The Bloodprint

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Angry at himself, he let her go.

  Shaken, she found herself craving even the contact that hurt her.

  She flattened her voice to hide her sense of turmoil.

  “I was sent on this Audacy by Ilea. Now I think I may have been meant to come here to discover the things Ilea keeps hidden.”

  The wind polished the traces of tears on her cheeks, turning her face into a mask.

  “You are right to accuse me, I did bring death to the Hazara.”

  “That isn’t what troubles you. You’ve killed before, you’ll do it again.”

  The words cut through her, incursions against her self-possession.

  He was reading her, scorching a trail wherever his eyes touched.

  “Don’t,” she said again. “I’ll tell you what you wish to know. I sent the women and children of the Hazara to the Citadel. But I cannot be sure Ilea will receive them.”

  “Mask will help. And Half-Seen.”

  He named the two Companions drawn from the ranks of the Hazara, relenting at her worry. This time the hand that touched her was gentle.

  “Do you have some reason to doubt the High Companion?”

  Arian drew in a breath. Should she tell him? Or should she hold back the truth for a moment when it would serve her better?

  He dropped his hand at once, reading the deception before she could decide on it.

  “You haven’t changed,” he said in disgust. “You still work everything according to your own schemes.”

  He reached for the waterskin on his horse, untwisting its tie with animal force, drinking without offering a drop to Arian.

  She closed her eyes in shame.

  When was the last time she had committed herself to another person without calculation? When had she last shared even a part of her struggle with another soul? Daniyar had been unequivocal about his ultimatum: Stay in Candour with me or find your way alone.

  She had ridden alone for ten years.

  She wasn’t an Augur. She couldn’t anticipate how the future would unfold. She didn’t know if the Bloodprint was anything other than myth or if she would ever find it. Nor did she know if the secret the Alamdar had confided would serve the purposes of Hira. She couldn’t be sure those purposes were still her own.

  If Ilea was in collusion with the Black Khan—and Psalm was convinced that the Citadel was at risk, both from within and without—who was left that she could she trust?

  Her shoulders sagged.

  For the first time in months, she felt young and alone and afraid.

  She had lost Daniyar once through her practiced deceptions. Yet he’d followed her regardless, heartbreak and promise in his hands.

  Before she could convince herself otherwise, she reached for him, words tumbling forth without further thought.

  “I fear that Ilea may not be acting in the interests of the Council. She devises Audacies for each Companion alone and in secret. None of us know the workings of the others.”

  Daniyar waited, unresponsive to her touch.

  If he mattered to Arian, she would have to say more. She wasn’t used to providing an account of her actions. She had used her rank as Companion of Hira to shield herself from intimacy. Now, as she struggled to find words Daniyar would accept, she realized the price she had paid was too high.

  You can be a Companion of Hira or you can be a woman who loves me. You cannot be both.

  Did he know how his silver eyes burned her? Would he ever offer his love again?

  A little lost, Arian said, “Sinnia thinks me jealous of Ilea—that I seek to become High Companion in her place. It isn’t true. I’ve had work that needed doing, work that Ilea neither dissuaded nor encouraged. I’ve been hunting Talisman since I left you in Candour.”

  He tried to free himself from her grasp. Arian held on fiercely.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t require a reminder.”

  “Then read the truth of this! Ilea admitted a man to the Council of Hira when I was last there. And not just any man—Rukh, the Black Khan!”

  This time Daniyar made no attempt to read Arian.

  “How is that possible?”

  “She made it possible. He was there to barter with her.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  Her heart smote her. She knew very well that she’d delivered the Sacred Cloak into the Black Khan’s hands. No one else could be held accountable for her disastrous choices.

  What could he possibly think of her now?

  “The Sacred Cloak. He takes the Cloak to Ashfall.”

  Daniyar fell silent, working out the reasons for the Black Khan’s course of action.

  “And what was the High Companion promised in exchange?”

