“The frozen city? You speak of a place out of legend or myth. No one has set foot there in living memory.”
Ghotai touched a hand to one of Arian’s circlets.
“I swear it by the tahweez. Firuzkoh exists, and the river will take you there. You will find it at the junction where two rivers meet.”
“Then why have the Talisman not taken it? If, as you say, they’ve taken the lands to the east?”
“They haven’t been able to find it. To enter the wrong pass is to be lost forever. But at the meeting place of two rivers, Firuzkoh will reveal itself to you. If I knew more, I would tell you more, Companion. But we are a cloistered people now, trapped by the Talisman, sealed inside our history.”
Arian did not doubt her sincerity. The woman’s lined face and tired eyes spoke of the horrors she had witnessed.
“Do you know where the caravan was heading?”
The healer shook her head. “They spoke to us only to beat us. The road was difficult and dry, with little in terms of provision. All I could tell is that we were headed north.”
The Wall was to the north.
But even the Talisman would not dare the Wall.
Or the Plague Lands held off by the Wall.
So where were they going? Arian found she had no answers.
“May peace be with you, my sister.”
“And with you, Companion. May you find safe passage into the mountains, if you dare to travel at all.”
Arian and Sinnia thanked her.
The Companions helped the women of the caravan onto the horses, apportioning the caravan’s food and water among them, then called the khamsa back to their sides.
Throughout this exercise, the boy with blue eyes stood by, quiet under the care of the healer, watchful as Arian spoke in conference with Sinnia.
“You saved my life, Hazara,” Sinnia said. “I shall not forget it.”
“That isn’t his name—it’s his tribe. Do you have a name of your own?” Arian asked the boy in his own tongue.
He hung his head without answering, the lash mark on his cheeks less vivid under the salve applied by the healer.
“How did you come to be on this road, recaptured by the Talisman? So close to the Citadel?”
Again, the boy did not speak.
“Were you following us?” Arian’s voice was gentle. “You said you would serve me blood and loss. Instead, you saved our lives. What kindness can I offer you in turn?”
The boy’s head swung up.
“I want to go with you.”
Had Arian been on any Audacy but this one, she would have granted the boy’s wish. She could have read his hunger for the most meagre affection from as far a distance as Candour.
“I am headed to a dangerous place. I would not risk your life there—it is precious to me.”
The boy blinked at the words, wiping his runny nose in a now-familiar gesture. She could see he didn’t believe her.
“Will you leave the horses and take the High Road?” he asked without expression.
She saw no harm in telling him the truth.
He kicked at a bloodstained patch of snow with his foot. Instead of boots, he was wearing a pair of threadbare shoes whose stitching had given way.
“The river flows west,” he said with a scowl. He pointed at Sinnia. “She is injured, she won’t be able to help. Hazara will help you fight the current.”
He was telling the truth. And Arian had not stopped to question Ghotai about the river.
“Have you been to the Turquoise Mountain? Do you know how to find the lost city?”
He shook his head. If he had ever been there, the boy had no memory of it.
“If you truly wish to come with us, first you must tell me your name.”
With a start of surprise, she saw that the boy was crying. He knuckled his eyes, ashamed, his face flooding with color.
And then Arian realized. The boy had no name. He had never been given a name. Born into slavery, all he’d ever known was the word Hazara used as an epithet, a mark of damnation.
She slid from her horse, to stand before the boy until he looked at her.
“I told you that your life is precious to me and I meant it. I would not willingly put you in harm’s way, but would you risk yourself at my side? A Companion’s journey is not an easy one.”
Nothing about this boy’s life had been easy.
He nodded, looking from her to Sinnia and back.
“Then you must have a name of your own. You have been loyal to me, so I would give you a noble name. I shall call you Wafa, my loyal friend, if you accept. The choice must be yours.”
The boy’s bright blue eyes stared through her, his breath ragged in his chest. Two tears slipped from his eyes, leaving tracks on his dusty face.
Arian wiped them away.
A sob escaped the boy’s throat.
“Wafa,” he said, when he could speak. “I am Wafa and I will be loyal.”
13
The craft they found by the water didn’t appear sturdy enough to combat the roll and pitch of the river that risked overruning its banks. Left moored by a peasant farmer, its flat, wide interior was used to transport livestock from one bank to the other. Cakes of ice had built up around the boat, preventing it from crashing onto the banks.
As there was no other choice, Arian and Wafa loaded the boat with their supplies while Sinnia watched, her arm still throbbing from the Talisman arrow. Before they had left the caravan, Arian had made Wafa exchange his clothes and shoes for new ones from the Talisman’s pack horses. Dressed in warm layers, the boy seemed prepared for the chill wind over the river.
When they were settled on the boat, Arian paused to bid the mares of the khamsa farewell.
Safanad nuzzled her palm in acknowledgment.
Arian helped Sinnia into their watercraft, then she and Wafa took up the paddles at the stern of the boat.
“I still think it would have been safer with the horses,” Sinnia grumbled.
The boy shook his head but didn’t speak.
“Well? Say something if you know anything.”
His blue eyes wide, he paddled harder.
