The Bloodprint

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  The sandy-haired girl spoke.

  “How do you know our language?”

  It was Irb, the language of the clouds, the tongue of the mountains, found in the Wandering Cloud Door.

  “Do you speak any of the languages of Khorasan?” Arian asked her.

  The women conferred among themselves. A much older woman with gliding green eyes and a crooked smile introduced herself.

  “I am Tochtor. Some of us know the language of the Talisman, but we keep our knowledge secret to aid in our escape.”

  Arian switched to the Common Tongue so that Sinnia might follow along, keeping her voice low.

  “How did you come to be captured by the Talisman?”

  The women seated Arian and Sinnia in the center of the tent, running their hands over the Companions’ strange clothes, smiling as they showed the Companions the jewelry and decoration they had pieced to their own clothes.

  “We were with the winter caravan. A storm came and separated us from our men. We strayed to the Sorrowsong in error, where we were captured by Talisman scouts.”

  “Have these men used you?” Arian asked.

  Tochtor shook her head. Arian sensed a purposeful waiting.

  “They’ve been on patrol for a fortnight. There was some disturbance in the passes, they were caught out in the storm. Tonight, the patrols returned.”

  The two women shared a bleak look.

  “I’m too elderly to interest them, so I serve in other ways.” She nodded at the sandy-haired girl. “A few they have said they will not touch because they intend to barter them later. But tonight they will come.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Their Commandhan came to our tent. He told us to make ourselves ready because his men had earned a reward.”

  Arian muttered a prayer under her breath. If she was to save these women from the Talisman, she and Daniyar would have to set their plan in motion sooner than anticipated.

  “Would that you had not fallen in their way. The pair of you are too beautiful to remain untouched.” Tochtor gestured at Sinnia. “She is unlike any of the women here—they will want her. But you—” Their eyes met and held. “Their captain will not share you. He is a better man than the rest. If you obey his will, he will keep you from the others. The boy is lost, I’m afraid. Turan cannot countermand his Commandhan’s orders.”

  Tochtor recounted her advice in a calm, unhurried voice that left Arian silent with amazement. In two weeks, Tochtor had taken the measure of her captors, understanding them far better than they supposed. And as gentle as the women gathered about them were, there was a harshness to them, as well, a forbearance.

  They may have been victimized by forces they were powerless to oppose but they were resolute about their fate.

  “You haven’t tried to escape?”

  “There is no need. My son is coming. We simply prepare the way for him.”

  Tochtor fingered the silver medallions at her throat.

  “Your son?”

  “Zerafshan. He is Lord of the Wandering Cloud Door, Lord of the Buzkashi. He will come for us.” She leaned forward, her hand on Arian’s arm. “Turan is not an evil man. It was he who decided my two youngest must not be touched. If Sartor wanted them, they wouldn’t have been spared, whereas Turan is harsh before his men, but does not command them to unnecessary cruelty. That is in their own savage natures.”

  “It is the Talisman law that has warped its people.”

  Tochtor nodded. “We have long since concluded that the Talisman are a blight. And the Commandhan preys upon children.”

  “Wafa is not the first?” Sinnia asked.

  Tochtor lowered her voice. “Sartor broke the body of the last one. He threw him from the mountain.”

  Arian knew his cruelty wouldn’t end there. “The captain’s intervention will not be enough to save your youngest. There are too many soldiers and too few of you. Even should Turan resist their wishes, the Commandhan may gainsay him. We must escape now. I will see Sartor dead before I allow him to harm Wafa.”

  The sandy-haired girl approached them.

  “How will you escape? The man who brought you here chained you.”

  She ran her hands over the slave bracelets.

  “This is Storay,” Tochtor said. “My youngest daughter.”

  Arian was taken by the woman’s unruffled calm. For a fortnight, she had borne her captivity with grace, knowing that circumstances could change at any moment, leaving Storay vulnerable to a harrowing fate.