  They spoke of everything, except what was necessary between them. And they found themselves at a place of truth.

  She murmured the words like a confession.

  “The Bloodprint.”

  Now it was Daniyar’s hand that gripped hers, his palm rough and firm.

  Sensation shivered through her body. It was an effort to remember the rest.

  “The Black Khan promised her the Bloodprint.”

  19

  On the ramparts of the Citadel, the Citadel Guard conducted a series of exercises, the small patrol led by Azmaray, the soldier who’d served as an escort to Arian.

  The Black Khan watched the patrol work through its maneuvers with a slight frown on his face, smoke curling into the indigo sky from a slender cheroot between his lips. Ilea joined him, dressed in blue silk, small blue flowers worked through her unbound hair.

  He touched a hand to one of the flowers, then let it fall.

  “Where are your senior commanders? Your patrols are lacking in every sense—numbers, skill, discipline.”

  “The business of Hira is none of the Black Khan’s concern.”

  “If you leave your Citadel defenceless, it becomes my concern. You house one of the few remaining scriptoria. And you’ve just admitted a flock of refugees.”

  Ilea’s lips tightened. “And what would you have me do? Gainsay the First Oralist, when her Companions are gathered here? Mask and Half-Seen are Hazara. If I’d sealed the gates, they would have chosen to leave with their people. I cannot afford to lose a single Companion. When the Talisman attack, I will need every one of them.”

  She heard herself offering explanations where none were due, heard the weakness of the words, and realized she’d underestimated Rukh’s ability to sway her. She wanted to please him, a feebleness that undermined her stature as High Companion.

  The Black Khan’s arrogance was part of his allure, but turned against her like this, it was less pleasing. And she had not forgotten his response to Arian, his hooded eyes intent.

  “Trust me to know my own purposes. The invocations of the Claim will defend the Citadel until my commanders return.”

  Rukh turned to her. His cheroot blew smoke in her face, but when she took a step back, he caught her by the waist and pulled her close.

  “And where have you sent them, Ilea? If you wish Ashfall for an ally, you will need to be a little more forthcoming.”

  “An ally should know his place. Hira is not the Black Khan’s fiefdom.” With a dismissive gesture, she freed herself from his grip. “My falcon has returned with news of Arian—I presume that is where your true interest lies.”

  He crushed his cheroot beneath his boot, his cruel face alert.

  “You sound jealous,” he said. “My interest is pragmatic. I seek to know if your plans are well laid and are destined for fruition. Will she carry out this Audacy? Will she find her way behind the Wall?”

  “Or die in the attempt.” The High Companion moved away, her gaze sweeping over the plains of Khorasan. “Though it won’t come to that, I hope. There’s been a complication. Arian has found a helpmate.”

  Rukh followed her down the rampart. In the distance, the river wound ahead, a thread of green that disappeared into mud-brown ravines.

  “You sent the
dark one with her, though she is inexperienced and of little use.”

  Whatever her own motives, Ilea disliked hearing the Companions spoken of as pawns in the Black Khan’s game. She took a certain satisfaction in giving him her news.

  “Besides Sinnia. The First Oralist is now joined by the Silver Mage.”

  The words provoked an unanticipated response.

  Rukh wound his hands in her hair, crushing the blue flowers. He pulled the long strands tight around her throat.

  “Do not lie to me, Ilea. It doesn’t become you.”

  Rage flared in the High Companion’s eyes. Her hands flew together and apart, striking at hidden cadences of the Claim.

  The Black Khan’s hands were wrenched away, his palms scored and bloodied. He held them up in surrender, a smile curling the edge of his lips.

  “Forgive me, High Companion,” he murmured. “I did not mean to offend.”

  Ilea’s voice was cold.

  “I’ve indulged your presence at Hira as a courtesy. But do not set hands upon me again.”

  She signaled the Citadel Guard to escort her back into the depths of the Citadel.

  Rukh spoke to her back.

  “And should you ask me to, High Companion? Do I dare refuse you, then?”

