With a last look at her mother, Turan had taken Arian to safety.
“I think that’s enough.”
Turan spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. The Silver Mage was not an enemy he cared to make, but this was not a memory he dredged up lightly.
“It’s important the Companion knows what it is she seeks behind the Wall.”
Arian turned her face into Daniyar’s neck. She murmured her request against his throat.
When they took up the path to the Wall, Daniyar rode at her side, as Turan recounted stories of her mother. His recollections were colored with love. As Arian listened, she thought how blessed her mother had been to have known Turan’s love. He had stayed with her mother even after she’d married his friend, he had risked his life to deliver her child to Hira.
Arian would count herself blessed to know a loyalty like his.
Then the troubling thought occurred that she herself had never been as constant.
39
They crossed the Amdar River under cover of darkness, muffling the hooves of their horses with padded cloth to traverse the iron bridge.
Buzkashi sentries stood watch at the bridge, two on either side of the river. The bridge was wide enough to support a regiment on horseback. The Silver Mage observed in silence as the Aybek of the Right engaged in a consultation with his men, in the form of the same dolorous singing they’d heard upon the banks of the Lop Nur.
“We have intelligence of the north.”
And they communicated it by this method of throat-singing.
When they had cleared the bridge, Daniyar rode up to join Zelgai.
“Who built this bridge?”
Zelgai glanced over at the Silver Mage, his eyes alert.
“My brother, the Aybek.”
“Why do you leave only four men to guard a bridge you need?”
Zelgai glanced back at his men, straight-backed and calm in his saddle.
“They are Mangudah. Four are enough.” His eyes made a slow count of Daniyar’s party. “You are only five, one of whom is a child. And yet you dare the Wall.”
Daniyar made note of the fact that Zelgai didn’t discount the authority of the women who rode with them.
“As you trust in the strength of your men, so I trust in the power of the Claim. Had the Aybek not offered us your escort, the Claim would have been all that we had.”
“Will it be enough behind the Wall?”
The Silver Mage frowned.
“I cannot say. What can you tell me of these Ahdath? Are they as fierce as their reputation?”
A quick smile crossed Zelgai’s face.
“They are killers who live and die at the Wall, but we do not fear them. They are settled and soft, they do not scout beyond the Wall. They ready themselves for war without expectation of a battle.”
Daniyar thought of the Army of the Right. He considered the expert raid the Mangudah had carried out on the Sorrowsong, and the fortified iron bridge, guarded by four riders.
“You seem confident of success, should it come to war.”
A spark brightened Zelgai’s eyes.
“Let us say we have no expectation of defeat. Not when Zerafshan rides as Aybek.”
“Zerafshan has established trade with the Ahdath. Why would he seek war?”
But now Daniyar had said too much, for Zelgai’s eyes turned wintry.
“War comes to us. And when it does, we must be ready.”
He spurred his mount forward, leaving the Silver Mage behind.
As they rode, the path turned west and a freshness filled the air. Behind them, Wafa’s raised head registered the scent. The wind carried the first ripening of apricot and plum trees west from the Damson Vale.
Now the mountains were behind them, a snow-capped edging against the sky, stars striking against their jagged peaks, the Damson Vale to the east.
Its beauty was etched in Daniyar’s memory, a place he’d hoped to take Arian, far removed from the dangers and toils of their present journey. Lush and green, unlike the arid plains of Candour and Hira, a gold-strewn river darting through its meadows.
He’d wanted to see the blossoms of the fruit trees tumble down onto Arian’s dark hair. He’d wanted Arian to feel the sweetness of the wind against her skin. And he’d wanted to take her as his own, giving and receiving the love he’d long been denied.
He no longer belonged with the Shin War. But neither could he abandon the orphaned boys of Candour, the lost children of Khorasan. He was the Keeper of the Candour, a trust he couldn’t set aside. Were he the kind of man to have done so, Arian would not have wanted him.
