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“Your attentions to me are not as marked at the Qatilah. Do you fear the loyalty of the men who bring me here?”
Surprised but too languid to stir, she answered, “No, these men serve only me. Just as the doves are mine.”
“Then what do you fear? If the Authoritan does not claim you as his own, what is it that he wants?”
Irritation crept into her voice. “What does any man want? Territory.”
He traced his hand over the silk of her dress, gently squeezing. “Is this not territory enough? As it would be for me.”
Suspicious now, she asked, “Do you play with me, Daniyar? Or do you offer the truth?”
He sensed the uncertainty behind her words—her longing for his regard, and a deeper yearning yet to take him for herself. But he didn’t know if it was the man she wanted or the legend of the Silver Mage. Or whether she was more damaged than he knew, and she sought to strike at Arian where she knew it would hurt her most. Because unlike Arian, when Lania was in his arms, she resisted the chance to surrender. Beneath the luxurious entreaty of her kisses, she maintained a conspicuous control.
“You are an Augur, Lania.” He used her name to mitigate her mistrust, urging her to believe he respected her sorcerous gifts. “How could I hide the truth from you?”
Suddenly alight, she searched his face for confirmation. “Would you have me think you have given Arian up in the face of this trifling temptation?”
He took her hand and dragged it down his body, forcing her to acknowledge the evidence of his desire. “Do not disparage yourself. And do not think me a fool unable to see who you are.”
For a moment there was silence as Lania caressed him, pushing him back against the chaise. She leaned over to whisper in his ear, her artful tongue flickering inside. “I think you are a man who does not forsake his bonds, though why you have chosen Arian when she is beholden to Hira, I cannot understand. What power does she possess that you practice this self-denial?” Her eyes became hazy and slumberous, occupied by the work of her hands. “Why beg for crumbs from her table when I offer the banquet entire?”
Her clever, caressing hands nearly stole his resolve—it took him a moment to remember his purpose in this room. He shifted her off his lap on the pretext of stretching his back.
“I will fight for you,” he vowed. “But not for the pleasure of the Authoritan. Think of how he diminishes you, while I would be eager to serve you. If I am to stand at your side, why spend my strength at the Ark?” He dropped his voice to its lowest register, growling the words in her ear. “Don’t you wish me to claim the Wall?”
Lania drew away, as if something in his eyes made it impossible for her to hold his gaze.
He pulled her back, curling a hand around her neck, letting her feel the potency of his desire. She needed to believe he would fight at her side, unconquerable in his strength—her partner in all things.
“I see a man at the Wall,” she answered. “And that man is not the Authoritan. More than that, I cannot make out.” Her voice grew cool. “There is a woman at his side … a woman who commands the Wall.”
But Lania wasn’t certain, and Daniyar read the truth of this as well. “The woman must be you.”
“She is dark and fights like a man.”
She misread his frown, drawing away to stare out the window. Daniyar followed her, conscious of his state of undress. He needed to press her now—or all he’d risked to persuade her would be lost, his commitment to Arian forfeit.
“The man at the Wall could be me—it feels as though it should be.”
She touched her forehead to his. Daniyar misjudged the action, hurrying into speech.
“To stand at the Wall at your side, I would need the magic of the Bloodprint. Every moment hastens it away. Flee Black Aura with me. Set me on the Black Khan’s trail.”
Lania went still, in no doubt now of his intentions. With an angry grimace of dismissal, she freed herself from his embrace, spearing a quick glance at the upper galleries of the room, screened by lattices of stone. “I cannot betray the Authoritan. Not after everything he’s sacrificed for me. Besides which, the Bloodprint would not serve you. Why do you imagine the Authoritan was willing to trade it away? He was High Priest of the Bloodless. He studied it so deeply he twisted its meaning beyond recognition. He has mastery over the Claim. You cannot use it against him.”
But Daniyar didn’t believe this. Why else would Arian have been subjected to the humiliation of a slave-collar? The Authoritan feared the powers of the First Oralist of the Claim. Which meant that the Claim could still be used against him. He pressed her for an explanation. “Then why did you summon Arian here, if not to make use of her gifts?”
“I do not require Arian to teach me what she once learned from me,” Lania snapped. “I asked her to tell me of Hira.” She studied him, sensing something of his reaction to her use of Arian’s name—the longing that he was never completely able to suppress.
