The Bloodprint

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  They had climbed so high it seemed to Arian the stars were well within their grasp. The winter camp of the Buzkashi was at peace because the remoteness of the Ice Kill separated them from the rest of Khorasan. If the stories were true, the Buzkashi would climb higher still, packing up their yurts to pass through the Cloud Door, to graze their livestock in the spectacular valley that lay between the Fire Mirrors to the north, and the Death Run to the south.

  The Talisman hadn’t guessed that in the valleys of the Death Run, an army superior to their own had been raised, capable of defeating them. And of rescuing women from the slave-chains. Why the Aybek had not acted to this end already, Arian couldn’t guess.

  If she’d had men like the Buzkashi at her command . . .

  Zerafshan took note of Arian’s anger with interest.

  “The Talisman live by their code, we live by ours.” He held up a hand, spreading his fingers wide. “Just as the One has given different fingers to the hand, so are men given different ways. If the Talisman encroach upon our borders, we will face them on the field.” He closed his hand into a fist. “When they took the Yeke Khatun, we dealt them a killing blow.”

  “And what of the rest of the women of Khorasan? Do you know where they’ve been taken, or what purpose the slave-chains serve?”

  Zerafshan grimaced. “They are not my charge. We are bound to follow the laws of our ancestors. We do not mimic the ways of others.”

  Daniyar murmured to Arian, “There’s more. He hasn’t told us all.”

  “The Authenticate reads you for the truth,” Tochtor told her son. “He will not accept less.”

  Zerafshan fixed Arian with his ice-water eyes.

  “If I hold something in reserve, I’m not the only one to do so.”

  A wave of fatigue swept over Arian. The air was thin, the days were long, the ride hard. Each new day that passed without bringing her closer to the Bloodprint put those who chose to help her further at risk. Sinnia. Wafa. The Hazara who’d fled to Hira. And most of all, Daniyar.

  All this for an Audacy sanctioned by Ilea and the Black Khan, neither of whom she could be sure she trusted.

  What had she to lose by giving the Lord of the Buzkashi more of the truth?

  “I seek the capital of the Authoritan. The Wall cannot be breached, so I must approach from the Damson Vale.”

  Zerafshan let out an oath. He glared at Daniyar.

  “And you sanction this? You would send her as a lamb to the Authoritan’s slaughter?”

  Daniyar’s response was cold. “I told you. She belongs to herself. As she will not forswear her Audacy, I choose to stand at her side.”

  “And these?” The Aybek nodded at Sinnia and Wafa. “This slip of a girl? This boy who remains mute, terrified of everything that crosses his path? These are the companions of choice with whom she will brave the Authoritan? Little do you understand his rule. Better to perish in the passes of the Fire Mirrors than to stray westward, north of the Wall.”

  “You underestimate them,” Daniyar rejoined. “The First Oralist isn’t defenceless. Alone, she liberated many caravans. These months past, this slip of a girl has been Arian’s right hand, whereas Wafa has defended the Oralist’s life many times over, with no thought to his own.”

  An expression of stunned gratitude crossed the boy’s face as he listened.

  “Please,” Arian interrupted. “My companions are who they are, and I would not ask for others. What matters is simply this: will you take us through the Cloud Door? Will you serve as our escort? Yeke Khatun, will you not speak for me?”

  The old woman reached out to take Arian’s hand.

  “You are schooled in much wisdom, First Oralist. And the Council of Hira is honored in our lands. But do you not know where the slave-chains are headed?”

  “Do you?” Arian whispered, gripping Tochtor’s hands. A stroke of premonition stabbed through her thoughts.

  Had the men of Khorasan become servants of the Authoritan, the tyrant of the north? How did this aid the Preacher or fit with the Talisman creed?

  “The women of the slave-chains are sold beyond the Wall.”

  Premonition shrank into warning, insistent and throbbing inside her skull.

  “For what dark villainy?”

  Zerafshan answered her.