“Talisman don’t like the water.”
As the boat tossed its way against the current, Arian pondered how the boy knew this. The river was narrow and deep, a dense green-brown crowded at its edges with the hard crust of snow, stones and debris bobbing into their path, brought down by snowmelt from the mud-packed hills. A brown-and-green country rose against a wasted sky, the harshness of the landscape also its sole beauty. The cry of a falcon sounded above them. As they made their way east, there were no people or livestock to be glimpsed.
The sun rose to its apex, warming them as they paddled. Arian shrugged off her cloak. Light from her circlets bounced off the hills to cast bright patterns on the water. She applied herself to the task of piloting the boat.
They paddled for several days, with few opportunities for rest.
As the days progressed, Sinnia lay back in the boat, exhausted by pain. Arian and the boy did not speak, nor did the boy complain about the task. Now and again, he would glance at Sinnia’s dark face and arms, but if she glanced up, he would wheel back around to the river, embarrassed to be caught staring at her.
The hills on either side became steeper as the river climbed alongside them. And then suddenly they were in the midst of rushing water.
The craft surged from side to side, jarring their bones as it rose before plunging back to the depths. The boat crested and fell a dozen times or more, cracking with each new thrust.
“Hold on!” Arian called to Sinnia. “I think I see a break ahead.”
Wavelets of foam began to form on the water. Propelled upward, the boat flew into the air, casting its passengers aloft. Arian and Wafa used the paddles to steady themselves against the pitch, benefiting more from luck than skill.
Each time the boat landed in the river, icy water sprayed its passengers.
By the time the boa
t rolled ahead into a tranquil pool of green, they were soaked, their teeth chattering. The pool mellowed, joined by a second stream. At the place where the rivers met, a mud-brick tower rose from the headwaters, casting a shadow over the boat.
Wafa steered their craft to the shallow waters at its base. With rope in hand, he leapt to the shore.
“Shorn Rock,” he said happily. “This is Shorn Rock.”
When you reach the hills known as Shorn Rock, you will find the guardian of the lost city, known as the Golden Finger. Read it well. It will show you the path through the hills.
These were stories of legend, stories her mother had recited to Arian as a child, some of the earliest memories she possessed. The same stories gave rise to the mythology of the Rising Nineteen. Despite the snow and the etiolated sun, there was warmth in the air.
The Golden Finger, the tower of the faithful, the minaret beyond the river.
I might have found this sooner, had I not spent a decade in the Talisman south.
Arian turned back to the boat, helping Sinnia from it before busying herself with supplies. But the tower drew her gaze again. It tilted off its vertical axis, resting upon an octagonal stone base, the tower crafted of ornamented stucco over baked brick. Less than halfway up its burgeoning column, a glazed band of blue ceramics gleamed above the still waters. At the top of the tower, a dull brass lantern could be glimpsed between a company of arches.
The tower was ancient, small flowers turning up their faces in the soft wind at its base. A few sheltered trees flourished in its wake, their leaves rising like a fan and spreading wide.
The tower was structured like a starscope, its four columns tucked inside each other in stages, the widest stage at the base, the narrowest at the top.
Arian pointed to the uppermost band.
The tower was inscribed with the written word in a place safe from the Talisman’s reach.
The Companions of Hira read the inscription.
There is no one but the One. And so the One commands.
A crumbling calligraphy pronounced other words, names, titles, and ages swallowed by the march of time, but it was the writing beneath the commandment that touched a chord of memory for Arian. A woman’s name was written there—the name of the Adhraa—a name that resonated through history, inherent to the Claim, even as the Talisman worked to scrub all other traces of the woman away.
If the name survived on this tower, it meant the lost city was safe.
Arian read the words that told the woman’s story, cheered by the small rebellion.
She withdrew from her family to a place in the east, keeping herself in seclusion.
Much of the writing was chipped away. Lower down, at the base of the tower, a formidable warning faced north.
How many generations were destroyed before yours? Do you see aught of them or hear of them now?
Arian sensed the power of the verse. The ground at her feet trembled beneath the eroding force of the rivers. The verse was a bewildering discovery like the Bloodprint itself, a gift to soften a perilous journey, a thing foreordained.
But Arian hadn’t known she would take the river. Or that its course would lead her to this place.
She read the band again, memorized the verse.
The last of the light was leaving the sky, the wind rising. It would be difficult to find passage through the hills in the dark. They needed shelter.
“Look,” Sinnia said, reading her thoughts. “The tower has two balconies. And look at the lantern at the top. There must be a way in, if someone hung that lantern there.”
Arian nodded and took up her pack while Wafa hoisted Sinnia’s and his own.
A wooden door was bolted against intruders. Before Arian could stop him, the boy threw his shoulder against it. It didn’t move.
“Let me,” said Sinnia. She murmured the inward incantation. The door gave way to muffled layers of darkness. They entered cautiously, Arian reading the musty passage as they moved.
The tower smelled of damp and peat, and something else, like candles burned in a ceremony of obeisance. A meagre light filtered through the windows. Ahead, a pair of staircases spiraled up to the balconies.