“Of Hira? Why?”
“It was the seat of my childhood. It was everything I aspired to. Can you not fathom that I have missed the sisterhood of the Companions?”
Daniyar schooled his thoughts. She was lying, an undercurrent of hate feeding the words. And though he couldn’t think why, there might be a way to use it. “Come to Hira, then,” he said. “Arian would aid you in any way you wished. If you help her against the Talisman, she will stand at the Wall by your side.”
“That is not what I have Augured. There is one man, one woman at the Wall. And I know I shall never leave Black Aura.” She said this without self-pity.
She left him and he knew he’d lost her. When she turned back to face him, she was robed in the premeditated power of the Authoritan’s consort again, his betrayal of Arian for naught.
“Are you imagining I would cede command of the Wall when I labored all my life to secure it? Can you possibly believe I would swear my fealty to yet another man, dependent on his intercession to save me from being ravaged by his soldiers?” She spat her next words at him. “Black Aura is mine; these are my men, my slaves, my prisoners. You will take your place among them. Or not, as you decide.” She let the words burn through him.
Daniyar bowed his head. He had moved too soon and lost.
She called her guards to take him to his cell, speaking with perfect indifference. “You will fight in the Qatilah tonight. I will send Arian to watch you.”
Daniyar risked another question, knowing he had nothing to lose. “What of my blood, Lania? Why do you collect it for the Authoritan? What use does he make of it?”
She moved to stand before him, raising her hand to his chin to tilt down his head. She gazed into his eyes, focusing her attention on the silver pinpoints. “Yes,” she murmured. “You have the birthright of the Silver Mage, just as the Black Khan shares the mark of the Dark Mage. I have often wondered how a Mage is chosen and marked. Your eyes give your birthright away. They are remarkable. They gift you with your powers. They keep you alive in the Qatilah.”
But that was only part of it, and Daniyar knew better than to share with her the rest. How he too had some small knowledge of the Claim to aid him in unobtrusive ways.
She smiled a secret smile suggesting she already knew. “Your blood is magic,” she said to Daniyar. “And you are magic, my lord.”
Though he needed to know how his blood was usurped, she told him nothing else.
How beautiful and lost she was, he thought.
As he had nearly lost himself.
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THE TECHNOLOGIST EXAMINED THE SUBJECT ON THE TABLE. SHE HAD passed out, her exquisitely dark limbs lying limp. Some of his men had asked to use her, but she was not a prize to be squandered on the base desires of rabble.
There was something about this Companion.
Though she craved the needle, the gas affected her differently than it did the others. When he gave her a respite, she thrashed with all her strength against her restraints, her liquid-dark eyes sharp with rage. She became clearer, more powerful, more certain of who she was. And though she couldn’t speak, her eyes promised him a savage revenge.
It was intriguing. It was exciting.
He bent over her, his barbed fingers tracing the thin white circles the mask had outlined on her tautened flesh. She was nothing like the women of the Tilla Kari, cosseted and indulged. Her limbs were lean and muscular, capable and well formed. A delicious sense of possibility curled through his awareness. What use could he make of this creature? How could he bend her to his will? How long would it take to wrench the beauty of the Claim from her throat?
He pressed his thumbs against her larynx. How easy it would be to silence her for good. He very much wanted to, but there was more to learn from the gifts of this Companion from the Negus. To her credit, between her screams she’d tried to calm herself by murmuring verses of the Claim. He’d increased the volume of the gas, and her voice had fallen silent, but it still preserved the strength the Companion contained within.
But perhaps this was too much too soon. He wanted to see everything the gas could achieve. He wanted her to know what she was losing.
He wanted to take from her, but he also wanted her to surrender everything she had to him. Everything she was, this remarkable, undamaged creature. He felt intoxicated by the thought.
He reached behind him for the tray, collecting an instrument he’d designed especially for members of the Salikhate. A generation ago, this had been the name taken by Salikh’s compatriots. The Basmachi were a far cry from what the Salikhate had once been, illiterate and ill schooled in the Claim. This Companion was different. He could feel the Claim shivering through her, its flavor musky and sweet. A frisson of pleasure spiraled through his body.