  “We have intelligence of the north. The young women are taken to the palace to serve the warriors who guard the Wall. A second group is sent to the cotton fields, to be worked until their bodies are broken. Their fate is better than that of the women in the third group.”

  “Then what can you tell us of the third?” Sinnia dared to ask.

  But Zerafshan’s attention was captured by the signs of Arian’s anguish.

  “Tell me,” Arian said to him. “What could be worse?”

  His answer was blunt.

  “The third group is sent to the Plague Lands. No one ever returns.”

  31

  Daniyar took Arian outside, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. For ten years, Arian had labored to learn this secret. And now that she knew it, she couldn’t think of the Bloodprint.

  Inside the tent, the mood was just as somber. “You shouldn’t scowl like that, Aybek,” Sinnia said to Zerafshan. “I told you that Arian is duty-bound. She thinks only of the journey beyond the Wall, nothing you say will impede her.”

  “The Cloud Door is sealed. The pass to the Damson Vale is closed.”

  “Is there another way? If we cannot enter the Cloud Door?”

  She caught the glance that passed from mother to son.

  “What would you barter in aid of an answer?” he asked.

  “I have nothing to barter except myself,” Sinnia said, wishing Zerafshan’s attention would fix on her for a moment. She had never spoken like this to a man. But his gaze was held by the woman in Daniyar’s arms.

  So she called to the Silver Mage, who brought Arian back inside the yurt. She waved her arm at the Aybek.

  “The Aybek will not risk the Fire Mirrors, he says. Just as he says the Cloud Door is sealed. But there must be another way, a safer passage than the Cloud Door.” Sinnia feigned a lightness she didn’t feel. The Lord of the Buzkashi stood transfixed by Arian. “Will you not share your secret with us? Will you not show Arian a safer course, for she is determined to go.”

  Zerafshan ignored Sinnia, speaking to Daniyar.

  “You have the advantage over me. You can read the truth of my words, whereas I must guess at your motives. I have given you the truth of the slave-chains. What do you seek beyond the Wall?”

  This time Daniyar didn’t wait for Arian to decide. There was more, much more, he needed to learn.

  “It will seem as legend to you, much as the Cloud Door was to us. What I share with you must not pass beyond those of us gathered here. Your khuriltai must not learn of it.”

  He waited. Zerafshan nodded his assent.

  “We seek the Bloodprint.”

  Tochtor gasped. “You risk your lives for a myth,” she said.

  “Mother, they do not.” Zerafshan patted Tochtor’s knee, calm in the face of revelation. His glance traveled from Daniyar to Arian. “You didn’t ask me what the Talisman purchase at the price of the women they sell.”

  “Because I already know. Riches, treasure—it is all they care for now.”

  Zerafshan shook his head.

  “Indeed, you are mistaken. Jewels may satisfy the Talisman, but they are not what the One-Eyed Preacher seeks.”

  His eyebrow quirked when he saw that he held them in thrall.

  “The Preacher buys the Verse of the Throne. The Authoritan delivers it. A letter at a time.”

  32

  Arian’s sleep that night was poor. They were housed in the Aybek’s ger, women to one side, men to the other. The fire was stoked throughout the night, either by Altan or one of his sisters. She was warm and well-fed, but her thoughts were not easy.

  A throne to comprise the heavens and the earth.

  The phrase was the only
part of the Verse of the Throne known to the Companions of Hira, or so it was held. A verse of profound majesty and depth with cataclysmic power. In the hands of the unrighteous, the Verse would cover the world with doom.

  If the Authoritan was peddling the Verse of the Throne, it could only be from one source.

  The Bloodprint.

  The Black Khan had told them the truth.

  The Bloodprint was real.

  The Authoritan had found a use for it, though why he hadn’t kept his knowledge to himself, Arian couldn’t guess. Another cause for worry.

  They woke to a morning without snowfall. The sun bathed the valley with light. Tea was aboil on the stove, two of Zerafshan’s sisters busy with the preparation of breakfast. Apart from them, the ger was empty.

