The Blue Eye. Ausma Zehanat Khan

sound of gravel in his throat, Najran forced out a threat. “When I find you, boy, I will take my daggers back, flay your skin from your bones, then cut out your heart with my glaive.”

      Losing the little of his color that remained, the boy ducked out of the tent.

      “Kill him,” Sinnia said to Arian. “He’ll hunt us to the ends of the earth.”

      Arian had reached the same conclusion. “Take Wafa. Assess our chances of escape.”

      When they slipped out of the tent, she turned to the men on their knees.

      She couldn’t murder the leader of the tribes of the Rub Al Khali—he may have been misguided in his aims, but he wasn’t an evil man. So, without occulting it, she used a word she had learned from Lania to stun the Shaykh into unconsciousness. He slumped to his side, his body held by the ropes.

      Najran struggled against the ropes that bound him, an unforgiving predator, his eyes crimson and amber, the color of dancing flames with a white-hot tinge of blue at the center. She could have used her knives against him, but she kept up the thrum of the Claim.

      He faced her with savage defiance, gritting out a response. “Over this are Nineteen.”

      Taken by surprise, she stumbled back a step.

       He shouldn’t have been able to speak.

      She used the verse she had used against the High Companion, giving it a sharper edge.

      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

      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