If she wanted him now, his jealousy was a mark against him.
He tightened his grip on the reins of his horse, the lines of his mouth turned down in reflection.
Perhaps the ghost of Lania would always stand between them.
And perhaps these were excuses, and Arian had never loved him at all.
She concerned herself with the Wall, choosing not to resume their closeness. Was she truly so stoic? Did she never think of him with the same longing and regret that were all he’d known since the day she had left him in Candour? Did her willingness to yield her tahweez signal anything other than a momentary softening?
He could determine the answer for himself—but the act of reading her would be a violation of her trust. It would also expose his weakness.
He studied Arian with troubled eyes.
She was engaged in a discussion of strategy with Sinnia and Turan.
She hadn’t thanked Daniyar for unraveling the mystery of the puzzle box, nor for his continued presence at her side.
His thoughts turned dark.
It wasn’t her thanks he needed, nor her soft words of praise.
His needs were fierce and unrelenting.
He wanted all of her, everything, every last bit of sweetness.
And he wanted her to want him the same way.
40
The Black Khan read the scroll delivered by his peregrine with a frown. Matters were urgent in Ashfall. The Talisman were pressing west; he had tarried at Hira too long. The High Companion was a bewitching creature, but it was not her enchantments that kept him at the Citadel.
He waited for word from his spies, spies in the north, spies to the east, spies in the occupied south. When his picture of events was complete, he would determine his course. Or so he’d planned, discerning more from the whispers of the Council than any of the Companions could have guessed. It had been reckless of him to count on Hira as an ally when Hira could barely defend its own keep.
He’d lingered in the scriptorium hoping to discover the source of Ilea’s certainty. The High Companion stayed aloof when there was every indication the Citadel would fall. If not this day, then the next.
The theft of the Sacred Cloak had strengthened the Talisman’s resolve. They would bring their war to Hira soon. He couldn’t wait for the return of the First Oralist, though he hoped to see her again.
He would have to make a choice.
Hira, Ashfall, or the Wall.
It was just a matter of time.
41
The Lion’s Gate was a formidable double-door structure built of iron, marking the eastern approach to Marakand. The Wall dominated the horizon, solid blocks of rectangular stone piled upon each other until they achieved a pinnacle, piercing the sky. A crenellated wall topped by a sturdy measure of coping stone, teeming with turrets, battlements, and flanking towers, its parapets thronged by regiments of Ahdath.
Two lions’ heads, their mouths agape, were emblazoned on the doors of the Lion’s Gate, a crimson splash against the metalwork. Centered above these was the same symbol Arian had found on the map concealed within the puzzle box.
Three small circles stacked in a triangle inside a five-point star.
On either side of the symbol, two words were etched in bright crimson.
Rasti, rusti.
Truth is safety. Safety is in right.
Or as
the Authoritan had corrupted the motto to mean, strength is justice.
Justice is strength, Arian reminded herself. A dictum that had been Marakand’s legacy to the world, long before the rise of the Authoritan in the north or the Talisman in the south.
Their plan was simple. Daniyar and Turan would accompany Zelgai to the Lion’s Gate. The sentries that guarded the gate changed shifts on the hour, so that fresh eyes patrolled the surround. At twilight, the soldiers who’d reached a secret arrangement with the Buzkashi would be on duty. They would recognize men of the Shin War tribe as leaders among the Talisman, allowing the Silver Mage to attempt a familiar ruse—the bartering of the Companions, this time in exchange for safe passage into the city. The Buzkashi would remain behind after engaging in their usual trade, so as not to alert suspicion among the Ahdath.
Now, though, looking at the Lion’s Gate with its crosshatching of iron beams that barred entry, Arian found her courage failed her. Her eyes beseeched Daniyar.
How can we possibly win through?
He answered her with a verse of the Claim that was almost a growl in his throat.
“If the One is with you, who then can stand against you?”
