The Bloodprint

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  “My lord Zerafshan, we need your protection through these lands. We risked the pass to the Sorrowsong, so that we might find the way to your valley. We hoped your people would aid us. When we found your women taken by the Talisman, we knew it for a sign.”

  She gestured at Daniyar.

  “The Silver Mage is an Authenticate. He will confirm the truth of my words.”

  The Aybek was not a fool. He had witnessed the power of her words upon his men. They gazed at the First Oralist with awe. Altan clung to Zelgai’s side.

  The Buzkashi bowed their heads, whispering the word sahabiya to each other.

  Zerafshan withdrew the tip of his sword from Daniyar’s neck. He sheathed it without taking his eyes from Arian. He chose the Common Tongue for his apology.

  “We didn’t know the legend was real. Forgive me, sahabiya.”

  “My name is Arian, and this is Sinnia. You would honor us by taking our names.”

  “The honor is mine, sahabiya. I took you for a woman of the Talisman, instead of what you are.”

  Daniyar answered him.

  “A Companion of Hira, First Oralist of the Claim.”

  The whispers in the camp redoubled.

  “First Oralist.”

  “The First Oralist comes from Hira to save us.”

  “Our prayers are heard.”

  “We are blessed to stand before her.”

  The Aybek nodded, his eyes canny.

  “Very few know our valley exists. The passes to the Cloud Door are closed most of the year. Your reasons for coming must have been urgent. Have you come to teach us?”

  Arian bit her lip, an act the Aybek followed with close attention. Daniyar shifted closer to her, and Zerafshan threw back his head and laughed, his voice booming through the mountains. He slapped the Silver Mage on the shoulder.

  “She may belong to herself, but you would have her belong to you. Has she refused you?”

  There was a twist in Daniyar’s voice when he replied. “She refuses me still.”

  The other man slapped his shoulder again, a broad smile on his face.

  “You are not Lord of the Buzkashi, perhaps your enticements are fewer. I offer her the honor of reigning in my valley. Storay, share with the Companion the first of my wedding gifts.”

  At the Aybek’s command, the girl approached Arian. Not as she had first done, with curiosity and warmth. Now Storay’s attentions were hushed and respectful, a shift that reflected the stature of the Companions.

  “Come to the tent,” Storay said. “If you would see the Shin War captain.”

  Arian’s eyes sought out Zerafshan’s face. He shrugged.

  “The man of the Shin War was valued by you. I give his life to you as a gift.”

  “How can you gift me his life?” Arian protested in disbelief. “You killed him before my eyes.”

  Though the Buzkashi shouted their laughter, the Aybek troubled himself to explain.

  “A feint, nothing more. My men know a thousand means of killing. This was the slow death, permitting intercession.”

  Arian stared at him, unconvinced. His smile hardened at the edges.

  “Come, First Oralist. Just as Hira holds its secrets close, so do the warriors of the Cloud Door. We do not share our stratagems of war.”

  And Arian asked herself what the Aybek knew of Hira. And why he spoke of war. Again, her thoughts returned to Psalm’s warning. What had happened at Hira in her absence? Had Ilea prepared this ground for her in the Cloud Door to see Arian successful in her Audacy, or did the Aybek of the Cloud Door know of the workings of Hira for other reasons?

  “Go,” the Aybek said gently. “See him for yourself.”

  Arian caught the words he seemed to mutter to himself.

  “And perhaps then you will tell me why he matters.”

  29

  If they had thought the trek to the Sorrowsong treacherous, it was a trifle compared to the journey from the encampment. First, the Aybek had asked her what she wished him to do with the captives, the laborers who hadn’t fallen or fled.

  “Let them go,” Arian said. “They did not seek this life, nor will they trouble you.”

  “Very well, but they will perform a service for me first. My men require a share of bounty.”

  He sent the men into the mines with instructions to return laden with the stone they had carved from the mountains. Once this task was accomplished, he set the laborers loose.

  Sartor’s corpse received no such mercy. The orders of the Yeke Khatun were carried out, his body nailed to the drift mouth as a warning to whoever captured the Sorrowsong next.

