The Bloodprint
Page 7
This isn’t the outset.
I’ve been waging this war for a decade.
At too great a cost, she now realized. But Arian accepted the Audacy’s rites. The time for dissent had passed. She had no choice but to seek out the Bloodprint.
Or face the end of the world.
10
Arian was tired to her bones. She stood before her writing desk in the lowest chamber of the Citadel, a section of Hira’s scriptorium reserved for her personal reflection. A manuscript lay open on the table, and though she knew she should savor the time she’d been given to read, she wished for the peace of a dreamless sleep, where the thoughts that occupied her mind were comforting thoughts of her mother. Her kind face, soft with the joy of knowing herself beloved, wise and patient with age and experience, radiant with the essence of the Claim.
Arian’s mother had taught Arian everything she knew of the spirit that breathed beneath the forbidden language, the reason she believed in the Claim at all.
And though she was no further forward in her quest, the Claim had kept Arian safe.
Mother, she thought. I do not know how to summon my courage. Ilea was right to judge me. I carry the weight of a ruinous future, even as I fail to understand the past.
She’d spent months riding across a desolate landscape, risking the life of a friend she loved in what she told herself was the pursuit of a higher calling, but which she knew in her bones was something else.
I am lost, Mother. Lost without you all.
And no matter how I search, I cannot find my sister.
She was tormented by thoughts of Lania, taken from Arian too soon. She remembered her sister’s face, the luxury of her beauty, her youthful self-assurance. The gentle forbearance as Arian had followed her from room to room of their home, through their private scriptorium.
Like Arian herself, Lania had loved to read, she had been a student of the Claim under the tutelage of their parents. But when Arian had recited the Claim in her turn, Lania’s eyes had lit with a spark of admiration and something more, something Arian had never been able to quantify.
As the Claim surged to life in Arian’s throat, Arian’s mother would look to their father with quiet pride, visitors would call at the scriptorium to meet the children of the conservators who were scholars of the Claim. They would listen to Arian’s recitation with astonishment, wonderment in the glances they exchanged with her parents, while Lania stood by, her beauty eliciting another kind of wonder, as she studied, listened, observed her younger sister.
Arian learned a new word, a word she heard frequently in the presence of her parents’ friends—linguist.
“This is the one,” they would say. “This is the one you must send.”
And Lania would smile and press her hand when Arian protested she would never leave their parents’ home, or the comfort and love of her brother and sister’s companionship. She couldn’t imagine a scriptorium greater than their own, or a deeper warmth than she felt from the friends of her parents, who came to study the manuscripts and to share their own knowledge. Kind-eyed men and women who spoke with dignity, their fingers tracing over fragile parchments, yet all of them falling quiet when Arian recited verses of the Claim.
She learned it was a kind of magic she possessed, a magic that won her the loyalty of a new circle of friends.
She hadn’t known then that her enemies would soon outstrip her friends in number, her parents and brother lost, her sister stolen from her.
But where? Where had they taken Lania? What use had the Talisman found for her?
And as always, when she came to this question, she refused to think beyond the present moment, the present task. She couldn’t bear to imagine the truth, Lania broken and used.
One day, there would be a reckoning of her loss. Her injuries were personal, deep-rooted—they required the justice of an accounting; the breaking of the slave-chains was the merest restitution. Slave handlers, Talisman, book-burning Immolans—Arian had felled them all, taking the measure of her enemies. Waiting for the day she would stand before the Preacher, her circlets ablaze on her arms.
But even that was not enough. She owed more to herself, to Sinnia, whose loyalty was an unlooked-for gift, friendship in a time when few would dare to be counted as friends.
She thought of the man who had trespassed their Council.
When the reckoning came, would he prevail as enemy or friend?
“What brings such sadness to your eyes?”
Arian whirled around. As if she had conjured him from her thoughts, the Black Khan stood at the door to the scriptorium, still attired in the Sacred Cloak. He had loosened the silver collar at his throat, and had a look of rakish dishevelment.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
There should have been guards on the other side of the door. She suspected Rukh had persuaded them away.
He nodded at the manuscript unfurled upon her table.
“My gift to you. I brought it with me from Ashfall. I thought a linguist of your caliber would find something to admire in it. Tell me, what did you think?”
Arian brushed a hand over her forehead.
“I haven’t read it yet.”
“No,” he agreed. “You were lost in your thoughts. Are you worried about your Audacy? Or do you worry over what happened at the Council?”
Her generous mouth tightened. The Audacy of a Companion was a thing closely guarded, shared only with those the Companions relied on. And she would never speak of the Council’s deliberations before an outsider.
“We are not on such terms that I would confide my thoughts.”
He raised a winged brow at her.
“What offends you most, First Oralist? My transgression of the Council, or my trespass upon your privacy?”
His dark eyes glittered in the glow of the candles. Arian’s retort was swift.
“That you set your hands on the Sacred Cloak, when you had no authority to do so.”
He moved closer, the folds of the Cloak rustling in the silence of the scriptorium. When he was at her side, he dropped his voice.
“Where would you have me set them, then?”