  His mocking laughter followed her on the wind.

  20

  Daniyar and Arian rode on in silence. She asked nothing of the route east, he asked nothing further of the Bloodprint. As Authenticate, he knew she was telling the truth, and for the moment that was enough.

  They rode from ridge to ridge, the black stallion steady under the weight of two riders, the light breaking across the landscape in filaments of amber. The air tasted crisp, unsullied by the death the soundlessness represented. After a time, Arian picked out the striped wings of Ilea’s falcon against the sky.

  “Ilea tracks me.”

  “I know. I found your trail by following her falcon. Saqar remembers me. Look there.” The falcon dipped low against the unvarying ridges. “Saqar has found us our path.”

  A spangle of green broke out against the snow, catching the light on its fluted rills. The High Road, contracting its passage through channels of ice.

  “You will find your friends there. Though you are wrong to take the boy with you.”

  Arian was tired from holding herself aloof in the saddle. She let herself slump forward, forcing Daniyar to take her weight. The impact of her body would be negligible to a rider of Daniyar’s skill, and she wanted the chance to savor his warmth. She placed one hand on his arm, testing its strength.

  He relaxed in her embrace. She knew a stroke of pure joy at how perfectly she fit against him, suppleness to suppleness, the scent of wild mint in the dark fall of his hair.

  “I couldn’t abandon him. The Talisman captured him twice on my trail.”

  She could feel Daniyar’s voice rumble through his back, sending sparks along her nerve endings.

  “He chooses to go with you? When he could have remained behind with the Hazara?”

  “I think he was stolen from them young and knows nothing of them. He doesn’t recall if he was given a Hazara name. He has no family.”

  Daniyar turned his head. She caught the curve of his smile against his beard.

  “So you named him, of course. What name?”

  “Wafa, the loyal. Was he with Sinnia at the river?”

  “He was causing no end of trouble to your friend, desperate to return to you, doubtless.” His voice was wry. “It seems time has not dimmed your enchantment.”

  Arian stifled a smile against his back. If he could remember something other than betrayal— A flutter of hope pulsed through her chest. Greatly daring, she drew away his hood, her fingers tracing the nape of his neck. Her hand moved sideways, probing the contours where leather met skin.

  “The boy should see you as one of the Talisman,” he said, his voice suddenly deeper. “Why doesn’t he?”

  “I killed the guards who enslaved him.”

  If she were to confide in the Silver Mage about the Bloodprint, it would have to be before they reached the others. And perhaps it was better that he couldn’t see the rise of color in her face.

  “The Black Khan claims to have seen the Bloodprint. One of his men brought it to Ashfall, but his spy was intercepted and the Bloodprint disappeared. Rukh says his men will help me track it from Marakand.”

  “You call him Rukh?”

  There was a studied quietness in Daniyar’s voice. Arian’s hand stilled on his shoulder.

  She thought of her encounter with the Black Khan. He’d known about the Cloak, almost before she’d determined to take it.

  “It is both his name and his symbol. He called me Arian before the Council.”

  The tendons in Daniyar’s neck tightened.

  “How typical of his insolence. Did he feel himself encouraged?”

  Arian bent her forehead to his neck. He didn’t pull away.

  His skin was cool and firm to her touch. The faint tang of pomegranate mingled with the scent of wild mint, masculine and sweet. She wanted to press her mouth to the sensitive skin of his nape. She choked back the thought of where her longings would take her.

  “You know that I wouldn’t.” She bit her lip, remembering the spell the Black Khan had woven in the scriptorium. “I permitted his familiarity because I needed to know why he’d come to Hira.”

  The black stallion lifted his head. He could smell the river now. He galloped ahead, causing her to slide against Daniyar. Daniyar held her in place with a hand on her knee. Warmth coiled through her body at the touch.

  They reached the green twist of the river, the stallion snorting through his nostrils, tossing back his head. Arian patted him in thanks, dismounting swiftly to put distance between herself and Daniyar. She was beginning to lose the sense of her Audacy.