  “Where is the Aybek?” Daniyar asked Storay.

  Storay stirred a savory concoction in a pot on the iron stove.

  “The khuriltai is meeting,” she explained, with a shy glance in his direction. “My brother divides the khubi among his men’s families before he hears the law. When the khuriltai disbands, there will be festivities to honor the Companions of Hira.”

  “We should attend,” Daniyar told Arian. “Perhaps you can sway the Aybek.”

  The bitter words struck at Arian. Before she could answer him, Altan entered the ger.

  “The dakhu is recovered. He wishes to speak with you.”

  Dakhu was the local word for a person of objectionable character. Turan was likely the first of the Talisman to have reached the valley at the threshold of the Cloud Door. None of the Buzkashi would trust him. Nor did Arian know what fate she could leave him to. Here in this valley, he would be an enemy of the Buzkashi. Sent back to Candour, he would warn the Talisman hierarchy of Daniyar’s betrayal.

  Taking him to the Wall was also impossible. They could not afford a prisoner, and the captain was too dangerous to accompany them unfettered.

  They were running out of options for Turan.

  Daniyar grabbed his pack, directing the others to stay and breakfast.

  “We must leave today. With or without the Aybek’s help.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Arian said. “I need to speak to the captain.”

  “This is the first opportunity I’ve had to speak to him alone.”

  It wasn’t a question of trust. Two men of the Shin War had ended up on opposite sides. Turan’s rebuke would be damning. She wished she could afford Daniyar the courtesy of privacy—he deserved that from her. But time was slipping past them, the time to make choices that could be costly to her Audacy, and even costlier to Hira. There had been a thin strand of connection between herself and the Talisman captain—the feeling too strong to ignore as coincidence. She needed to unravel it.

  Sensing her determination, Daniyar didn’t argue further. Altan took them to the yurt where Turan was guarded by two of Zerafshan’s men. One of the men searched Daniyar for weapons.

  “I would not betray your Aybek’s trust by freeing his prisoner without his consent.”

  Altan snorted. “You are both Shin War. What trust can be reposed in a man who doesn’t stand with his tribe?”

  Daniyar gave the only answer he could.

  “There are higher values than kinship.”

  Arian intervened before Altan could say more. “Captain Turan is my prisoner. You heard your brother gift me with his life.”

  Altan knew the truth of it. He sought a way to save face.

  “There will be no secret consultation, I will stand at the entrance.”

  Winter light flooded the yurt, splaying against the harsh angles of Turan’s face. The Shin War captain was seated on a thick pile of blankets that covered a plain wool carpet. His back rested against a rounded wall. His hands were bound in front of him with a leather tie that Daniyar released.

  With a wary glance at his kinsman, Turan rubbed his wrists.

  “Why did you bring me here?” he asked, speaking in the dialect of Candour to defeat Altan’s design.

  “I thought it best. I couldn’t leave you to die.”

  Arian’s gentle words drew Turan’s attention to her face, then to her circlets. He nodded to himself as if he’d confirmed something.

  “You recited the Claim for me. I wished for nothing more.”

  “Do you know me, Captain? For I do not think we have met before.”

  His was not a face Arian had seen during her campaign against the caravans. And the Shin War would not waste a leader of his talents as a common slave handler.

  Instead of answering, Turan focused on Daniyar.

  “You betrayed us. The Immolan didn’t send you. You brought the Companion to the Sorrowsong for a purpose. What did you want?”

  “The blue stone.”

  “And you risked the chastity of the Companion for that?”

  His words chilled Arian. Why did this man of the Shin War recognize the Claim? And how could he know so much about her?

  She knelt beside him. His color was better than it had been the previous night, less tinged with gray. His eyes were clear and grave, those of a man used to living at altitude. In the cold light of morning, he was much older than she’d first guessed, his hair and beard threaded through with silver. She had thought him striking before, wearing his command with dignity. With a closer look, she saw that authority was something intrinsic to him.