  Arian nodded at Sinnia. Sinnia jiggled her cuffs, careful not to make a sound. The bracelets shifted until the catch found the groove and came apart. Sinnia buried the cuffs in her pack. She hastened to undo Arian’s cuffs.

  Before the astonished eyes of the women gathered round, Arian and Sinnia removed the packs they had kept hidden beneath their cloaks.

  “Some warriors,” Sinnia said. “They couldn’t be bothered to search us. Wafa, come.”

  Arian glanced at Sinnia, freeing her daggers from the pack. She strapped them to the belt at her waist. She had given her sword to Daniyar before attempting entrance to the Sorrowsong.

  “They had no reason not to trust a member of their tribe. If they had searched us, it would have insulted Daniyar. The captain wouldn’t have wanted to risk that, given that Daniyar is Shin War.”

  “So do our traditions undo us,” Sinnia murmured. She passed two of her knives to Wafa, who took them with the injured expression of a whipped cur. His wild hair was combed, his hands and face clean, his eyes lined with kohl. He found his way to Arian’s side. Arian turned to Tochtor. “Can you help us? What can you tell me about the men who guard this tent?”

  Tochtor quelled the whispers of her kin with a look.

  “Two guard the front, two the rear. There is no path across the camp from the rear. We are on the steep side of the plateau. Behind the tent, the drop is thousands of feet deep.” Her green eyes took Arian’s measure. “We would do better to wait for my son and his men. How can the two of you take on so many soldiers? You will stand no chance against them.”

  Arian considered the same question. She had no doubt that she and Sinnia could kill the men who guarded the tent, but what of the men gathered outside?

  She risked another glance through the tent flap. His meal finished, Daniyar was engaged with the captain. But there was no sign of the promised gift of lajward.

  Yet now she must consider whether they still needed it.

  If she could deliver the women of the Wandering Cloud Door safely to their lord, would she not have won his gratitude? Would he not allow her small party to cross his territory to reach the Damson Vale? Perhaps he would even aid them.

  But Daniyar had been adamant about the customs of the people of the mountain. She couldn’t be certain that rescue would be enough or that it would be successful.

  What if her actions precipitated greater violence against the women in the tent? What if they were killed during her attempt to escape? It was possible the Lord of the Cloud Door would hold Arian responsible.

  Arian looked from Wafa to Sinnia, to the faces of the women. She didn’t want to use the boy as a killer, but she needed his hand at her side.

  The men outside were restless. How long could the courtesies of their captain hold them back?

  She considered whether the women of the Cloud Door had been spared the assault of the Talisman because Turan had sent his men on patrol. Could they hope for an ally in this captain?

  Turan had claimed Arian for himself, but he hadn’t touched her. He had shown no similar regard for Sinnia, offering her up to his men.

  Arian’s thoughts slowed. She retraced Turan’s comments to Daniyar.

  He hadn’t offered Sinnia to his men.

  He’d said his men would draw lots for her.

  And what of his words to Wafa?

  You should not have been Hazara. Nor should your eyes have been blue.

  What were the captain’s true intentions? Where d
id his loyalties lie?

  “Tochtor. Was Captain Turan among the men who took you captive?”

  The old woman thought for a moment.

  “No. We were brought here by his men. Had it not been for the storm, they wouldn’t have waited so long.”

  “What happened when you reached camp? What did Captain Turan do? Was he angry?”

  “Why would he be angry?” Tochtor’s tone was imperious. “With such a prize in his grasp, as the mother and sisters of the Lord of the Mountains, servants of the Eternal Blue Sky?” She traced the layered strands of crimson beads at her bosom, striking the silver jointures with her knuckles. “He was calm about our capture. He looked us over, one by one. It seemed—” She frowned in reflection.

  “What?” Arian asked.

  “It seemed as if he was counting us.”

  But to what end?

  “Sartor joined him. And promised the women to his troops. He said there should be a banquet to celebrate their conquest. But in truth, he seemed to have no idea where we came from or what we were doing in the passes beyond the Sorrowsong.”

