The Bloodprint

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  He was an enemy of the Claim.

  The Bloodless were his antagonists.

  But still she was harrowed by forewarning.

  She waited with Daniyar, not daring to breathe.

  A second scroll whistled through a notch at the foot of the tomb.

  The leader of the Bloodless nodded at her. She took the scroll in her hand. When she smoothed it out, she found a single word on the parchment, a word in the High Tongue, a word she’d long known:

  Kalaam.

  The word that meant Word.

  The name of the Claim, one name among many.

  Shaken, she stepped back. The parchment she had inserted at the head of the tomb sprang free. The tomb split open like the halves of the Bloodprint’s stand. The sides grated against each other, opening into the air, then folded back like the walls of the puzzle box.

  In the cool, dark chasm within, sunlight flickered on gold.

  With a steady, gradual progression, a pedestal rose from the tomb.

  A massive golden case glittered upon the pedestal, the emeralds on its surface agleam. Diamonds, rubies, and sapphires danced in an intricate pattern. The mortise lock on the side of the case was formed of a single large stone.

  The emerald that shimmered like a mirror.

  The Cast Iron.

  The cover of the Bloodprint.

  And within the encasement, the Bloodprint itself.

  Without the Alamdar, without her fateful discovery of Firuzkoh, without Sinnia, without the disruption of the slave-chains—she would never have come to this moment: Wafa, the Sorrowsong, Larisa, Turan.

  The black stone of grief shifted against her heart.

  Daniyar held her close.

  Arian blinked back tears. The pattern on the Cast Iron danced before her eyes.

  Wafa clung to her waist, his blue eyes wide with amazement. The golden encasement was priceless, a treasure beyond reckoning.

  And one that didn’t matter in the least.

  Arian moved her fingers over the pattern of flowers and leaves with agonizing care.

  The Alamdar’s secret now echoed in her mind.

  The seventh diamond, the eighth ruby, the sixth sapphire.

  Up, down, across, she pressed each one in turn.

  Seven. Eight. Six.

  The words inscribed on her circlets.

  The opening words of the Claim.

  She shifted the emerald stone, springing the latch that locked it. The stone slid upward and out, dividing the case at its seam.

  Shivering profoundly, she opened the case.

  The Bloodless sank to their knees as one.

  Arian read the elegant script.

  Seven. Eight. Six.

  Tears formed in her eyes.

  She pressed her lips to the bloodstained page.

  53

  “Do not cry, my love.”

  Tears were in his eyes also.

  More than a decade ago, Daniyar had stumbled upon a manuscript in Maze Aura. It had described the virtues of the Verse of the Throne. Without having seen the Verse, he’d drawn comfort from the proof of its existence, comfort he’d needed during the Talisman ascent.

  And now he, the most unworthy of men, stood humbled—nay, awestruck—in the presence of the Bloodprint, this oldest known record of the Claim, its strong, square script blocked out on vellum in word after glorious, palpable word.

  The Word.

  With its words of equity, beauty.

  Words that would return sanity to the Talisman, peace to all of Khorasan.

  He kissed the bloodstained page. And now he held the hand of the woman who had risked her life for its purchase, urging her to gather herself, though he was far from doing the same.

  “We must leave, Arian. The Ahdath will soon be upon us.”

  The trail of bodies they had left in their wake was the first indication of their presence. Word from Marakand, the second.

  Their horses were tethered behind the mausoleum.

  “My love, please.”

  “May the end be well,” she murmured, smiling through her tears. To believe in a thing was not the same as knowing it.

  Rumors, promises, hints of legend.

  Deception, betrayal, loss—suffering.

  And now she felt strengthened, reclaimed, cleansed by her tears—pure in a way she hadn’t believed possible.

  The Bloodprint was real.

  And the Bloodless had released it into her care.

  She thought of the man whose life had been taken inside a place of worship, the man who’d assembled the verses of the Claim, the modest man murdered at prayer.

  His blood had given the manuscript its name.

  His reverence for the written word would make their deliverance possible.