  “They will think it the work of the Zai Guild. The Zai Guild will call it a Shin War rebellion among the ranks,” Zerafshan said.

  Arian caught the slight flare of Daniyar’s eyes. He knew what the Aybek did not—rebellion among the Shin War was unthinkable. No member of the tribe would betray another.

  “And what would you have me do with your captain? This fine soldier who concerns himself with the fate of women?”

  Arian had visited Turan in the tent. The cut on his throat was not as treacherous as it had seemed, but he lay unconscious and she would not leave him to an uncertain fate at the Sorrowsong. Turan would not thank her for it, but she could see no other solution than to take him with them. Even then, jostled on a horse along passes bound by snow, where death or harm could come in an instant, Turan might not survive.

  Arian wasn’t sure that any of them would.

  “May we take him with us? I will tend him myself.”

  “Would you ride with him, Arian? Perhaps a man without his senses is no threat to you.”

  She was startled by the use of her name, the sound of it in Zerafshan’s mouth. She imagined the Claim in the rich tones of his voice. How evocative and meaningful it would be. And then she understood the sense of his words.

  Like the Black Khan, the Lord of the Buzkashi had his own attractions, an undeniable charm. But she was chaste, as a Companion of Hira was required to be. She could not think of men.

  And even if she didn’t deceive herself and did so, she would think of the man she had loved in Candour, the man who risked himself for her without the slightest promise in return.

  Her thoughts turned to Turan. There was a connection between them, one she couldn’t explain. If they survived the trek to the Cloud Door, she would have to seek the answers.

  She worried also that she had nothing to barter with the Lord of the Cloud Door. The Buzkashi had effected a rescue without her aid. The Aybek had taken the lajward he wanted from the mines. What could they barter in exchange for passage to the Damson Vale? She didn’t know whether to take his attentions seriously. Nor could she barter herself.

  The Buzkashi had brought horses in their train, and these they loaned out to Arian’s company. The women of the Cloud Door rode with their men. Zerafshan offered a seat on his horse to Arian.

  “It would not be meet,” she said to him, flustered by his affectionate smile. “A Companion of Hira may not ride with a man.”

  She watched Daniyar mount his horse with an effortless grace and thought, unless that man is the Silver Mage.

  But she was heartened by the knowledge that the Buzkashi suffered women to ride, nay, expected them to, as the Yeke Khatun rode alone beside her son. Everywhere she had seen scenes of tender reunion between the Buzkashi and their women.

  It gave her reason to hope.

  “I would ride with this golden lion,” Sinnia muttered to Wafa. “But does he look at me? Does any man when Arian is present?”

  Instead, she and the boy shared one of the barrel-chested horses. The boy ducked his head at her words, for his eyes tracked Arian on her mount.

  The Aybek scooped up his sister from the ground to settle her on his horse instead of Arian, his stallion quiet beneath his hands. Sinnia spurred her horse forward, closing the distance between herself and Zerafshan, leaving Arian to follow the Silver Mage.

  “Your stallion is not
like the others, Aybek. How does he survive in the mountains?”

  Zerafshan reached out a hand to the bridle of Sinnia’s horse, bringing her closer yet.

  “Aiyaruk was bred from a long line of mountain dwellers known as the jorgo. Their lungs have adapted to these altitudes. The jorgo run fast and wild through our valley. My men ride a breed we call kuluk. They are known for their stamina.” His eyes traced Sinnia’s dark skin, fascinated by it. “They came down from our legends as dragonhorses.”

  “Dragonhorses,” Sinnia echoed, the name familiar to her. “With flame-red coats.”

  “Their talents would surprise you,” the Aybek said.

  Wafa squeezed her waist, a smile breaking out on his face.

  “Ghost cats and dragonhorses,” he said.

  “You know of the ghost cats?” Zerafshan asked them.

  “When we were lost in the storm, a ghost cat led us to safety. She was drawn to Arian.”

  Zerafshan looked over to where Daniyar and Arian rode in close congress, Turan’s body saddled on a kuluk horse between them.

  “The Companion is most compelling.”

