The Black Khan

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

“He’s everywhere at once. He can see everything, no matter where you try to hide.” He pressed his hands to his temples. “He’s here. Inside. And his voice—”

  When the boy saw that the Nizam and the Black Khan were watching him intently, he faltered into silence.

  “There’s something special about his voice?” Darya encouraged him to continue.

  Wafa cast a wild glance around the Divan-e Shah for the commander of the Zhayedan.

  “The soldier heard it too. He knows.”

  Rukh descended from the dais and came to stand before Wafa. “What was that?” he asked. “You’re right, it wasn’t a man’s voice.”

  Wafa cupped his hand over the bulge in his throat. “He makes it with his voice.” He struggled to find the words to make it clear. “He makes himself. He knows words—I don’t know the words he knows.” His hands made an aborted gesture. “The words she knows. They were like her words, but she doesn’t use them to hurt.”

  “Whom do you speak of, boy?”

  Wafa scowled at Rukh. He hadn’t forgotten that the Khan had betrayed the kindest woman he knew.

  “The one you left,” he said, gathering his courage. “The one you sold to the demon.” His hand fluttered at his side. “The lady Arian.”

  A gasp of disbelief came from the Begum seated on the dais. Did a Hazara boy dare to decry the actions of a prince? Did he call the First Oralist by name? The Nizam watched as the Black Khan studied his courtiers. None would call the Khan to account, but he had not forgotten the circumstances that had set the stage for a coup. The loss of power required only the briefest misstep. The Khan’s betrayal of the First Oralist could certainly be counted as such. But in the end, he had brought the Bloodprint to Ashfall, a reminder of his indisputable influence to the scheming members of his court.

  Thoughts of the Bloodprint cleared the Nizam’s mind. There was no talisman considered as valuable; he felt his tension ease away. He focused on the Khan’s response to the boy. He would gloss over the Khan’s treachery at the Ark and address the matter at hand.

  “You’re saying he uses the Claim—the Claim empowers him, just as it empowers the First Oralist. The Claim is the magic they wield.”

  Wafa trembled with relief. The Hazara boy had managed to make his meaning plain.

  “He makes the Talisman afraid. They listen to him—they have to listen to him.”

  “And what happens if they don’t?” Rukh’s eyes were curious on the boy’s face.

  Wafa sought comfort from the safety of Darya’s arms. Though the Black Khan was gentle with his sister, he had no such assurance of his mercy.

  He described what he knew to the court: the riders in the pass, his struggles in the Blood Shed, his work as a tally-taker in the midst of Talisman soldiers, a slave at the One-Eyed Preacher’s heels. Then he choked out an answer to the Khan.

  “Then … everything is shattered to bright red blood and bone.”

  The Nizam clapped his hands together, snapping the court out of its reverie. His disapproval plain on his ascetic features, he sneered at the boy. “What kind of nonsense is this? He speaks of necromancy, magic—arcane rites. No one has use of the Claim. No one outside of Ashfall has ever read the Claim.”

  The Nizam had forgotten the Bloodprint. He’d forgotten what the Prince of Khorasan had risked to bring the Bloodprint home. And he’d discounted the learning of the Council of Hira. Rukh bowed to him, a gesture of respect meant to mollify his vizier before he openly disagreed.

  “You weren’t there, Nizam al-Mulk. The boy is right. I saw the One-Eyed Preacher at the pass. I heard—something. Now we learn it was the Claim, though not the Claim as I knew it.” He pointed to the Bloodprint, openly displayed to the court. “I brought it to the Divan-e Shah to bless the city as it readies for battle.”

  He snapped his fingers at two members of the Khorasan Guard. “Purify yourselves and take it to the scriptorium, where they stand ready to receive it.”

  A commotion rose at the doors to the Divan-e Shah. The Khorasan Guard hesitated between the Bloodprint and the entrance. A chorus of male voices was answered by a woman, whose speech was decided and firm.

  “I thank you for your escort,” she said. “You must permit me to address the Black Khan.”

  Rukh’s eyes met the intruder’s across the assembly of courtiers. She was flanked by a dark-skinned woman and a man with glowing silver eyes, all three accompanied by Arsalan.