  I cannot express the debt that I owe you, most selfless servant of the One.

  She closed the Cast Iron without locking it. It took Daniyar’s strength to heave it from the tomb.

  The Bloodless watched without protest.

  “It would be as well to leave the case behind. We have no need of it. Nor will it travel lightly,” she said.

  The First Blood discouraged her by placing his hands upon the binding. Daniyar nodded his agreement. It was a burden, but one that would keep the Bloodprint safe and dry. There was rope left in his pack. He would strap the case to his back. When he tired under its heft, it could be transferred to Wafa’s horse.

  Arian thanked the Bloodless. They had guided her to this moment.

  The moment of revelation.

  She pressed a hand to her tahweez.

  “I swear to preserve it as you have done. If ever you should seek it again, you will find it safe at the Citadel.” Somehow it wasn’t enough. She nodded at Daniyar. “We pledge to you as First Oralist of Hira and Silver Mage of Candour that we shall never use it amiss.”

  A fleeting look passed through the First Blood’s eyes—was she wrong to read it as despair? Did it pain him to relinquish his charge?

  Or did he somehow sense she’d been damaged by the Claim?

  She couldn’t know.

  She bid him farewell, disturbed by his silence.

  She’d wanted his blessing, one guardian to another.

  But the Bloodless had seemed only to pity her.

  “Find the horses, Wafa.”

  But Wafa could not obey.

  Because the Ahdath were waiting on the other side of the gate.

  In moments they had seized the Bloodprint, bound and gagged the three of them, and driven them on their horses through the orchard.

  A man with a heavy red blemish on his face was in charge of the company of soldiers. He rode beside Arian, scanning the ramparts of the city as they rode, watchful for signs of rescue. His men addressed him as Captain Nevus.

  They moved through the bramble wood, making quick work of the ground between the mausoleum and the escarpment. As they approached the Ark, a monstrous stench congested the air, accompanied by a gruesome shriek.

  On either side of the gate, giant black cauldrons were stationed.

  Oil bubbled in the cauldrons, thick plumes of smoke streaking the horizon.

  The screams came from within.

  “Who burns today?” one of the Ahdath asked.

  “Avazov and Alimov, Basmachi commanders.” The Ahdath captain met Arian’s gaze, taking note of the horror in her face. “We boil the rebels alive,” he explained.

  As the gates to the formidable fortress spread wide, he added without emphasis, “Welcome to Black Aura, the capital of the Authoritan.”

  54

  Wafa knew that men could be cruel. He knew what it was to be starved, cold, beaten, abused, to spend his life in suffering and want. And now he knew other things were possible. There were those who would shelter him, risking themselves to save him from pain. Feeding him, trusting him, choosing even to name him.

  Sinnia had kept him close by her side. The Silver Mage had shielded his body from arrows, taking the brunt of their fall from the tower
. And Captain Turan—one of them, one of the Talisman—freeing not himself from the gallows when given the chance, but rescuing Wafa at the cost of his own life.

  The beating in the Blood Shed had been brutal.

  And Wafa saw that death could come in many forms beyond the Wall, just as the Companion of Hira had warned him.

  The lady Arian had been telling him the truth.

  The Ark was a terrible place. He was choking on the smell of charred human flesh, his ears filled with screams so abominable they made him forget the Blood Shed. The screams were all he could think of; they made him acknowledge the Blood Shed as a mercy. He should have died there. But he no longer believed that suffering was a punishment he had earned, or that he was powerless against his fate.

  If he was venturing into the Ark, he was doing so at Arian’s side.

  The courtyard of the Ark dwarfed the Registan in Marakand, bristling with battalions of soldiers. Battle-hardened, weary-eyed, they watched the prisoners proceed up the ramp to the Ark. Two watchtowers framed a portal, the parapet that linked them manned by a unit of hawk-eyed archers. Heads were impaled upon spikes that extended beyond the ramparts, blood leaking from the skulls.

  Arian searched for Alisher’s face among the dead.

  The gate was lowered behind them.