  “What did the captain do?”

  “Annar,” Tochtor called.

  Another pretty girl with a moon-shaped face and inquisitive eyes stepped forward. Her heavy-lidded eyes shone like obsidian. Arian studied her, puzzled.

  “Turan told his Commandhan that Storay and Annar must be set aside as gifts to the Immolan. When the spring thaw came, he said they would be sent to a city in the south. And then he told the Commandhan the banquet would have to wait because he needed his men to patrol the western borders. He didn’t say why.”

  “Did he speak to you at all?”

  Tochtor considered this. “No. But in my hearing he told Sartor that my presence would calm the girls, preparing them for his soldiers.”

  “Did the captain frequent your tent?”

  “No. He set a guard and he told them—” Her voice trailed off, sinking beneath the weight of revelation. “He said that if they dishonored us, their lives would be forfeit to the tribe.”

  Dishonored.

  A curious choice of words for a man who was sworn to the Talisman.

  27

  It was obvious to Arian that the Talisman had sent Turan to oversee the extraction of lajward from the Sorrowsong, and that Sartor was little more than a figurehead—Turan was the man they trusted to deliver the stone.

  As such, Turan ran his camp as the Talisman would have run it, yet without any evidence of the Talisman flag. He was a man of contradictions, doing what was expected within his tribal structure—subjecting the laborers to hardship and disdain, obeying the commands of a lesser man because he was more highly placed in the tribal hierarchy, delivering Wafa to the corrupt desires of his commander—yet he appeared to work a secret agenda, as well.

  Who was he? Arian wondered. And what did he want?

  Would he stand with or against his men?

  The noise in the camp was growing louder, the men becoming unruly.

  Her eye to the flap, Arian watched Turan raise Daniyar to his feet. With a stoic face, Turan gestured at the women’s tent.

  “The old woman will help you choose. They do not speak the Common Tongue, but that should not trouble you.”

  The men clustered around the campsite murmured their approval of his words.

  Daniyar ignored them.

  “Before I consider my own pleasure, I must see that the needs of the Immolan are met.”

  Turan hesitated. The Immolan’s representative had surprised him. But he couldn’t refuse the request.

  “Perzo,” he called. “Bring the Immolan’s gift.”

  A scowling man with a heavy brow ambled away to the other tent. He reappeared a few moments later bearing a sturdy, wooden tray covered with a coarse cloth. He brought the tray to Turan, who whisked the cloth away.

  Arian stifled the sound in her throat.

  The tray bore three substantial pieces crafted from the stone of heaven.

  The first was a puzzle box that turned green in the flickering light of the flames. It was carved from sabz, the least valuable form of lajward.

  The second was a ewer with a graceful, scooped neck and a long, narrow spout. Set into its side was a dark green medallion, intricately marked. It gave the impression of solidity. Its hue was a pale blue, closer to the early sky of morning, and named asmani after it.

  The third was a finely carved key, a rich indigo in color, large enough to spill over the palms of a man. Streaks of white glimmered from within its depths, like the perforation of stars against the evening sky. This was neeli, the true stone of heaven.

  These were not frivolous gifts, chosen of a moment. They were something Sartor had selected for the Immolan.

  But as a bribe . . . or something else?

  “Please present these to the Immolan with gratitude for his support of the Shin War.” Turan nodded at the key. “He would value the dark stone most. It is most representative of what is mined at the Sorrowsong.”

  Daniyar tested the weight of the key in his hands.

  “The Immolan has seen other veins destroyed by careless blasting.”

  The men grew impatient, speaking to each other over Daniyar’s words.

  Arian could see that the captain was considering his next move. He held a hand up to silence his men.

  “We’ve been careful at the Sorrowsong. We select the spot to be quarried, then kindle a fire to make the rock soft. When it has achieved the texture we call nurm, the rock is beaten with hammers. The process is long and exacting, the layers are peeled back flake by flake. Peasants are sent to seek out the stone, but skilled men work the stone. They pick out grooves around the lajward, using hooked bars to detach the stone from its matrix. We take the utmost care to exploit each vein to the fullest.”