  Sinnia sighed and reminded Zerafshan of Arian’s status. “Do not spend your thoughts on her, Aybek. She is duty-bound, she will take no man as consort.”

  “What of the Silver Mage? He has marked her for himself, I can tell.”

  “That changes nothing. And if he can’t win her after laying down his life, there isn’t much hope for a man from the clouds, even one such as you.” She grinned at him, nudging their horses together. “You stand a better chance with a woman of the Negus—a fearsome woman like me.”

  The Aybek laughed, pleased with her daring, but Sinnia was not certain she had meant it as a jest.

  “There will be a need to barter,” he agreed. “If you truly require passage through the Cloud Door. I’m sure the First Oralist has thought of an offering.”

  His eyes returned to Arian, leaving Sinnia with the sense of a missed opportunity. But she had been as bold as she dared because this man of the mountains was something new.

  Fierce and golden, his confidence was dazzling.

  She didn’t like the mountains.

  The man was something else.

  30

  They arrived at the Ice Kill, a descent to the valley floor that took them through the night and the following day. The Aybek rode ahead with his men, keeping his own counsel. They were beyond the reach of the Shin War who quarried the Sorrowsong or the Zai Guild who fought them for control of the mines, yet the Buzkashi remained alert to the possibility of ambush.

  The valley when they reached it was snowbound, its lake frozen over, with patches of brown that marked a well-used trail, and flashes of green beneath the snow. Pasture land broke through in places. To the north of the valley, an organized camp huddled below the rise. Several herds of sheep and goats were corralled inside a paddock, its circular walls built of stones taken from the foothills. Atop the walls, large cakes of animal dung were collected for use as fuel.

  On the open plains, yak covered with heavy blankets grazed the first shoots of grass on the treeless plateau. Beyond them was a series of colorful yurts near the lake. Poles supported felt-covered walls, reinforced with bright red fabric. Their roofs rose like miniature domes, bobbing like tufts of cotton in the wind. Wooden doors imported from lower altitudes held the improvised dwellings together. Outside each home, a lamp was burning in a bowl.

  “This is our geshlaq,” Zerafshan said, riding ahead. “You will be welcome here.”

  Cries of greeting rose from the yurts. The Aybek’s people spilled forth from their homes, dressed in traditional clothing, the women in layers of colorful dresses, the men in tunics and caps made of lambswool.

  In very quick order, men came to unload the supplies the Buzkashi carried, pasturing the horses. An ululating cry went up in the valley as the villagers reunited with their kin. When the Yeke Khatun dismounted, the village girls hastened to receive her.

  One of the yurts was much larger than the others, large enough to house several families. Throughout their ride from the Sorrowsong, Altan had carried the horsehair banner. Now he thrust it into the ground at the door of this yurt. Then he disappeared into its interior with Storay and Tochtor.

  Zerafshan had informed them that Altan and Zelgai were both his brothers, though only the former resembled Zerafshan. “Altan, as the youngest, is Otchigen, Prince of the Hearth, so he will see you settled. Once you have rested, we will convene a khuriltai.”

  But Arian could not settle when she was still so far from seeing her Audacy through, when the Talisman could strike Hira at any moment. She looked to the east where a thick veil of clouds descended over the mountains. A sense of urgency hammered at her thoughts. How much time did the Citadel have?

  The road to the Damson Vale lay beyond the Cloud Door.

  And it appeared the Cloud Door was sealed.

  Inside Zerafshan’s yurt, they were treated as honored guests. They were seated on a thick wool carpet patterned in red and gold. The fire from an iron stove warmed the center of the yurt, burning yak dung that gave off an odor of surprising sweetness. A kettle of tea was on the boil. It was served with yak milk and salt, a concoction that made Wafa grimace.

  Storay hurried to serve them. A large platter was laid with cuts of lamb, alongside a hard cheese served with rounds of flatbread. On a separate platter, a thick mutton stew flavored with tiny, wild onions was presented with more bread, and endless cups of tea.

  Arian wanted to collapse upon the pile of furs and fall upon the food. It was the first time she had felt warm in weeks.

  But she needed to wash. And there was still Turan to think of.