  He thought he’d seen the last of the First Oralist.

  She’d proven him wrong again.

  42

  WAFA BROKE FREE OF DARYA’S EMBRACE. HE DARTED ACROSS THE HALL, stumbling in his haste. He flung himself at Arian’s neck, sobbing with outright joy. She held him fast in her arms, favoring one wrist. She pressed her forehead to his before the court’s astonished witness.

  “Wafa,” she said, a smile in her voice. “My brave and loyal friend. I hope the Prince of Khorasan has treated you with care.”

  He shook his head, trembling in her arms. Then he saw Sinnia, and his own smile grew wider. He grabbed her at the waist, nudging his head against her collarbone.

  “Still alive, you little ruffian?” She hugged him tightly in return, turning him to Daniyar.

  Wafa hesitated only an instant. Instead of embracing the Silver Mage, he tried to remember what Sinnia had taught him.

  “My lord.” He made an awkward bow; then his wide, delighted smile broke out once again. “My lord, the Silver Mage.” He pronounced the words with care. Daniyar ruffled his hair.

  Daniyar bent to his ear and whispered, “Who at the court can we trust, Wafa?”

  Wafa shook his head and whispered back, “No one, my lord. No one except—” His voice trailed off. He pointed shyly at the Princess.

  Arsalan moved past them, ignoring Darya and the Nizam. He found Rukh and communicated something to him in a rapid and urgent undertone, his breath stirring the Prince’s hair. Rukh’s reaction was a slight widening of his eyes. His jaw tightened. He ascended to the throne again and laid the imperial scepter across its arms.

  He clapped his hands twice, calling for the court’s attention.

  “The outer ramparts have fallen to our enemies. The Talisman approach the inner walls. Dress for battle and arm yourselves. Men to the walls, women to the Al Qasr. Arsalan, the city walls are yours.” He swept a hand at his personal guards. “The Khorasan Guard must defend the scriptorium at all costs. Khashayar, I charge you with protection of the Warraqeen.”

  “My lord,” Khashayar protested at once. “The Khorasan Guard does not leave your side.”

  The Black Khan smiled at Arian across the room, his face full of a hard, mocking charm. “You need not worry,” he said. “I have all the protection I need.”

  The court was seized by panic and confusion, heedless of the Black Khan’s orders. Courtiers pressed into the Divan-e Shah, seeking reassurance and safety. The vast hall was filled to capacity, nobles jostling one another to reach the Peacock Throne and the ear of the Khan. Neither Arsalan nor the Nizam could bring them under control. The Khan raised his scepter and brought it down hard. Even this had no effect.

  Arian detached Wafa’s arms from her neck. She nodded at her companions to let her proceed alone. Covered in the sweat of her hard ride across the plains, her armor battered, her hair and face disheveled, she cut a path through the press of courtiers. As her cloak fell away from her arms, her circlets shone in the glow of hundreds of tapered candles.

  The courtiers moved to either side of her, falling silent as she passed. The women of the Khan’s family surged forward for a better look. Arian crossed the length of the Divan-e Shah to the pedestal that held the Bloodprint. She washed her hands in the basin positioned beside it. To a concerted gasp, she murmured an incantation and leafed through the pages of the manuscript. A look of peace in her eyes, she turned to face the assembly.

  “In the name of the One,” she said. “The Beneficent, the Merciful. Heed this message to your city.”
/>   She pressed her hands to her tahweez, taking their light into herself.

  “In the change of the winds, and the clouds that run their appointed courses between the sky and the earth: in all this, there are signs for people who reflect.”

  The Divan-e Shah was stricken into silence.

  “True piety does not consist of your turning your face to the east or the west, but in those who believe in the One, in the Last Day, in the angels of the realm, in Revelation, and in the messengers.”

  “And in you?” the Nizam sneered, unperturbed by her recitation. He wouldn’t be. He had secrets and gifts of his own.

  “Nizam al-Mulk,” she said with great courtesy, “I bring you greetings from Hira.”

  She raised her chin, her gaze finding the Black Khan. The chance had come at last to repay him for what his treachery had cost her, and yet she could not act as he would have done in her place. There was too much at stake. What she could have was this single moment, so she chose a verse of the Claim that would call him to account … warning him of the power she could wield against him on a whim.