Their eyes met, his dark gaze intimate and searching. He was standing so close that his lips were a whisper’s breath from hers. She had only to raise her chin and her mouth would be brushing his. She lowered her head instead, murmuring the words in the vicinity of his collarbone.
“Your overtures are unwelcome. Just as they were at the Council.”
“Are they, First Oralist?” He touched a finger to the pulse at her throat. “And yet, you are not indifferent.”
He raised a hand to her hair in a sudden gesture. Arian ducked at the unexpected movement. Surprised, he let his hand drop.
“You have no need to fear me,” he said.
She shook her head at what her actions had betrayed.
“I thought you meant to strike me. It seemed you would at the Council.”
He frowned at the explanation.
“I am many things, First Oralist, but never—for my sins—an abuser of women.” He hesitated. “Do you rank me among the Talisman? Have my actions earned such a judgment?”
She heard the regret in his voice and relented.
“I do not know you, Prince of Khorasan.”
A hint of devilry lit his eyes. “We could rectify that without difficulty.”
He was making it clear that he wanted her. And if her heart had not been encumbered, she might have found herself attracted to him in turn. But there was Daniyar to consider. There would always be Daniyar.
The Black Khan seemed to read her thoughts.
“Is it the Cloak that comes between us? Or is it someone else?”
Arian parried the question.
“The High Companion seemed to compel your interest at the Council.”
A wicked smile shaped his lips.
“Do you find our congress disturbing?”
“I question your true motives.”
“She’s a beautiful woman, as are you.”
Arian’s response was dry. “And is it beauty that brings you to the Citadel? Or is it the Sacred Cloak?”
Unable to help herself, she touched a hand to the Cloak, tracing its folds with her fingers. She inhaled the scent of honey and closed her eyes. The messenger of the One—the man whose Cloak this was—had loved the taste of honey.
And in that moment it was too much—the loss, the sorrow, the endless conflict with Ilea, the wonder of the Cloak—and tears sprang to her eyes. How much this Cloak would have meant to Daniyar. But Daniyar had chosen not to follow her. He’d sworn never to cross Hira’s threshold.
The Black Khan mistook her tears.
“Do you find me so contemptible that it pains you to see me wear the Cloak?”
Arian shook her head. How could she possibly answer?
“The Cloak is a sacred trust. I didn’t risk its purchase for you.”
His rejoinder was soft. “You said you wore the Cloak in Candour. Do you see yourself as the bearer of that trust?”
Arian looked up at him, the tears magnified in her eyes.
“In what way do you find me unworthy? Other than that I’m a woman?”
The words were not a lamentation. They demanded an accounting—from the Black Khan, from every Talisman slave master whose slave-chains she had disrupted, from all the men of Khorasan—from the One-Eyed Preacher himself.
He seemed to understand the nature of her demand. His face became thoughtful. He reached down for her hands, covering them with his own. It was an intimacy she had encouraged by raising her hand to the Cloak.
The warmth of his touch seared her skin.
“These delicate hands are deceptive. How much blood have they shed?”
Her face became pinched.
“Enough,” she said. “Too much, I fear.”
He took pity on her, admitting, “Neither are mine unsullied.”
She found herself looking at his hands, powerful and elegant. And then she glanced up again, her breathing harsh in her chest. His smile had a sensual edge to it. His black eyes were bewitching—she felt drugged by his allure. And she wondered at the nature of his power—or whether he used his power at all, and she was merely susceptible to his appeal.
He jerked her close. She stopped him, her fingers catching in the pearls that looped below his collar.
“Complete your Audacy,” he said. “Then come to my court at Ashfall. Your presence could only enhance it.”
“I’m not an ornament to be displayed at your court.” She gathered up her pride. “I am First Oralist of Hira. If war is coming, my place will be here.”
His dark voice taunted her. “I assure you, your uses would not be merely ornamental.”
They stared at each other in silence, the minutes ticking away. Now he touched her hair again, and this time Arian let him. The same hand trailed down her neck to her arm, coming to rest upon her circlet. She shivered against his touch.
He turned her earlier words back on her, tracing the script on her circlet.
“I’ve had the barest taste of your power. It would serve me well at Ashfall.”
And then Arian understood his seduction for what it was.
She disentangled herself from him, the spell between them broken.
He let her go, a smile curling about his lips.
“You think to use me,” she said. “But a Companion of Hira is not for any man’s use.” She clutched a fold of the Sacred Cloak. “I will not add to your ill-gotten gains.”
His smile became knife edged. He unlatched the Cloak from his collar and laid it across her desk.
“It was an honorable exchange, Arian, though you choose to deny it. If you thought the Cloak would serve you, imagine the power of the Bloodprint. Imagine what it would be like to read it.”
He spoke her name with an unforced intimacy, using language that had lost its meaning.
To read, to write, to behold a manuscript. To feel as much as see the weight of the written word again. To have language as proof, a vocabulary of love and deliverance.
He offered Arian her dreams, her long-forgotten hopes.
And she wished she could trust his words.
“Do you truly cede the Bloodprint to Hira?”