  “I must tend him,” she said to Daniyar. “The ride through the mountains weakened him.”

  “You must eat first.”

  “I fear the captain’s health will brook no delay. I must use the Claim.”

  “Then I will go. I know more of healing than you.”

  He didn’t wait for Zerafshan or Arian to agree. He gathered his pack, asking to be taken to the yurt that housed Turan.

  Zerafshan faced Arian across the warmth of the stove, his mother in the seat of honor beside him, his sister leaning against him.

  “You are even more beautiful in the firelight of my ger,” he said quietly. “You must think of my home as your own.”

  He nodded at one of the girls of his family. She brought forth a basin for Arian to wash her hands. Without being told, she brushed a damp cloth across Arian’s face. Arian thanked her with a smile, arresting the Aybek’s attention.

  “By the spirit banner of my people, the Companion is beautiful. I would see you dressed in our finery, adorned with the stone of heaven. But what could match your eyes? Or the mystery of your smile?”

  Arian bowed her head at his praise. Beside her, Sinnia shifted in her place. Jealousy was a new emotion to her. She wasn’t happy to feel it over this horseman of the Cloud Door.

  “The Lord of the Buzkashi honors me with his notice,” Arian answered with care. “But has the lord no wife? These are your sisters, I believe.”

  The girls were a distinct mix. Some resembled Tochtor, others Storay and Zerafshan.

  If the Yeke Khatun held the place of honor at Zerafshan’s right hand, it meant none of the women in the yurt was his wife.

  His mother answered for him.

  “Many of our women do not survive childbirth. My son’s wife and heir died this past winter.”

  If the Aybek was without sons, it would explain at least a part of his interest.

  “From the One we came, to the One we return,” Arian murmured, banking the power of the Claim. The words escaped her as a reassurance.

  “From the One we came, to the One we return,” the women echoed, their voices hushed in wonder.

  Zerafshan added nothing more. They finished their meal in silence.

  When Daniyar rejoined them, his portion was heated for him, tea placed at his e
lbow.

  Altan brought forth a horsehead fiddle called a morin khuur. He ran his bow across its strings. Storay relaxed into her brother’s shoulder, her gaze darting from Arian to Daniyar. She seemed as taken with him as Zerafshan was with Arian.

  When the meal was cleared away, Arian waited for Zerafshan to speak. He took his time, thinking over his words.

  “You seek passage through the Cloud Door. Why?”

  “It’s a matter of some discretion. Who would you have share in this knowledge?”

  Zerafshan dismissed all the women save his mother. Altan put down his bow. He and Zelgai placed themselves beside their brother.

  “You may speak freely, then I will decide what to share with my council.”

  It was a fair offer. Arian took it as such.

  “The Companions of Hira are each tasked with an Audacy. It is a sacred charge, and one that must be fulfilled once we have committed to its undertaking. My Audacy takes me to the Damson Vale.”

  Tochtor eyed her shrewdly.

  “You seek to avoid the Wall. The Damson Vale is your means of doing so. Otherwise, you would take the passage north of the Ice Kill and you’d have no need to enter the Cloud Door. The Damson Vale is not your destination.”

  Zerafshan sat back on his heels, alert to any deception. “So what is it you seek beyond the Vale that you would risk the road west? Those lands are held by the Authoritan. The Talisman may smother joy, but the Authoritan smothers life.”

  “This was not your first encounter with the Talisman, then.” She knew the answer, but she was prodding him for information about the slave-chains.

  “The Talisman have ransacked the Sorrowsong for decades. They’ve laid waste to the valleys of the surround. They are at constant war with the peoples of Khorasan. We know they disdain the written word, we have seen the smoke from the burning of libraries. We have witnessed the journeys of their slave-chains.”

  There it was.

  Arian had the answer to her question.

  “And may I ask, my lord, what you have done about all you’ve witnessed?”

  She tried to keep the anger from her voice. She could see that life was different in the Ice Kill, where the Buzkashi had built their winter camp. The men and women mingled easily. There was love and laughter between them, each with an assigned share of the tasks necessary to survival on the plateau.