  “The Reckoning that you are promised is bound to come; there is nothing you can do to elude it.”

  His composure ebbed; when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Do you threaten me, First Oralist?”

  Was he so arrogant that he thought it impossible she would? “It was you who threatened me. I come to treat with you, to ask you to honor the bargain you made at the Council of Hira.” Her eyes measured the breadth of his shoulders, covered by the Sacred Cloak. Something else he had stolen from Hira that he had no right to possess.

  “Excellency,” the Nizam interrupted, the warning plain in his voice. “There are enemies on all fronts. We must respond at once.”

  The Black Khan’s gaze weighed Arian, and some calculation in her face must have given him heart. “I have dealt with my enemies,” he said. “Now I would hear my friends.”

  It was the only apology the Black Khan would make, swift to turn her arrival to his advantage. She told herself to remember that and to deal with him when she could.

  She switched her attention to the Nizam, whose expression was wary. She was reminded in that moment of Lania—and of all those who sought to exert power behind the throne, jealously guarding their influence.

  Addressing the Nizam directly, she said, “I have never been an enemy of the people of Ashfall. Nor of the members of this court.”

  Now she took notice of the Begum of the court, the would-be empress, and the members of the Black Khan’s family. Last, her gaze dwelt on Darya, a young woman she did not know.

  The girl’s breath was suspended in her chest as she stared wide-eyed at the circlets on Arian’s arms. Her hand moved to touch one of the tahweez before she snatched it back, the pearl on her forehead dancing as she bent her head.

  She’d felt the power of the Bloodprint, Arian realized. Her recitation had reached this girl in a manner unlike any of the other courtiers.

  A sense of premonition sent a shiver down her spine. She had a sudden image of this girl dressed in white silk, crossing the waters of the All Ways, to swear her oath at Hira.

  The girl raised her head, her eyes wide and dark, as if she’d witnessed it too. She knelt at Arian’s feet. When she spoke, her voice was low and sweet. “First Oralist, you honor us. Ask and I will serve you.”

  Arian urged Darya to her feet with a gentle pressure on her arm. She raised her right index finger to the sky, knowing the court of Khorasan would recognize the gesture. The courtiers mimicked her at once. “Kneel only before the One, as I do.”

  She studied the golden cuffs on Darya’s arms. “You are royal,” she said. “Yet I do not know you.”

  “My name is Darya, First Oralist.”

  “Darya, Princess of Ashfall,” Rukh inserted dryly. “Sister to the Khan of Khorasan.”

  Arian interrogated him with a lift of her brow. She lowered her voice to address him. “Why do you encumber your sister in this manner?”

  Darya’s headdress was askew, an onerous weight upon her slender neck. She looked like a little girl dressed in an older woman’s clothing.

  Rukh’s eyes grew cold. “Do the customs of Ashfall displease you? A pity you found it necessary to find your way here from Black Aura.”

  “We will speak of your sister later. You know why I’ve come, Excellency. Just as you know why you need me.”

  She sang out verses of the Claim. And promised the deliverance of Ashfall.

  43

  THEY WERE TAKEN TO THE BLACK KHAN’S WAR ROOM. A MAP OF THE empire was spread over a table carved of black lacquer inlaid with mother-of-pearl and highly figured panels of abalone. Globes and armillary spheres were positioned around the room, along with a series of starscopes. Aloft before a pair of windows, giant minzars swept the walls and gardens. One was angled to face the Maiden Tower; the other its opposite, the Tower of the Mirage. Most notable in the chamber was the silver armillary sphere stationed across from the Black Throne, its brass rings charting the ascension of the sun against the gradations of its meridian.

  The Black Throne was at the head of the table, and here the Black Khan gave commands to members of the Zhayedan and to the Khorasan Guard. Behind each captain’s chair smaller stools were placed for the scribes of the council, none of whom were present.

  In fact, no one took a chair around the table. Rukh waited for Arian to speak, his thoughts racing, his calculations half-formed.

  “You know why I’ve come,” she said. Her voice sounded different—lower, richer, hoarser in some way. “We need to discuss the Bloodprint and the Cloak.”

