned to her son. “Zerafshan, the Gold-Strewn, Aybek of your people, Lord of the Buzkashi. Do not act with haste, this man is not one of them.” She moved from Daniyar to Sartor. “This man, however, is a pederast. He keeps children as catamites. Nail his body to the mines.”

  She spoke in the Common Tongue for Sartor’s benefit, but there was little sign that Sartor was conscious of his plight.

  “You have no idea what powerful forces stand behind me, woman—Shin War and Talisman both. If you dare to move against me, all your people will die.”

  The Aybek struck Sartor with the back of his hand.

  With an air of recitation, he said, “If you had not committed the gravest of sins, the One would not have sent me like a punishment upon you.”

  The horsemen shouted their approval.

  Zerafshan nodded at Altan. Releasing Daniyar, Altan swiped his blade against Sartor’s throat. Turan flinched as Sartor’s blood sprayed his cheeks. Altan grasped Turan’s hair, pulling back his head to expose his neck. Another man took hold of Daniyar. Both awaited their master’s command. A whimper of fear escaped Wafa’s lips.

  Arian addressed Tochtor in the tongue of the Cloud Door.

  “May I speak, Yeke Khatun?”

  Tochtor nodded. Arian turned to the Lord of the Buzkashi.

  “It was the Talisman who took these women, but these men here are not Talisman.”

  “Oh?”

  “They are Shin War.”

  “You speak our tongue and that intrigues me,” the Lord of the Cloud Door replied. “But as far as the Buzkashi are concerned, we make no distinction between Shin War and Talisman. We know them for an enemy. None shall mourn their loss.”

  “W
ait, please! It was not Captain Turan who captured the women of the Cloud Door. He acted as their guardian. He gave orders that Annar and Storay were not to be touched. He took none of your women for himself.”

  “He is a commander of men. He will be held responsible for the actions of his men.”

  Turan didn’t speak in his own defence, perhaps because he could not follow their discussion. It was Tochtor who intervened, using the Common Tongue.

  “My son, she speaks the truth. You may do as you please with him, but he did not act as our enemy.”

  Zerafshan prodded Turan with his boot.

  “Shall I do as the women say? Shall I spare your life and take you captive?” His tone was derisive.

  The Shin War captain pushed back his shoulders and raised his head.

  “My loyalty is to my tribe. As I have failed to defend my men and my position, you should not take me captive.”

  “An answer I can respect,” Zerafshan said. “Your wish will be granted.” He signaled to Altan.

  With a deft turn of Altan’s blade, Turan’s blood colored the snow.

  “No!” Arian cried.

  But it was too late. Turan’s body slumped back a little. His head turned in her direction, the gray eyes grave. And she realized again that he knew her.

  Blood seeping from his neck, he rasped, “I would like to hear the Claim. Just once before I die.”

  The light seemed to leave his eyes.

  Arian knelt beside him, oblivious to the actions of the Buzkashi.

  In a voice made tremulous by grief, she sang to him.

  “From the One you came, to the One you return.”

  She raised her hands to his hair. He stiffened against her touch.

  “There will be gardens beneath which rivers flow. Rivers of honey and wine.”

  Tochtor called out a series of commands. Arian’s hands stroked Turan’s forehead.

  “You shall not know fear, neither shall you grieve.”

  Turan closed his eyes.

  Gentle hands pushed Arian aside, preventing her from attending the captain’s last breath.

  At the Aybek’s swift nod, two women took her place, kneeling beside the fallen captain. A thick cloth was pressed to his throat. Tochtor signaled two of the riders to carry Turan’s body into the tent. The women followed behind.

  “What did you say to him?” Zerafshan asked.

  “You killed him for nothing.” Arian’s voice was choked. She was not entirely sure what she had witnessed, but she feared now for Daniyar.

  “The Buzkashi have a saying. ‘Kill. Don’t mourn.’”

  But his eyes were gentle on Arian’s face.

  “Your words. I would know what you said to the captain of the Shin War.”

  Curious, Zerafshan touched a hand to the collar at Arian’s throat.

  When Sartor and Turan had fallen at his side, the Silver Mage hadn’t moved, accepting Arian’s right to determine their course of action. He’d read the Aybek’s intent toward Turan, understanding the stakes at hand. But at Zerafshan’s trespass, he surged forward. The blade at his throat drew a thin line of blood.

  “Do not touch her,” he warned the Aybek.

  “Is she yours?” Zerafshan asked, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “She must be, as you’ve shed blood for her—and you will shed more.”

  “Aybek.” Arian drew his attention back to herself. “You misinterpret these circumstances. The man you would kill is not just Shin War. He is the Silver Mage.”

  At that, Zerafshan’s eyebrow arched. “Raise him, Zelgai.”

  The rider who held Daniyar by the throat urged him to his feet. He sheathed his blade, holding Daniyar by the shoulders.

  Zerafshan touched the tip of his sword to the crest at Daniyar’s throat. Wafa whimpered, reaching for Sinnia’s hand.

  “You wear their crest.”

  “It’s the Shin War crest,” Arian said desperately. “It does not represent the Talisman. Their creed is not a creed the Silver Mage upholds.”

  Zerafshan smiled a scornful smile.

  “You let your woman speak for you?” he said to Daniyar.

  “She belongs to herself,” he answered.

  “Yet you travel with her.”