  “Do you know me?” she asked him. She could sense something between them.

  “Do you not know me?” He could see that she didn’t. “You were too young to remember, but I would have known you anywhere, as I knew your father.”

  Sickness rose in her throat, horror flooding her mind.

  Had he been there that night?

  Was this the connection she’d imagined? The recognition that passed between a killer and his victim?

  She had recited the Claim for him.

  “Are you the man who killed my father?”

  The Claim was buzzing in her throat, ready to spill forth, to rage.

  Turan looked surprised.

  “Your father was my friend, your mother also.” He showed her his hands. His index and middle fingers were callused. “There was a time when tribal bonds were not everything in Candour. People of goodwill could form other relationships. Your parents were my friends,” he repeated. “I worked in their scriptorium.”

  “By the pen and what they inscribe.”

  Arian’s breath was raw in her chest.

  His gray eyes quizzed her.

  “Yes,” he said. “You were the one chosen to be a linguist.”

  “You are Shin War,” she mumbled. “You couldn’t have been a friend.”

  The captain leaned forward to whisper a word in her ear, a word formed of a single letter.

  Nun.

  A word symbolized by a curved open bowl with a diacritical mark above it.

  It meant “Inkwell.”

  The name of her parents’ scriptorium.

  He nodded at Daniyar.

  “There is such a thing as divided loyalty. Ask the Silver Mage. He received the utmost honors of the Shin War only to refuse them all. What did he say to our guard? There are higher values than kinship.”

  The two men weighed each other. The Shin War recognized no higher value; the tribal bond was everything. Without it, the entire tribal structure would fail. Yet both men had sought a way to reconcile the demands of identity with justice.

  “When you offered the Companion to me at the Sorrowsong—” Daniyar broke off.

  “I knew you as the Silver Mage. I knew you would protect her.”

  “You gave me the Immolan’s lajward.”

  “My men spotted you on the ridge five days before you struggled into our camp. I sent the ghost cat to help you. There are times when a thing is destined, and so it comes to pass.”

  His revelations stunned them.

  “What do you mean?” she whispered. “Why would you help me?”

  “You truly do not know?”

  Turan wai
ted but she said nothing else.

  “The night your family was killed, you were hidden by your parents at Nun. I didn’t know the Talisman’s plan—it was not of the Shin War’s contriving.” He motioned to Daniyar’s crest. “You know it for the truth. You know what the Shin War are, what they are not.”

  In Arian’s mind, memory unfurled. Hands that gripped her childhood self with urgency. The smell of a man’s cloak, the rough scrape of his beard. And the patient voice, speaking to her of her parents’ murder. The act that had brought down her house.

  What had she seen? What had she not seen?

  “It was you?” she asked like a child.

  And from the look in his eyes, she knew Daniyar had realized, as well.

  “Yes,” said Turan. “I found you at Nun. I was the one who delivered you to Hira.”

  He’d held her fast in the saddle, murmuring words of consolation in her ear, cradling her against the chest that wore the Shin War armor.

  Making her a promise.

  Whenever you need my aid, you will find me.

  She had never needed it more than when they had stumbled their way to the Sorrowsong.

  “How did you know me again after so long?”

  “Your face, your eyes—they are your mother’s.”

  A new discovery was upon her. She could hear the emotion that colored Turan’s voice.

  “You loved her.”

  “She wasn’t Shin War, we couldn’t marry. In time, she met your father.” Arian pondered the implications of this.

  “But you stayed at Nun.”

  “I loved them both, I couldn’t leave.”

  Suddenly clear-eyed, Arian asked him, “And what would you have done in your encampment at the Sorrowsong, if your men had wanted me?”

  His jaw hardened in response. “Whatever I had to. But I thought the Claim would protect you, if you were as gifted as your mother.”

  There was something else. Something Arian hadn’t fathomed yet.