  They proceeded through the courtyard, past massive storerooms where food stores were stacked and an armory so extensive it seemed measureless.

  Arian’s shoulders sagged at the sight.

  The war would come to them soon, but they weren’t given time to linger.

  They were taken to a magnificent hall deep inside the interior of the Ark. Its painted ceiling was supported by columns topped with muqarnas. The color blue was everywhere. Dripping from the capitals, springing from the fountains, sprouting in bursts of turquoise. The hall was filled with low divans and banquettes, cushioned in a fanfare of blues—turquoise, azure, indigo. Crowded among the cushions, lingering under the arches, trailing their silken hands through the playful cascades of the fountains, were women trained at the Gold House.

  Young, fresh-faced, well-fed, they were as lovely as those Arian had seen at the Tilla Kari. Some were playing stringed instruments or beating upon small drums. In one corner, a cluster of girls in peach and gold silks moved through the steps of a dance, their movements mimicking the rise and fall of the fountains. Elsewhere, there was singing and the flirtatious recitation of poetry. Senior commanders of the Ahdath lolled among the women. Junior ranks patrolled the perimeter with a strict attention to duty.

  Everywhere Arian looked, there were women of stunning loveliness engaged at their ease with the Ahdath. She couldn’t fathom the women as prisoners, their glances were much too artful. There was a deliberation about their movements that suggested a sphere of influence. She was reminded of Gul at that moment, and briefly wondered what had happened to the girl.

  In the center of the hall, a mother-of-pearl sideboard held a vast array of delicacies. Beside it, the arms of a sculpted gold tree extended over the banquettes. Silver fruit descended from the branches. Four serpents were interwoven into the trunk of the gold tree, their raised heads branching away from the base. Drink poured from the serpents’ mouths to be captured in three gold basins. The heady scent of wine mingled with honey and milk. Women scooped up the wine with golden cups and offered it to the Ahdath.

  A fourth basin was filled with blood.

  It was a scene of unparalleled luxury, more decadent for its contrast with the ruin beyond the gates.

  Arian was not an ascetic, but she shuddered at the sight of it.

  Nevus ignored her, directing his captives through the hall with purposeful strides. Silence fell in his wake, laughter stifled, instruments stilled. Some of the Ahdath commanders relinquished the arms of their companions to follow their small procession.

  Nevus brought them to a halt before a dais carved from lapis lazuli, streaks of white in the blue stone shining in the light. A six-tailed whip was chained to the canopy that projected above the dais. On either side of the whip, the Authoritan’s emblem was etched in stone. Below the whip, iron manacles were fastened to the wall.

  Set a little apart from the dais was a solid stone plinth carved of lajward.

  Two of the Ahdath placed the Bloodprint on the plinth.

  “You found your prize, after all. How clever of you, Companion.”

  Her heart beating rapidly, Arian raised her head.

  Dread was upon her. She had brought them to this—Wafa, Daniyar, herself. Perhaps Jaslyk was a mercy for Sinnia, as there could be no escape from the Ark. She felt despair sink into her stomach. How brief had been her taste of Daniyar’s love.

  A pair of thrones occupied the dais. One was golden, its arms and back embellished with gemstones, the Authoritan’s motto picked out in rubies at its head.

  Rasti, rusti.

  Strength is justice.

  And straight-backed on the throne was the man who had spoken, his voice thinly insinuative, odiously compelling—a voice that sounded inside her skull.

  At her side, Wafa whimpered.

  The Silver Mage held himself still, his thoughts self-contained, his bright eyes wary.

  The Authoritan rose from his throne, a man as tall and well-built as Zerafshan, but without the Aybek’s golden warmth.

  He was dressed in white silk, a white cape streaming from his shoulders, his head crowned by white hair under a doppilar cap.

  Arian choked behind her gag.

  His pale skin ghostly, his eyes tinged red, the Authoritan was an albino.

  A member of the Bloodless.

  He nodded at Captain Nevus.