How excellent it had been to have both Salikh’s daughters under his care. How much he missed them now! Larisa he’d taken more easily than planned, but Elena—ah, Elena had resisted with a rare and beautiful fire. The memory of her impotent fury warmed his thoughts, just as her loss was like a winter of the soul.
But now he had another young woman under his care, a woman from the lands of the Negus, a Companion such as he’d never known, and he felt reborn, fire lighting his blood. If he could keep the Companion alive, and if the Khanum would send the First Oralist to Jaslyk, he would be able to use them against each other, just as he had used the sisters Salikh.
The Technologist held a peculiar double-pronged instrument up to the light in the room. His men shifted a step or two away from him—they knew the Malleus would reduce the Companion to a frothing mess of blood. They knew what the Technologist was capable of.
This Companion would soon be at his mercy. He bent closer to Sinnia’s head and applied the curved blades of the Malleus to her ear.
“You will learn,” he whispered.
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THE HOWLS OF THE DOGS HAD SUBSIDED, THOUGH ELENA COULD HAVE wished now for their barking to cover the sound of their bodies wriggling through the tunnel. The space was narrower than she remembered, or perhaps it was only that she was better fed, fitter, and stronger than the last time she’d used the tunnel for safe passage.
Larisa found the end of the tunnel, pulling her sister up and out into the darkness of the prison block’s silent wing. The sisters worked without light, feeling their way along the walls. There would be a pair of guards at the end of the wing, but the guards would have grown lax in the absence of resistance. They knew the inmates the wing housed were too drugged to be capable of rebellion. Elena held her bow in her hands, a knife strapped to her leg. She anticipated using both. She passed ahead of her sister, using a hand signal to mark Larisa’s palm. The tunnel had led them a level or two below the place the screams originated from. Those screams had fallen silent now, and both women feared the reason for it. They had to find the stairs, quickly.
Elena brushed by the window of a cell. A prisoner within murmured at her. It was too dark for him to see her, but somehow he’d sensed her presence. His calls became more insistent, drawing the attention of the Ahdath.
Cursing to herself, Elena crossed to the ward with Larisa, and waited for the Ahdath to approach the cell. Both drew their bows, but only one man came. The sisters exchanged another signal. Larisa slid to the head of the ward while Elena put away her bow to use her knife. When the Ahdath rattled the door of the prisoner’s cell, Elena slipped up behind him and slit his throat. Before his body could fall, Larisa had loosed her arrow on the guard at the head of the ward.
A prisoner’s face showed at the bars of the cell. “Free me,” he begged.
A grim anger invaded Elena’s thoughts at the pitiless nature of her choices. She shook her head. “Not yet. Wait and be quiet.”
He sobbed to himself as they left him.
Pain struck her hard and deep. Were she here for any other reason, she would not have been able to bear leaving the prisoner behind.
This Companion had best be worth it.
Elena slipped after her sister, helping her drag the Ahdath to join his friend. Another signal passed between the sisters to indicate the passage to the stairs. They were careful with the heavy door, climbing the stairs in the dark.
They had reached the prison’s upper level, and now they could see the torches lit at the watchtowers. The ward was periodically swept with minzars, modified starscopes angled to face the upper levels of Jaslyk. They were stationed along the ramparts that linked the towers. This was the Technologist’s Wing. Sinnia’s screams had come from here. Elena’s thoughts flew to the Companion.
You must bear this. You must survive until we reach you. Else I risked my sister for nothing.
The guard was doubled on this ward, two members of the Crimson Watch positioned at either end. Two more were guards stationed outside a door in the center of the ward. The Salikh sisters crouched low, inching their way along the wall. If the guards on either end of the ward turned, the sisters would be caught in a cross fire. They needed to take the guards by surprise.
They never spoke of their fears or their memories of Jaslyk, but each action they took now was weighted with their determination to protect each other from the consequences of failure. The two women were at their strongest, single-minded with purpose. They had no choice: as leaders of the resistance and as sisters bound to each other’s survival, they couldn’t afford self-doubt.
