The Blue Eye. Ausma Zehanat Khan

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