“This is far enough,” Arian said. “We’ll be warmer down here.”
Camped against the wall, they set out their bedding and built a small fire, the smoke escaping through cracks in the door.
Warm and well-fed, the boy seemed content. Arian prepared a tonic for Sinnia to drink, adding a measure of turmeric and ginger to ease the pain from Sinnia’s wound before she changed the dressing.
Wafa stared spellbound at Sinnia’s bare shoulder.
“He may be older than we think,” Sinnia teased. “He knows how to appreciate a woman.”
Wafa flushed. He took another piece of bread, hunching over the fire.
“I’m not sure why we brought him,” Sinnia said. “He doesn’t keep his hands clean.”
“Do not shame him,” Arian rebuked her. “He carried your load, he did your share of work. Without him we wouldn’t have gained the safety of the river. It was his strength that overcame the High Road.”
Sinnia was unabashed. “This country has strange names. In my land, the westward river is called the Tarius. Others know it as Arius.”
Arian nodded, resting her back against the minaret’s curved wall. “The people of the Aryaward, the southernmost lands, know it as the Horaya. They say the ancient people named it for one of their gods. The people of the Plague Lands called it the Tejen.”
Mention of the Plague Lands rattled Sinnia.
“To cross those lands would be to choose death for ourselves.”
Dismayed at the thought, Wafa looked from one woman to the other.
“Do not worry, Sinnia. The healer says there is a safe pass through the hills. Come the morning, we will search for it.”
“She also said the Turquoise City would rise around it,” Sinnia pointed out. “I don’t believe in folk tales.”
“Don’t you? ‘She withdrew from her family to a place in the east,’” Arian quoted. “Some would call the Claim a folk tale, no more than legend—with no proof it existed as the sacred teaching of a people.”
Sinnia’s dark eyes sparked in the firelight.
“You make a false comparison, Arian. The Claim is like race memory to us. We know who and what we are. When we hear the Claim, we know it for the truth.”
“Perhaps.” Unwilling to concede, but too weary to argue, Arian turned to Wafa. “Are you still hungry? We have plenty of stores and will hunt as we travel. Look. I brought something special from Hira.”
She opened her hand. A yellow-and-pink fruit sat in the middle of her palm.
“Take it,” she encouraged Wafa. “Its sweetness will surprise you.”
The boy reached for it. His ability to make deft, quick movements without encountering touch was a means of protecting himself. Now his teeth sank into the soft flesh of the apricot, his delight at its taste and texture obvious. He ate with care perhaps because he didn’t expect such generosity again.
Arian spoke to Sinnia in a quiet voice.
“How deeply the Talisman have wounded so many.”
“The boy is clever. You share the bloodline of Talisman tribes, but he doesn’t fear you. He can distinguish between a friend and an enemy. It’s the reason he’s still alive.”
Watching Wafa, Arian wondered what the boy’s life had been like before he’d been captured by the slavers. Had he ever had occasion to play, kicking a ball with friends or chasing a kite through the streets?
She didn’t think so. He’d known the exigence of killing—he’d killed for her once already. She had no wish to place the same choice before him again, though she knew the quest for the Bloodprint would claim something from each of them in time.
And that time would come swiftly. Each moment of delay would cost them.
Wafa watched her across the fire. She smiled at him and, almost as if guilty, he shut his eyes tight, slowly openi
ng them to look at her once more. Arian let him pretend he wasn’t watching her and settled in to sleep, puzzling over the verses embellished on the tower, wondering what the morning would bring, and where the Talisman militias were gathered now. How long would it be before they moved against Hira?
Just before her eyes closed, she thought of Daniyar.
14
The morning was bitterly cold. Snow fell in thick, white flakes that gilded the eaves of the tower. As Sinnia and Wafa fussed over breakfast, Arian climbed the stairs to the second balcony, seeking a glimpse of the hidden city. The staircase wound about a central pillar, narrow and cramped, sprouting landings at intervals lit up by lunettes. In contrast to the ornamentation of the exterior, the interior walls were a dim yellow brick.
From a tiny window, Arian could make out the ice-covered merging of the rivers, the tower shaking with a subterranean rumble. The plains of Khorasan stretched into the distance, the rugged hills rising in the west, their flanks polished by a diamond-bright snowfall. The path on one side of the river wound upward into blackness. Similar passes, alike in peril, rose from the opposite bank.
If the path to Firuzkoh could be found here, the minaret did nothing to mark it out.
Each conqueror who’d ascended these stairs in hopes of victory must have felt the same disappointment. A quick glance around showed there was no map to the lost city here, no signpost to Firuzkoh. The Golden Finger held its secrets close.
Arian climbed higher to reach the lantern, the narrowness of the staircase pressing against her shoulders, creating a sense of suffocation. It was a relief to reach the pinnacle, the slenderest stage of the starscope, a platform framed by arches, open to the elements. Suspended above the middle of the platform, the lantern hung from an iron rod welded to the tower, its glass surface blank and unvarnished. Arian peered at the lantern in vain. She’d hoped to be guided by further inscriptions.
Even an encrypted inscription.
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