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He answered her again, his voice a thing of blood and ice.
“Over this are Nineteen.”
Stunned by the power that flared from his words, the crimson thrust bold and bright against her face, she fell to her knees before him. She tried to grasp one of her weapons, but her hands were frozen at her sides.
His answering smile was lethal; he knew that she feared him now.
She couldn’t risk a merciful response. She slashed at him with the Claim, cold, clean fire, spun from an inner conviction; his eyes rolled back in his head. Just as his breath escaped from his body in a long, stuttering exhale that signified his death, Khashayar threw back a flap of the tent. He made a soldier’s instant assessment.
“You killed them? Good.”
She didn’t correct his mistake about the Shaykh for fear that he might finish him off.
“Come, sahabiya, we have to move quickly now.”
She gestured at the glaive, a question in her eyes.
“Leave it.” The firm line of his lips pursed in distaste. “I have no use for the enemy’s dishonorable weapon.”
He reached for Arian’s hand and pulled her from the tent.
6 (#ulink_36dd120b-b22d-594a-bf4e-6140d879836b)
DANIYAR ENTERED THE ANTECHAMBER THROUGH A PAIR OF DOORS carved with maghrebi stars, the Black Khan leading the way down a short flight of marble stairs. The room was twice the size of the war room, one wall lined with wooden shutters that opened to the eastern plains. These were carved with star-centered lattices in patterns that throbbed with distant light.
The room itself was thick with the musk of scattered petals. Candelabra gleamed on the floor, their light picked up by the crystal loops of a glittering chandelier. But with the doors and windows closed, the chamber was dim—preserving an aura of mystery. Pages hurried to do the Black Khan’s bidding: arranging small tables at intervals, setting a tall mirror edged in gold against one wall. A towering torchiere, dripping with crystal loops, was placed beside it, throwing light upon an alcove in the room, screened by panels of amethyst silk. Several more mirrors and candles were placed around the room to foster an aura of intimacy.
In the center of the room, a space enclosed by four towering columns, two of the stronger pages set a heavy copper pan upon a black-lacquered table. The curled lip of the pan was engraved with Khorasani script, crimson petals strewn across the water in its depths, the fragrance subtle and rose-edged.
Watching these preparations, Daniyar said, “The Conference of the Mages requires nothing other than our presence.”
The Black Khan ignored him, motioning to his pages. They placed four stools cushioned in silk around the table.
When their preparations were complete, he answered, “Perhaps you are used to simplicity, but grandeur is Ashfall’s great art.” A subtle glance at the Silver Mage’s tattered uniform, at the absence of a crest at his throat, turned his claim into an insult.
Daniyar examined Rukh in turn. He was dressed in Zhayedan armor, embellished with silver epaulettes that stretched over broad shoulders, still perfectly groomed, his hair pomaded and sleek. At his neck was his imperial symbol, though its jeweled ropes had been replaced by brooches that betokened martial honors. On his right hand he wore his onyx ring. On his left, an assortment of sapphires and pearls. The attention he paid to his appearance should have made him seem as much a pleasure-seeking dilettante as any of his lesser courtiers. Instead, furious, concentrated power burned in his midnight eyes.
Easy enough for the Khan to dismiss Daniyar’s appearance when he hadn’t been trapped in the midst of Talisman fighters with boulders crashing from the sky.
Charismatic and clever, he could enjoy his presumed superiority for the moment. This did not move Daniyar to trust him, nor would he underestimate the Black Khan’s duplicity again. It was time the Khan learned as much.
“What I am used to is integrity. When I give my word, I keep it.”
“You would have done the same in my shoes.”
“Violate a promised truce by disrupting the loya jirga? Would I have?” He glanced at the pages scurrying to set the stage for what the Black Khan imagined a Conference of the Mages entailed. The pages were young and inexperienced, their fear of battle evident. They reminded Daniyar strongly of the boys in the Talisman camp at the moment when the truce had been broken. Their blood may not have been on his own hands, but the stain on his honor was unlikely to wash away. “I agreed to act as your emissary because of those on both sides of your walls.”
A page knocked over a brass lamp on the floor. Rukh banished him with a scowl, then said to Daniyar, “There are only enemies on the other side of the wall.”
Daniyar moved closer to Rukh, a swirling storm in his eyes, his pain transformed into anger at what the Black Khan had cost him. “They are not my enemies. I took you at your word. You repaid me by calling my honor into question.”
Rukh snorted. “Your claim to honor was forfeit the day you made your stand with Arian.”
The use of Arian’s name was a provocation too far. Daniyar’s hand shot out, gripped the Black Khan’s throat, and pressed the weight of the onyx rook back into it. Rage flared along his nerve endings, the furious temptation of violence, the satisfaction of finally having the means to avenge Arian’s suffering at the Ark. And his own deep sense of loss, dishonored in the eyes of his tribe. The Black Khan may have been a Mage of Khorasan, but he wasn’t an ally or friend. Daniyar squeezed harder, feeling the rook cut deep into his palm.
The pages leapt back in alarm. Two of the Khorasan Guard raced from their post at the door. The sibilant slash of steel brought their swords to Daniyar’s throat.