“No.” And when her face fell, he held up his signet ring and kissed it. “But I do cede it you.”
Was the gesture meant as a promise? Did he pledge his word on his ring?
“Come to my court,” he said again. “You would find its gardens tranquil. There is no sight in Khorasan as beautiful.” He dipped his regal head. “Unless I am looking at you.”
A painful color burned Arian’s face. What had she allowed him to believe? She didn’t want this—she couldn’t want it. She needed to turn him away. To turn him against her, if necessary.
“I have been to the court at Ashfall,” she said. “As an emissary of the Council.”
“No,” he denied. “I wouldn’t have forgotten.”
“You were not Prince of Khorasan then. It was your brother’s court.”
The words made the Black Khan withdraw, just as she had intended. A look of hauteur settled on his features. Years ago, he’d been imprisoned at the court’s Qaysarieh Portal for conspiring against the throne. A conspiracy he’d seen to fruition. Few dared speak of it now.
“I was the legitimate heir,” he said flatly. “I have always been Prince of Khorasan.”
He reached behind his neck and snapped his collar back into place. The gesture was meant to remind her of who he was.
“You think me unworthy, untrustworthy—but what do you know of Ashfall? You know nothing of what I’ve faced, you know nothing of what faces me now. You may have dismantled slave-chains, but I defend a nation.”
His rigid rebuff made Arian ashamed.
“My lord—”
He held up a hand.
“Don’t apologize—you wouldn’t mean it.” He nodded at her desk. “The manuscript I gave you as a gift—it’s a history of the Oralists.” His anger abated slightly. “A history of your family. It’s why I risked its safety on the road.”
He gathered up the Cloak and left the scriptorium without looking back.
Both relieved and regretful, Arian let him go.
11
Psalm met them at the stables. A gray-haired woman in her fifties with a no-nonsense manner about her, she separated Arian from Sinnia, taking her aside into one of the stalls of the khamsa.
“What road do you take?” And before Arian could respond, she said, “Do not take the road to the north. We’ve sent emissaries to the Wall before this. None have returned.” Her face grim, she added, “I would not wager they were captured by the Authoritan.”
Aghast, Arian asked her, “What are you saying? The trouble was here at Hira?”
Psalm waited for a patrol of the Citadel Guard to pass by the stables before answering.
“You’ve been away too long. There are deceptions here you know little of.”
“There are always deceptions with Ilea, but why would she send emissaries of Hira into a trap? What end could that serve, when we ourselves are vulnerable?”
Psalm’s response was sharp.
“Have you encountered any members of the Guard that you trust since your arrival at Hira? Any of the senior captains?”
Arian frowned. “None.”
Psalm nodded. “They are the ones she sends to the north. The Citadel Guard is made up of new recruits.”
“What do you suspect, Psalm? What’s happening at Hira?”
The older woman paused, looking beyond Arian’s shoulder to where Sinnia had the horses saddled for departure.
“The scriptorium still has its dedicated guard. Our friends. But everything else is changing. We no longer retain control over our private chambers. Ilea says this is for our protection, but where does she find her new recruits?”
Arian shook her head. Psalm was right. She’d been away from the Citadel too long.
“She claims some of the new guards have deserted from the Talisman.”
“But you don’t believe her.”
Psalm shrugged. “It’s the others who concern me more.”
“What others?”
“The ones who came from Ashfall. The ones who accompanied the Black Khan . . . but did not leave with him.”
“This wasn’t his first visit to the Citadel?”
A wry smile twisted Psalm’s mouth.
“It’s the first time he addressed the Council, but whatever interest he demonstrated in you, his assignations with Ilea have been frequent and private. He was expecting you to deliver the Cloak.”
“They’re working together,” Arian said, her suspicions confirmed.
“They’re planning something for the Bloodprint, as well.” Psalm motioned at Sinnia. “Don’t tell Sinnia you know this. Ilea sends her with you for a reason. Arian—” For a moment, the Citadel’s brilliant tactician seemed lost for words. “If you do find the Bloodprint, you must think carefully before you bring it to Hira. I cannot say what Ilea intends for it.”
Arian drew a shaky breath.
“If the Talisman advance on Hira, the Bloodprint is our only hope. Surely, that is Ilea’s intent.”
“Perhaps.”
“Has she instructed you to prepare the Citadel’s defence?”
Psalm looked weary.
“Yes. But she chooses allies I do not trust. These new recruits, for example.”
Arian had similar misgivings about the motives of the Black Khan. Another worry occurred to her.
“Then are the manuscripts in the scriptorium safe?”
Across the courtyard from the stables, Arian caught sight of a silver-white shadow that moved between the palm trees, something stealthy in the movement.
Psalm jerked her chin at the hidden figure.
“Ash will make sure of it. She’s with us on this.”
But Arian didn’t know what this was. The betrayal of Hira? A plot of the Black Khan’s contrivance, or the genuine plan to defend the Citadel of Hira from the Talisman assault?
“What of the Citadel?”
“Leave that to me,” Psalm said. “I won’t allow us to be caught by surprise.”