She tried to smile at him, shivering as his eyes lingered on her lips.
“We won’t be able to aid you beyond this point,” Zelgai warned, interrupting her thoughts. He took in the collars and slave bracelets that Arian and Sinnia had donned. “Are you certain you wish to proceed?”
Arian’s answer was indirect.
“Where are the slave quarters that serve the Ahdath?”
Lania, she thought. Lania is on the other side of the Wall.
“In the Gold House at the center of the Registan,” Zelgai answered. He was the commander of a powerful army, second in command to the Aybek of the Cloud Door, but he would not gainsay a Companion of Hira.
The Registan was the public square, once a great center of learning, with fountains leaping between its three titanic portals. The faithful had once gathered in the house of worship, astronomers had flocked to a conservatory of the stars, while scholars had traveled from every corner of Khorasan to study the Shir Dar’s far-ranging treasury of manuscripts.
But the portals were subverted now.
Despite his confiscation of the Bloodprint, the Authoritan had no need of a gathering place for the faithful, or for the Shir Dar House of Wisdom, now known as the Shadow Mausoleum. It was said to be littered with skeletons of the dead, those who had dared to stand against his rule in defiance of his despotism. Under the Authoritan’s direction, the Registan was a square where executions were carried out, blood splashing against a superfluity of tile.
Arian shuddered at the thought. If she waited any longer, she would lose her courage entirely. Sinnia, too, was nervous and drawn.
“Please,” Arian said. “Summon the Ahdath.”
She and Sinnia and Wafa remained a small distance behind, hemmed in by Zelgai’s men. The light in the sky began to fail, a muted gold that gilded the Wall, softening its harsh edges, imbuing the city with a quality that rendered it outside of time and place.
She was reminded of a saying of the northland.
In all other places, light descends. In holy Black Aura, it ascends.
Surely Marakand was the city of light, a golden dust scattered about the hills that dipped and swelled behind the ominous buttresses of the Wall.
A Wall built to hold back the plague, dividing the people of Khorasan from each other, while unnamed depravities took place behind its shelter.
Lania, are you there? Will I find you in the Gold House?
Her eyes slipped to the Silver Mage.
And if I don’t find her and will not give up the search, will I lose Daniyar’s love, as Captain Turan warned me? Will the Silver Mage turn from me if I dare to refuse him again?
She couldn’t bear the thought of continuing without him, any more than she could abandon her search for Lania.
As two soldiers of the Ahdath approached, fear leapt into her throat. What if they saw through the ruse? What if she’d sent Daniyar to his death?
The soldiers of the Ahdath were men of the Transcasp, tall and well formed, with ash-fair hair and pale blue eyes. They wore crimson armor, and on the black crest at their throats, the Authoritan’s motto was stitched in crimson thread. Which meant the Talisman’s hatred of the written word had not extended this far.
Perhaps there was reason to hope.
And now she observed the differences between the Ahdath and Zelgai’s men. There was a military precision about everything the Buzkashi did. The Ahdath had grown their fair hair long and wild, a darker stubble on their jaws. The belts that carried their weapons were cinched loosely about their waists. There was an attitude of disregard about them, whereas Zelgai stood attentive to their banter, his hand on the pommel of his sword, his posture stiff and straight, while his men stayed in formation, their eyes trained on the Ahdath. Two of the Buzkashi observed the Wall, the rest attended Zelgai.
Zelgai motioned the women forward. They were brought before the Ahdath, bareheaded and tremulous, Wafa following behind, a riding crop in his hand.
One of the Ahdath whistled at the sight of Sinnia. He pulled her closer, both hands on her shoulders. He spoke to the other in the language of the Transcasp.
“What a beauty! We’ve not seen her like in the Gold House before. This one I will take for my own.”
He brushed his lips against Sinnia’s cheek, letting out a bellow of laughter when she jerked away. The laughter faded, as Arian stepped forward.
The two men studied her face in silence.