Rukh watched Daniyar, saw the brutal warning in his face. He waved his guards aside, making no defensive moves.
“She renounced you.” Though Rukh’s breath was faint, satisfaction glistened in his eyes. “Do you still claim her as your own? When you returned from the battle, you were holding the High Companion’s hand.” A hint of curiosity, a soft insinuation of disloyalty.
Daniyar’s grip tightened. Hard enough to bruise. Not hard enough to crush, as he wanted. For the injuries Rukh had inflicted, a price would have to be paid.
“When this is over, you and I will have things to settle.”
He released his grip on Rukh’s throat. The Black Khan sank down on a stool unperturbed, a small smile playing on his lips.
“The badal of your forebears? Your primitive instincts amuse me.”
The Black Khan considered the graces of his court and the richness of its traditions superior to those of the rest of the lands of Khorasan. His scriptorium surpassed the Library of Candour, even at the pinnacle of its accomplishments. But one thing Daniyar knew with certainty: the tribes that answered the Talisman call held fast to their code of honor. When their word was given, they kept it.
“What you call revenge, they see as a matter of justice.” He moved away from the table to lean against a column. He flexed the hand he had used to grip Rukh’s throat, the gesture a promise to himself. “As do I.”
Cold rage echoed off the walls in the Black Khan’s response. “Where is the justice in their war against my capital or in their murder of my sister?”
Daniyar straightened. Concern sharpened his voice. “Has something happened to Darya?”
“The Princess of Ashfall is dead. She was murdered by the One-Eyed Preacher, whose teachings inform your kin.”
Daniyar murmured a prayer, his anger swiftly curbed.
“This city needs more than your prayers.” A contemptuous dismissal from Rukh.
“Then let’s begin. Where is the Golden Mage?”
“I do not know.”
Daniyar shifted out of the path of a page who set a candelabra at his feet. In the spaces between gold ornaments, pages scattered armfuls of petals across the floor.
“This is theater,” Daniyar warned Rukh. “It serves no purpose in the Conference.”
The Black Khan slammed his hand down on the table. Water spilled from the copper bowl, from the table onto the floor.
“Go!” he said, dismissing the pages who were listening to every word. Then, to Daniyar: “It serves this purpose: those who prepared it, those who observed it, will spread the word to others. Whispers will soon become fact. Magic will be unleashed by this Conference. Because of it, Ashfall will survive. You and I may know otherwise”—a savage smile—“but my people need to believe that their city will not fall. Theater merely entertains. This is politics, so do not presume to instruct me in what would serve my people best.”
Daniyar snorted, his eyes narrowing, but said nothing.
The maghrebi doors pushed open. The Golden Mage had arrived.
She had changed from her battle armor into a gown that echoed the colors of the room: an outer robe of amethyst studded with dozens of tiny crystals, an inner gown in crimson that clung to her delicate frame. The outer robe was layered in tiers that ended in an amethyst train, its high neck embroidered, its sleeves flaring out at the wrists. Her thick gold hair was bound in a series of intricate coils, on which rested the diadem with the single sapphire at its center.
Another role enacted in the Black Khan’s theater, Daniyar thought, beginning to understand the nature of it. She looked imposing, her spine a steel-forged line. Rukh rose from the table to guide her to her seat. She flicked a glance at Daniyar, one golden brow aloft.
He came to the table and took his seat. He had things to say to the Golden Mage when time and circumstance permitted. He could no more count her as an ally than he could trust to the word of the Khan. Yet he would not turn away from the Conference.
When they were seated around the table, the three Mages linked hands. Rukh’s sleek palm against Daniyar’s much rougher one, both men gripping hard in a show of strength until Ilea said, “This posturing is tiresome. Need you bolster your egos at the expense of this war?”
Rukh gave her a lazy smile. “Perhaps we do it in your honor.”
“Spare me your tribute then. Call the Conference to order.”
The Black Khan hesitated. When he didn’t speak, it became clear that he didn’t know how to proceed. Daniyar stepped in, raising their linked hands.
“In the name of the One, the Beneficent, the Merciful, guide us in our efforts. Infuse the spirit of the One in the risen Mage …” He nodded at Rukh to fulfill his portion of the rite.
“Rukh, the Dark Mage and the Black Khan, Prince of West Khorasan.”
Daniyar looked next at Ilea.
“Ilea, the Golden Mage and High Companion of Hira.” The honeyed voice of the Golden Mage wound around the senses of both men.
“Daniyar, the Silver Mage and Guardian of Candour.”
With the ritual complete, Daniyar closed his eyes. The others followed his lead. There was an interval of silence. Then he began to feel the flicker of his power. A line of silver fire arrowed up his spine. It spiraled down his arms, a tingling in his fingers that made the hands of the others jerk, although they didn’t let go. Then the ring of the Silver Mage—recovered by the Assassin from the ruins of the loya jirga—became a band of white fire around his finger. Lightning flooded his veins, an incendiary flare that pulsed in an echo of the light from his ring. It spread outward from his jugular vein, thrusting up through his skull, sparking a web inside his mind. His power raged incandescent, until he forced it under control.