  Daniyar followed suit, rubbing the stallion’s flanks with agile movements that Arian watched in silence.

  He freed the horse of encumbrances. The stallion picked his way down the ridge.

  Arian considered two questions.

  Did Daniyar intend to journey at her side? And what did he know of the mountains?

  21

  Arian looked over the barge. It was large enough to accommodate their supplies, while sleek enough to navigate the river’s narrower tributaries. Sinnia and Wafa were waiting by the craft. They embraced each other with joy, the boy ignoring Daniyar.

  It was dusk and the temperature had fallen.

  She grasped Wafa’s hands, warmed by the contact.

  “You are safe. And you helped your people, yes?”

  He pointed at Sinnia.

  “She is my people. You are my people.”

  He made no mention of Daniyar. Arian tried not to smile.

  “Well,” she said lightly. “I’m glad you are here. I wouldn’t wish to face the mountains on my own.”

  She turned a questioning glance on Daniyar, who’d used the time to set up a makeshift meal, a warmed-up lamb stew with tawa bread, heated over a fire inside a ring of stones. He doled out a portion to the boy, who took it without thanking him.

  Arian shook her head.

  “I see I shall have to make proper introductions. It’s time I told Sinnia who you are.”

  At Daniyar’s nod, she withdrew a small object from the depths of his pack. It was bound in black leather, a silver inscription worked into its surface in a brilliant, discursive design. Two letters in the High Tongue formed a single word on its cover. Letters Sinnia hadn’t seen except in the crumbling of minarets or the shattering of blue tile.

  “You have a copy of the Claim,” the younger Companion whispered. She stared at Daniyar, bewildered. “Then why? Why do you aid us in our quest for the Bloodprint?”

  “If it was the Claim, I wouldn’t risk your safety through Talisman territory.” He finished his meal, setting it aside. His gaze strayed to Arian. “Tell her, if you wish.”

  Arian pressed the surface of the book to her
forehead, then to her lips. Flames cast a muted reflection over its burnished surface, dancing points of gold over silver.

  “Why do you kiss it, if it is not the Claim?” Sinnia persisted.

  “Look,” Arian said, turning the pages with delicate hands. “I haven’t touched a book in so long. The Candour feels—as beautiful as I remember it.”

  “The Candour?” The name trembled on Sinnia’s tongue. She edged closer to the book, the line of her mouth going slack. “The Candour is a fable, the book of the Silver Mage.” Her voice faltered in disbelief. “There is no Silver Mage.”

  “Isn’t there?” Arian asked with a smile. She was looking at Daniyar.

  Slowly, Sinnia raised her head from the Candour. She took note of silver eyes, of the quiet strength in the face of the man who had just prepared and served her meal. She now discerned what she’d missed before—the hint of hidden nobility.

  She flashed a horrified glance at Arian.

  “My lord, forgive me,” she managed. “I meant no disrespect—I didn’t know.”

  “Companion,” he said, with a courteous nod. “You showed me no incivility. And if we are to travel together, it is best to dispense with titles.”

  “My lord, I cannot—”

  “Your friend calls me Daniyar, a name I am fond of.”

  “But you are the Silver Mage,” she whispered, half-doubting herself. She gestured at the book, her dark eyes glistening with hope. “Tell me, what does it teach?”

  “The duties of the Silver Mage. The powers that come with the guardianship of Candour.”

  The words meant nothing to Wafa. Oblivious, he reached for another helping of stew. Mortified, Sinnia thumped him on the back.

  “What?” The boy looked up.

  “Thank the Silver Mage for rescuing us. And for feeding you with his own hands.”

  Wafa shrugged. “I don’t know what a Silver Mage is.” He filled his bowl, unconcerned. Sinnia stared from Arian to Daniyar, scandalized. Arian was smiling, her head brushing Daniyar’s shoulder, something else for Sinnia to ponder.