Larisa and Elena separated. Each moved in a different direction, their bows strung. They waited a heartbeat for the minzars to sweep the ward, then came to their feet and whistled. The guards at both ends turned. Two pairs of arrows found the weak spots in their armor. But they couldn’t catch the men at the door, who wheeled and drew their swords. The sisters were soon engaged in close combat, and they fought as they always did, back to back, using back-alley tricks against the size and strength of their opponents, utterly without fear.
Elena grunted as a sword thrust nearly slashed her ribs. Larisa took her weight, flashing a sharp knife up and under Elena’s arm, stabbing the guard in the chest. Elena whirled around, taking her sister’s place.
The minzars swept the ward again, catching the fierce and soundless tussle. Horns rose in warning. Two more men spilled from the inside of the cell guarded by the Crimson Watch, pressing the sisters back. It was Larisa’s turn to cry out. She dropped her knife as her sword arm was slashed. Elena stabbed her blade through the assailant’s eye. They were losing ground, losing strength. The Ahdath forced them back toward the stairs.
A loud metallic clang rang inside the cell.
Sinnia’s scream pierced the air again—edged with something new—something bold and eerily familiar.
Prisoners came to the doors of their cells, shouting and banging at their doors, distracting the Crimson Watch. Elena tripped one man, then rolled with his momentum to stab through his armor with the full weight of her body. She lay on him for the space of a breath, wiping the sweat from her eyes. Boots stamped down an intersecting corridor, the sound drawing closer.
In the courtyard below, the dogs began to howl.
A guard grabbed Larisa by the hair, yanking back her head, his knife at her throat.
A minzar’s light found her face, and the guard who’d seized Elena’s knife arm staggered around, Elena struggling in his grip.
“Stop!” he shouted. The other man stilled.
“Look at her,” he went on. “Look at them. Don’t you know who they are?”
Now the ward was filled with soldiers, half a dozen members of the Watch clambering up from the level below and from the corridor that linked to another block. Larisa and Elena stood panting.
Men shouted all around them, prisoners, guards, adding to the noise coming from inside the cell—a gurgling noise that petered out.
Illarion appeared at the head of the ward, escorted by a handful of men, just as the door of Sinnia’s cell was thrown open. Elena caught a glimpse of the woman on the table. She was unrestrained. Somehow she had snapped the hose attached to a dark green canister. Blood leaked from her eyes, ears, and nose, glistening and sticky against her mulberry skin.
What she’d attempted had nearly killed her, yet when she raised her head, her eyes blazed with a contemptuous conviction that said there was no man who could defeat her.
A man taller than any of the others stepped out of the room, a nightmarish mask covering his face. Elena shrank in her captor’s arms, suddenly unable to breathe.
Illarion strode to meet him, and the tall man unhooked his mask with sleek and raptorial movements. His face emerged into the sharp light cast by the sweep of the minzar. Beneath the mask, his ghastly skin was waxy, his lips without blood. His colorless eyes bulged from their sockets, a disfiguring effect of the mask.
At the sharp clap of his hands, two of the guards lit torches.
The tall man bent to look first at Elena, then at Larisa. A smile spread over the cadaverous planes of his face. He clapped his hands together lightly. “How beautiful,” he said with delight. “I’ve missed you.” His natural voice rasped like the spike-edged barbs on his gloves.
Elena’s sob caught in her throat.
The tall man noticed Illarion. “Captain.”
“Technologist.” Illarion nodded in return.
Elena’s frantic eyes sought out Illarion’s face. The teasing warmth he’d shown her earlier had vanished—the mask he’d worn over his purposes as a soldier of the Ahdath, as a tool of the Technologist’s will. His high-planed face was set and hard. She hadn’t believed she had anything left to lose—anything to hope for or believe in—yet a savage sense of betrayal pierced her thoughts, and hard on its heels, a passionate, volatile fury. She would kill him with her bare hands.
But Illarion had dismissed her without a glance, his eyes fixed on the Technologist.
“You’re a man of your word,” the Technologist praised him. “You delivered the sisters as promised.”
Illarion nodded curtly. “It was easy enough to deceive them—they were desperate to believe.”
Elena made a throttled noise in her throat, thrashing against her captors, her hands scrabbling for a blade to plunge deep into his heart.
“What beautiful misery,” the Technologist said, his smile deepening to a leer.
“And now I require what you promised me in turn,” the captain said. “The talisman. The one that unlocks the Plague Wing.”
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