A startled glance passed between them.
“Isn’t she—”
“Leave it,” the other guard said sharply. “What is your business in Marakand?”
“I’ve told you. We thought to enjoy the pleasures of Marakand while we transact the business of our master.” Daniyar injected a note of steel into his voice. “The One-Eyed Preacher.”
The soldier named Semyon considered the answer. He conferred for a moment with his comrade, a man called Alik.
And then, with a slight relaxation of his shoulders, he gave the signal for the Lion’s Gate to be opened. The crosshatched beams grated against each other, before lifting and separating in an elaborate sequence that reminded Arian of the puzzle box. A full minute later, one of the doors of the Lion’s Gate swung outward, allowing space for their party to pass.
Two guards approached from behind the gate to offload the Buzkashi’s goods.
Semyon signaled his permission to proceed. The company of five parted from Zelgai without another word.
Wafa was the last to pass through, the crop rigid in his hands.
As his eyes fell on the boy, Semyon asked, “Why do you need him? Can you not manage two women on your own?”
The question was not perfunctory. It was asked as a test.
Turan responded in the languid tones he had often heard from Sartor.
“The boy has his uses.”
“Does he, indeed?”
Semyon murmured something to his confederate before returning his attention to Sinnia, whom he kept close by his side.
Something was amiss. And Arian was not the only one to sense it. Daniyar and Turan tightened their grips on the weapons they hadn’t been asked to yield. Under his blithe façade, Semyon remained alert as the head of their escort into the city.
Intimations of Marakand’s beauty appeared in the gold light that brushed the city’s soft hills and groves, a tower here, a flash of blue there, ribbons of green and gold bouncing against the eye, just at the edge of discovery. A city equally of minarets and gardens, peach blossoms scenting the air, plane trees unfurling the first buds of spring against the luminous brush of the wind.
Marakand.
As blue and gold as a miracle.
But it wasn’t the fabled city that held Arian silent in wonder.
It was the army preparing for war in the valley that lay bel
ow.
42
As they moved across the plain, the boisterous roar of the Authoritan’s battalions filled the air. Much as they had witnessed on the banks of Lop Nur, men were arranged in regiments, engaged in practice drills, or were busy stockpiling armor. Giant carts transported stacks of arms to the interior doors of the towers. There they were lifted by a series of pulleys to the parapets. Men were stationed at brattices along the Wall, a concentrated force deployed above the Lion’s Gate.
Again Arian noted the differences between the Buzkashi and the Ahdath.
The crimson-clad soldiers were rowdy and unkempt, purposeful in their display of combat skills, yet with the underlying ease of arrogance. As Arian’s party progressed past the Ahdath’s encampment, men whistled and jeered at the women. More than a few called out to Semyon. Turan and Daniyar were ignored.
“War is coming,” Sinnia muttered to Arian.
Semyon caught the words. “You need not concern yourself with war. Your fate has been decided.”
Arian kept her head bent. Whatever had sharpened Semyon’s attention was not something she cared to risk again.
“We can find our way to the Gold House,” Daniyar said. “You need not accompany us.”
Daniyar’s words seemed to confirm something to the men of the Ahdath. But still they did not ask to search the party, or demand they yield their weapons. Their progress continued until the army was left behind them. Swirling rays of dust-filled light gilded the city with a patina of gold, the loess that gave the oasis its fertility.
As their party crested the hill, the city’s plan declared itself. Six thoroughfares lined with mulberry trees radiated from the public square at the heart of the city to each of the gates. Along each route, marketplaces heaved with small round domes and canvas roofs, crowded with the custom of daily life. Noise fell away as the thoroughfares reached the Registan.
There were granaries and spices down one lane, metalworkers and armories down a second, carpet-weavers down a third, a bustling trade in livestock, skilled artisans who fashioned ceramics, or jewelers who worked precious metals and turquoise, and a single artery that stretched into the distance, going dark at the eastern gate.
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