  “How do you light fires at this altitude?”

  “The flame is fed by dry furze—we send patrols into the passes for this purpose. It burns better than anything else. Even then we require vast quantities of it.” There was a curious hesitation in his voice. “Does that satisfy the Immolan’s representative?”

  Daniyar nodded. “The Immolan will know how to value the Commandhan’s generosity.”

  Though whether generosity could be attributed to the Commandhan, when other hands had worked the stone, and other lives been spent in pursuit of it in the quarries, was a matter for debate.

  Arian knew these distinctions would be irrelevant to the Immolan.

  The wind began to howl through the camp, a sinister sound that echoed off the mountains. A lament composed more of warning than sorrow.

  “The Sorrowsong,” Turan explained. “It gives the mountain its name.”

  “I would think it would drive men mad.”

  At the fires behind him, the men stirred angrily.

  “Will you choose now?” Turan requested, his words formal. “It would be an insult to refuse a gift under normal circumstances, but you have seen Commandhan Sartor. If you would prefer one of the women sent by the Immolan, it will cause no offence if you take none in return.”

  “And after I have chosen?” Daniyar kept his voice neutral, hiding his surprise. He turned to look at the women’s tent. A rumble of laughter passed through the camp.

  “There are private quarters, if you prefer. My men wait upon your choice.”

  It was a signal to Daniyar to act. Daniyar took it as such.

  He strode to the women’s tent, dismissing the guards at its entrance. The women inside were gathered near the back at Arian’s instruction. Sinnia had dispatched the two guards who flanked the rear. Taken by surprise, they had fallen without a sound.

  Daniyar’s sweeping glance assessed the situation.

  “Hide the girls at the back. Wafa, stand before them as a shield. The soldiers are about to descend on this tent. Arian, I will take you to the center of the camp, where I will ask Turan for use of his quarters. Take your quiver back from me, Sinnia, and empty it when I do. Take out the war
riors first. That will give us time to summon the Claim.”

  Tochtor reached for Arian’s hand.

  “This is madness. You cannot save us like this. You must wait for my son.”

  “We no longer have the luxury of choice. I will not allow the Talisman to dishonor your daughters.”

  Tochtor’s face hardened.

  “I think you underestimate our ability to resist.”

  “I think you underestimate the power of the Claim. This is not a debate.”

  Daniyar closed the subject by taking Arian’s arm. He drew her out of the tent. He sealed the flap behind him, so the men in the camp could not see. With careless strength, he led Arian to the center of the camp.

  “Show me the way,” he said to Turan.

  For the first time, Turan looked at Arian directly, her skin pale as moonlight, her eyes that shone like cut crystal, the delicate set of her head. When she met his gaze with the force of her own, recognition flared in his eyes.

  Turan knew who she was.

  He studied the leather collar at her throat.

  She opened her mouth to issue the Claim . . .

  He made no move to stop her.

  An arrow whistled through the air, followed by another. The men roared to their feet in surprise. Two guards stumbled into the women’s tent. They were met by the quick flash of Sinnia’s knives. The air filled with the sound of flying arrows.

  A sword appeared in Daniyar’s hand and in Turan’s.

  Neither man moved.

  Bellowing with rage, the Talisman guards advanced on the tent.

  Sartor appeared at the entrance of his tent, startled and confused.

  “Turan!” he shouted.

  The captain raised his sword.

  The Claim began to swell within Arian’s throat.

  Before it could take shape, a new sound thundered across the plateau. The drumbeat of horses’ hooves, accompanied by a cacophony of horns.

  The horns were nothing like the sound of the Talisman horn that had greeted them earlier. Richer and fuller, the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, the depths of the mountain, the sky above them, the crackling lick of the fire, the shadows of night.

  The Talisman guards wheeled in confusion.