The Blue Eye. Ausma Zehanat Khan

otherwise mortal enemies.

      They were taken to a pump to wash their hands, then invited to sit in a circle in the center of the tent. Wafa and Khashayar were pushed into place on either side of Arian and Sinnia, the other men keeping some distance. In a large black cauldron, pieces of camel meat bubbled in water and salt. The pot was tended by a herder not much older than Wafa. The boy served the meat onto heavy platters, his thin arms hardly seeming capable of the task, as he stole admiring glances at the Companions of Hira.

      A platter was nudged in front of Arian and Sinnia, two large pieces of meat set aside in the middle. The Shaykh pointed to the chunks of boiled meat.

      “Qalb for the First Oralist. Sanam for the Najashi.” An honored gesture to guests—Arian granted a piece of the heart, Sinnia a cut from the camel’s hump. Arian gave a blessing that sharpened the interest of the men. She began to eat, but when she saw that Khashayar couldn’t eat with his hands bound, she urged Wafa to his side with instructions to feed him. Khashayar would need his strength for the battles that lay ahead. But she’d forgotten how much hunger her Hazara companion had suffered; his blue eyes shone with distress.

      She kissed Wafa’s forehead. “Fine. One bite for you, one for him.”

      The kiss drew Najran’s attention—a sudden spark in deadly amber eyes that rekindled Arian’s fear. She tried to ignore him, speaking to Wafa, who tackled his assignment with gusto, careful not to reach for the piece offered to Arian. He was learning to read nuances, so he knew his greed would be an insult. She was proud of how quickly he’d adapted.

      No one spoke until the meal was finished. They had eaten with their hands, and a moment at the end of the meal was taken for further ablutions. When they were ready for it, tea was proffered in little copper cups, and now camel milk was aboil in a pot covered in a layer of milky froth. The milk was poured into cups, followed by a stream of tea splashed over it like a glaze. When Khashayar refused the tea, Arian realized that even though they had shared the same food, the soldier was suspicious of poison in his drink. But she knew the Shaykh would not poison a guest he had invited to his tent. It would be an insult to his honor.

      So she drank to lessen any risk of offense, then asked for another cup.

      The commanders of the Nineteen watched the Companions with a fascination that spoke to legends that had been spread to their lands. With the meal concluded, Shaykh Al Marra dismissed all his men save Najran, who, though he sat poised on his heels, kept his glaive within easy reach of his hand.

      Both men unwound their headcloths to reveal hair looped in braids around their skull, a custom of the people of Marra. But where the Shaykh’s braids were woolly with age, Najran’s were precise, evenly webbed around his skull. And Arian realized with a start that this deadly lieutenant possessed a certain attraction.

      The herder cleared the platters away, leaving the tent in silence.

      The Shaykh nodded to Sinnia. “Tell me of your Nineteen.”

      Arian intervened, pressing Sinnia’s hand. “A question, if you will permit me.”

      He fingered the rough growth of beard at his jaw. “As you wish, sayyidina.”

      “Why has your army come to Ashfall? Are you governed by the One-Eyed Preacher?”

      The questions were meant to remind the Shaykh of the fierce independence of the tribes of the Rub Al Khali.

      He sat back on his heels, his legs folded beneath him. “The people of Marra govern themselves. The First Oralist should know this.”

      She made her tone conciliatory. “I did not think the Marra would serve a foreign master. But I cannot account for the presence of your army outside the gates of Ashfall.”

      “The Shaykh owes you no explanation.”

      The Shaykh waved Najran’s warning aside. “We come to honor our own convictions. It may be that these are convictions the One-Eyed Preacher shares, so for the moment, our purposes align.”

      The herder who’d cleared the tent now brought the Shaykh the apparatus of a shisha. The Shaykh leaned back on his elbows to inhale from the pipe. He passed it to Najran, who refused it with a word of thanks. No offer was made to Arian or Sinnia, and none expected.

      “The Nineteen assert they are guided by the Claim. How do they reconcile their beliefs with the Preacher’s commands?” A careful question from Arian.

      Najran leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “The Preacher is guided by the Claim.”

      Arian let her power echo in her voice. “Yet none know the Claim as well as the Companions of Hira. None know it as I do. And my knowledge of it does not sanction your war upon these lands.”

      Najran made a dismissive gesture. “A woman has no authority over the Claim.”

      Wafa spat out his tea. Arian patted his back.

      “Do you deny the authority of the Council? Do you refute the Companions of Hira?”

      Najran fought back. “Do you refute the supremacy of the Rising Nineteen?”

      A dialogue of opposites. A contest of conviction played out for the benefit of an audience of one: the Shaykh, who smoked his shisha, quietly biding his time.

      “Can you recite the Claim?” Arian asked Najran with genuine curiosity.

      “No.”

      “Then how can you assert the supremacy of the Nineteen?”

      Najran’s hand slipped to one of his daggers, this one adorned with sapphires. He glanced at her throat; Arian recognized the threat. Horror struck deep and hard, reminding her of the collar that had stolen her voice in Black Aura.

      “You speak in riddles.” A growl from Khashayar deflected Najran’s attention. “What supremacy can any man claim compared to the First Oralist of Hira?”

      The look in Najran’s eyes promised Khashayar death. “The Nineteen comprehend the perfection of the Claim. Its verses, the mysteries of its arrangement—they give us the miracle of Nineteen.”

      “What miracle?” A contemptuous dig from Khashayar. “The First Oralist is the only miracle in these lands.”

      Najran barked at the herder. “Tell the guard to chain him outside.”

      Khashayar scrambled to his feet. Najran did the same, removing the opal-edged dagger from his belt. A white line bisected his pupils. The little herder shrank back, hurrying to carry out his orders.

      Rising, Arian looked to the Shaykh. “Enemy or not, you received my escort as a guest.”

      Two men entered the tent and grabbed hold of Khashayar. The Shaykh waved his pipe. “Hold him. Do not harm him.” Then, to Najran: “Sit. I would hear the end of this debate.”

      As Khashayar was led outside, Najran sheathed his dagger, the white line fading from his eyes. He had shed his robe. Under his uniform, his lean frame was honed to an edge.

      “Your soft heart will not save him,” he said to Arian.

      “Your dark arts do not matter. You have no power against me.”

      He smiled suddenly, a stern slash across his face. “Shall we see, sayyidina?”

      He waited for her to sit before taking his seat again, wearing his menace like a shroud.

      Speaking to the Shaykh, Sinnia echoed Khashayar’s words. “I do not understand either. We know of no miracle of Nineteen in the lands of the Negus.”

      The Shaykh set down his pipe. He pointed at Sinnia’s arms.

      “The inscription on your circlets are the opening words of the Claim.”

      Sinnia nodded, still puzzled.

      “Nineteen letters. The opening verse occurs nineteen times throughout the Claim, the opening word—one hundred and fourteen times,