  “Neither of which I will yield.”

  “Both of which you must.”

  The First Oralist’s tone was implacable, and here before his Nizam and the commanders of his army, the Black Khan took it as an affront. To be challenged by a woman in front of his men—he was not so lenient as that.

  “Have a care, First Oralist.”

  He felt the flick of silver eyes like a lash against his face. There was no mistaking the other man’s anger. The Silver Mage was his enemy.

  “If I did not care, I would not have come. Now I ask what possible use the Bloodprint could be to you? It should be at the Citadel of Hira in the hands of those who can read it.”

  Rukh moved behind the Black Throne, placing his hands on its headrest. “My Zareen-Qalam has trained a generation of students to read.”

  The Zareen-Qalam was the keeper of his scriptorium, his head calligrapher, a man whose learning was unparalleled in Ashfall. He would be the first target of the Talisman assault.

  Yet neither he nor his students were able to use the Bloodprint in a manner that would aid them in time.

  “They are novices. With all due respect to the Zareen-Qalam, to read without context is profitless. The text can be shaped into anything. It can be of service to Khorasan only if it is read by scholars of the Claim.”

  “You refer to the Companions of Hira.”

  “Yes! We are trained to this purpose—it is all that we know.”

  He considered the First Oralist’s impassioned response. She was breathtaking in her defiance, her beauty heightened by her suffering at the Ark. He could see that she was damaged: her wrist was bandaged, her throat bruised. She held herself with an unaccustomed stiffness … yet she still outshone every woman at his court. It wasn’t the arrangement of her bones; it was something magnetic in her presence, in her powerful command of magic. Against Ilea’s glacial attraction, the First Oralist burned like a flame. He wanted to be consumed by it, inflamed by secret desires. His black gaze fell to her mouth.

  The Silver Mage drew his sword. At his action, Arsalan did likewise, shifting closer to his Khan.

  Arian glanced at Daniyar. A slight gesture of her hand held him in place, a momentary respite gained. Though Rukh did not fear the Silver Mage, he wondered at his place at Arian’s side. They were linked by an emotion that was palpable and fierce. And some of it spille
d over. The Silver Mage’s antagonism awakened some instinct of Rukh’s. Something primitive curled along his senses, hastening his blood. It gave him a curious strength.

  “Not all, I think, First Oralist. Hira pursues its own schemes. You are not the first Companion to try to part me from Ashfall’s inheritance.”

  “Ashfall’s inheritance?”

  The Silver Mage cut in. “The Golden Mage was here?”

  His question drew the Nizam’s attention. He watched the Silver Mage with sharpened interest.

  “A few days, hence.” Rukh was not oblivious to the Companions’ distress at this news. Of course, they would think their Citadel abandoned, as it had been for a time. “She is gone now. Consider this, Arian. If I didn’t yield the Bloodprint to Ilea, your entreaty is less likely to succeed.” He hinted at the intimacy he’d shared with Ilea, watching the Silver Mage’s eyes flare. “But I am not entirely without sympathy for your cause. Stay and teach my Warraqeen the subtle arts of Hira. When we have routed our enemies, I will give you the Bloodprint as a gift.”

  But his answer failed to please the First Oralist, who let her temper reign. “How is it no man understands this? The Bloodprint belongs neither to you nor to me, nor to the tyrants of Khorasan. It is not something to be gifted from one ruler to another. It is the inheritance of a people—of all people. It belongs to each one of us—to every last child.” Arian’s gaze fell on Wafa. “Like the Cloak you wear, Prince of Khorasan.”

  Rukh stiffened. He respected Arian’s gifts, but even if some part of him wanted to claim her for his own, he would not countenance her censure.

  “I wear the Cloak because I am Commander of the Faithful. Does any man here doubt my claim?”

  The Nizam bowed before the Khan, as did the commanders of the Zhayedan. Arsalan raised a skeptical eyebrow. There was a hint of mockery in his eyes, a touch of indulgence in the quirk of his lips, though neither was a sign of disrespect.

  “I wore the Cloak also,” Arian reminded Rukh. “I placed it on this boy’s shoulders.” She spared a smile for Wafa. “Had he not feared its power, he might be wearing it still.”