His thoughts shone with new clarity. The warmth that pulsed from his hands to the hands of the other Mages was answered by the Golden Mage. He knew her signature, recognized the golden surge underlined with steely power. It twined with the tendrils of light from his ring, reflecting his power twofold, as lethally honed as a blade, as boundless as the warmth of the sun. But from the Black Khan there was no pulse of energy beyond the strength of his grip. The magic that leapt from Daniyar’s hand to Ilea’s couldn’t complete its circuit. Their power was mutually reinforced, but there was nothing else beyond it.
He opened his eyes to study the Black Khan, to find Ilea frowning at Rukh.
The Black Khan’s eyes were fixed on the petals floating in the copper bowl. His hands were tightly clenched on theirs, his jaw a harsh line, his brows lowered in furious concentration, as if by simply willing it, the power of the Dark Mage would rise.
A litany fell from his lips.
“In the name of the One, the Beneficent, the Merciful.”
His gaze moved from the copper bowl to the light that pulsed from Daniyar’s ring. Then to Ilea’s diadem now ablaze in sheets of gold. He pulled his hand from Daniyar’s, studying the ring on his own finger—an onyx-carved rook on silver to mirror the emblem at his throat.
“Perhaps this is the wrong token. There is no such thing as dark light.”
The others dropped their hands. A hush fell over the room painted in flickers of candlelight.
Ilea’s response was unsparing. “Those who attempt the dark rites should expect their powers to be tainted.”
A black scowl from Rukh in response. “How did you hear of the attempt? Neither Arsalan nor Arian would have told you.”
“Do you still not understand how the power works?” A haughty tilt of her head. “I felt the ripples of it through the continuity of our magic. Just as the Silver Mage would have.”
Daniyar shook his head, dark hair brushing his nape. “I was fighting for my life. When I was brought back to the walls by the Assassin’s men, the One-Eyed Preacher’s thunder served to uproot my magic.”
Something moved behind Rukh’s eyes. Not uncertainty. Perhaps the regret that his attempt to use Arian’s blood in the blood-rites had stripped him of his abilities.
“You reclaimed your power,” he said to Daniyar. “I felt its pulse in my veins. Why can I not feel my own?”
Daniyar edged back from the table. “This is your first attempt. Give yourself more time.”
Rukh swore to himself. “What time do you think I have? They’re battering the Zhayedan Gate. Soon the Talisman will move east. If we lose the gates, we lose the city.” He made a swift calculation. “How far does your power extend—the Golden Mage and Silver Mage in concert?”
But Daniyar was shaking his head. “Not far enough to hold the city.”
Rukh turned to Ilea. “What of the Bloodprint, then? You read from it. You copied a verse you said would serve to defend the Citadel. Use it here, first.”
There was no softness in the golden eyes that dwelt upon Rukh’s face, nor any of the indulgence of a former lover. Her gaze was mesmerizing … predatory. The skin over Rukh’s cheekbones tightened in response. But she ignored his request, speaking to the Silver Mage.
“The only thing that will aid you is the dawn rite. You know it as well as I do. Arian taught you the verse.” It was a signal to Rukh, as well.
Rukh threw back his chair, striding across the room to throw open a pair of windows. A thousand watchfires rose against the darkness, showing them the depth of the Talisman’s forces.
“You think a single verse will hold the Emissary Gate.”
Daniyar came to stand beside him, his gaze picking out the bloodstained flags dotted about the camp.
“Five verses. Each backed by the power of this Conference.”
Rukh’s hands balled into fists. “I cannot summon it.”
And he wondered then if the Conference of the Mages had failed because each of the Mages was an enemy to the others.
“You have yet to try.” Daniyar motioned to Ilea. “High Companion.”
She moved to join them, her eyes on the Talisman advance. “They will devour everything in their path, if you do not stop them here. You should have forced the First Oralist to stay. The Codex—if it exists—will not deliver you in time.”
Rukh left aside the fact that the only person in the room with the power to command the First Oralist had chosen to disavow her, expelling her from the sisterhood of the Council of Hira.
“What. Of. The Bloodprint.” He ground out the words through his teeth. “You studied it. Your knowledge could deliver us!”
Ilea held up both hands, the ends of her sleeves belling out. With a cutting smile at Rukh, she said, “Your search for easy answers will not avail you, but I will give you what you seek. If only to show you a truth the Council of Hira has long known.”
Eagerly, the Black Khan stepped forward.
“Tell me your truths after you have offered your benediction to my city.”
“Very well.” She turned away from him, calling out an incantation.
“When the sky is shrouded in darkness … when the stars lose their light … when the mountains are made to vanish … when the seas boil over, and when all beings are linked to their deeds …”
Hot white light inside the chamber, the coils of Ilea’s hair catching fire.
“… And when the girl-child that was buried alive is able to ask for what crime she was slain … when the scrolls of your deeds are unfolded … when heaven is laid bare … when the blazing fire is kindled bright, and when paradise is brought into view; on that Day, every human being will come to know what they have prepared for themselves.”