  Daniyar nodded at Wafa.

  “We have a chaperone.”

  Zerafshan laughed, a golden, boisterous sound.

  “Yes, your chaperone pleases me mightily. A boy? A man? A mouse hare?”

  “You would find out to your cost,” Wafa said.

  This time the riders laughed.

  “I doubt it, but I commend your spirit.”

  He studied Daniyar.

  “I will give you a choice. You seem to be a man of strength. If you truly are not pledged to the Talisman, you may join the ranks of my Buzkashi, or you may continue on your way. Whatever your choice, I will take this woman you say is not yours, for she is comely indeed.”

  Daniyar did not react. He was reading the Aybek’s words, along with the movements of his body.

  The designation of Silver Mage was one that Zerafshan recognized. And his threat was intended for display.

  “I cannot accept either of your choices. Nor, I think, would you wish me to.”

  The Buzkashi roared with laughter.

  With a hint of steel in his voice, Zerafshan countered, “Believe as you choose, man of the Shin War. I will take this woman, though you need not despair—I will not misuse her. She is lovely enough to take to wife.”

  It was clear to Arian that the Aybek was trifling with them. There was no undercurrent of threat in his words.

  She canvassed the circle of warriors. She noted with surprise that very few of the Buzkashi resembled their leader. Like the women, they represented a mix of races, conjoined and commingled by time. Unlike the Talisman, the men were of a stocky build, their faces deeply tanned, their skin pigmented in shades of brown, their black hair sleek against their skulls, their goatees narrow and pointed. Their eyes were shaded by folds at the corners. Their limbs had been made powerful by the mastery of their horses.

  Only the rider called Altan was similar in appearance to Zerafshan. Taller than the others, his hair and skin pale, like Zelgai, he seemed to hold a special rank, each with a small blue stone in his collar.

  She wondered why the people of the Wandering Cloud Door had accepted a man so different from themselves as their leader. Only the slight fold at the corners of his ice-water eyes indicated a hint of shared origin. And his mother, the Yeke Khatun, bore a closer resemblance to his men than she did to her son.

  Arian knew little of the Wandering Cloud Door. She’d heard stories from her mother and learned the language of the Cloud Door at Hira. Knowledge would have served her in this instance. In its absence, she would have to trust to the workings of the Council.

  She nudged her cloak from her shoulders, holding out her hands. The golden rings on her arms shone beneath the harsh moon of winter.

  “You know what these are,” Arian said to Zerafshan, her tone weary but respectful. “I am a Companion of Hira, an Oralist of the Claim.”

  Zerafshan’s stallion reared up on its hind legs, its tension communicating itself to the horses of the Buzkashi.

  She heard the word sahabiya slice like a blade through the snow.

  “What is Hira to us?” Zerafshan bluffed. “For all we know, you show us ornaments you wear for adornment.”

  His note of challenge rang out across the encampment.

  Arian motioned Sinnia to her side. When Sinnia discarded her cloak, the Buzkashi gasped.

  “I’ve not seen your kind before,” the Aybek said.

  “Nor I yours,” Sinnia rejoined. “Your hair is as golden as the sun that rises over my homeland. In my country, they would call you Russe.”

  The Aybek seemed surprised that the names of his people were known so far beyond the Cloud Door.

  “My forebears are from lands north of the Transcasp. They were called Russe.”

  Arian caught Daniyar’
s sharp glance.

  The Wandering Cloud Door was a myth to the peoples of Khorasan. But the Buzkashi knew a history shared by all. They knew of the Transcasp. Some spoke the Common Tongue. Their leader knew more of the world beyond his valley than any of them had suspected. There were other forces at play in Khorasan than legions of the Talisman.

  Did Ilea know? Could she have known I would seek a path through the Cloud Door to find my way to the Bloodprint? Have the legends of our sisterhood been sown among the people of the Eternal Blue Sky? Has the path of this Audacy been prepared for me?

  She didn’t like the thought of being outmaneuvered by Ilea, no matter Ilea’s intent. She thought again of Psalm’s warning about changes at the Council of Hira. And she wondered if she could trust this bear of a man not to harm them, when with little thought, he’d spent the blood of the man who’d died at her feet.

  With a nod at Daniyar, Arian loosened the collar at her throat, taking Sinnia’s hand in her own. Even if Sinnia didn’t know the verses, her presence would lend clarity to the Claim.

  “Are you not aware that the One sends down water from the skies, whereby fruits are brought forth of many hues, just as in the mountains there are streaks of white and red of various shades as well as others raven black?”

  Arian’s voice rang out like a bell, the notes hanging like pendants on the air.

  “Just as there are in men and in crawling beasts, and in cattle, too, many hues.”

  The syllables flowed out, one into the other, a gliding cascade of sweet and plangent notes. She shaped them with the magic, made them over so that every man listening felt the threat of tears in his throat, felt the hot shame of it behind his eyelids.

  It was meant as a lesson to them all.

  “Of all the One’s servants, only such as are endowed with innate knowledge stand truly in awe of the One. For they alone understand that truly the One is almighty and much forgiving.”

  It was enough. The last notes filled the air with a sense of hope and loss, and mutual discovery. They were different from each other, unknown to each other, but it did not make them enemies.

  Arian let the words fade. She had triumphed over the Aybek, but did not want him dishonored before his people. She spoke quickly in his language.