  “Remove her gag. And that of the Silver Mage.” He flicked a warning glance at Arian. “Should you attempt to use the Claim in my palace, I will sever the tongue of the Silver Mage.” He nodded at the golden tree behind her. “You see my bloodbasin.”

  Arian closed her eyes in horror.

  Nevus took hold of Daniyar by the jaw, his dagger at the ready.

  “You will look at me.”

  The Authoritan was using the Claim. She could feel it inside her mind, narrowing her veins, slowing her heartbeat—but how was he doing it?

  Constrained, she opened her eyes.

  Was it as with Ilea? Did he use the Claim in the same manner as the High Companion, as a form of compulsion?

  There is no compulsion in the Claim.

  She could feel herself fighting back, resisting. And shielding her resistance from the Authoritan’s knowledge.

  He was sneering at her openly, his eyes narrowed in cruel folds.

  “Did you think you could take my treasure with so little effort, robbing my people of their birthright? Did you think I would permit the theft of the Khost-e-Imom?”

  I burned its sanctuary, he seemed to be saying. The Khost-e-Imom crumbled to dust.

  The words keened inside her skull, battering her secret resistance.

  I wasn’t seeking the Cast Iron. The Bloodprint is the treasure.

  He was one of the Bloodless. Didn’t he know the worth of the manuscript?

  But Zerafshan had told her.

  He sells the Verse of the Throne, a letter at a time.

  How? The Bloodless had hidden the Verse in the tomb of the Gur-e-Amir.

  And then she realized. As one of the Bloodless, the Authoritan would know the Verse by heart.

  Just as he knew the safehold of the Bloodprint.

  She glanced at Daniyar, whose face betrayed no sign of fear.

  The Authoritan’s voice lashed out against her skull.

  “Do not look at him, look at me! Or I will kill him where he stands and drain his blood into the bloodbasin.”

  The memory of Turan’s body, slashed at the throat and the ankles, flashed through Arian’s mind, a coruscation of horror. She had no wish to learn the meaning behind the ritual.

  With an effort, she kept her eyes from Daniyar.

  She was alone here. And she could not make
use of the Claim.

  “That’s better, Companion. You begin to acknowledge your reality. For this meeting was fated, as my Augur foretold.” He motioned to his side, to a throne less grand and glittering than his own, bedecked with diamonds and pearls. With a sense of relief, Arian turned away from his eyes, to the woman enthroned at his side. The Authoritan’s consort, the Khanum.

  She hadn’t known the Khanum was an Augur.

  Upright and slender, the Augur was dressed in crimson, the color of the Ahdath, the color of the blood spilled at the Citadel’s gates, the color of the damask woven in Marakand’s fabled bazaars. She wore a crimson cape, embroidered in gold, a thin, white veil drawn over the lower half of her face. Her face was daubed with white lead to resemble a paper mask. Above the mask, her eyes glittered out at the assembly, missing nothing that passed between the women of the Gold House and the commanders of the Ahdath.

  Her head was crowned with a helmet framed by loose-hanging silks. A white plume danced above the helmet. The helmet was set with turquoise cabochons, encircled by a gem-studded wreath. A triune of rubies blazed from the wreath, inscribed with a Khorasani script.

  The Khanum gripped the Authoritan’s scepter, a staff blotched with blood, the vow of the Bloodless offset in white.

  Submission, not peace.

  Another corruption of the Claim.

  Do not sow corruption in the land.

  The fleeting verse gave Arian comfort.

  Do not sow corruption in the land, came the echo.

  The Claim began to hum, the same verse that had filtered through her thoughts, powerful and dark, its meaning twisted.

  It wasn’t Arian who whispered it.

  It was the Augur who snatched it from her thoughts.

  The Authoritan was speaking, oblivious to the knowledge staggering through Arian.

  “The Augur foretold you would come here, Companion. She led you to me. Whereas I might have killed you when you first transgressed the Wall, the Augur wished you brought here alive. She knew the Bloodprint would tempt you.” He nodded at his consort. “Khanum. Have what you will of this creature.”