The Blue Eye

Screams filled the air. Orders were shouted across the tent, but what Daniyar’s keen hearing picked up was the cranking noise of the mechanism that raised the Zhayedan’s catapults. He called out a warning to the others to flee, his eyes on the women who crouched at the back of the tent. He wasn’t swift enough to act. A second boulder followed the first, its terrifying heft bringing the tent to utter silence. When the sound of the crash receded, Daniyar looked across to the back of the tent. The corner where the women had sheltered was ripped away. No one had survived, blood and bone strewn across the carpets.

He was seized from behind by two Talisman commanders who pushed him before the Spinzhiray. The elder’s white robes were flecked with blood and bits of flesh. But the Spinzhiray was used to death. His hands were steady on his staff, his charcoal eyes aflame with rage.

“The Guardian of Candour engaged in rank deception—you called for the loya jirga knowing the Zhayedan would strike!”

“No!” Daniyar protested, struggling to free himself, but the two men who held him were strong. They pinned his arms behind his back. “I could not wear the Sacred Cloak and lie—you know this!”

The Spinzhiray moved close enough that Daniyar felt his breath on his face. He ripped the Shin War crest from Daniyar’s throat, leaving it vulnerable and exposed.

“I know only this: you are a member of the Shin War without honor. Kill him, Baseer.”

Baseer, too, was covered in the blood of others, but his eyes gleamed with unholy satisfaction. He nodded at Daniyar’s captors, who forced him to his knees. He heard the sharp, metallic scrape of a well-honed sword pulled from its sheath.

He raised his head, finding the young men who had known him in Candour.

“It isn’t true,” he said. It mattered to him to convince them, even if he were to die here. “I came to you in good faith for the sake of our people. To barter for their lives and yours.”

Baseer poised his sword at the nape of Daniyar’s neck. “You have no people now. You are a traitor expelled from his clan. But that won’t matter to you soon.”

He raised his sword for the killing blow just as flaming arrows whistled into the tent. Fire licked up the felt walls, collapsing what remained as the Talisman tore them down. Screams scraped against the vastness of the sky. Baseer was taken by an arrow. The two men who held Daniyar released him, fleeing outside into the night.

Daniyar came to his feet in a powerful lunge.

“Run,” he said to the young soldiers he knew. “Find your way to Candour.”

Smoke thickened the air, slicked over his skin, and coiled up into his lungs. Flames devoured the tent, and all around him were the sounds of the Talisman regrouping for war.

One of the young soldiers looked him in the eye and spit out, “Khaeen.” Daniyar flinched from the viciousness of the word. But unable to hold the gaze of the Silver Mage after naming him a traitor, the soldier turned on his heel and fled.

Daniyar knew that his own would turn against him now. They would, as the young man had, consider him khaeen; they would erase him from the history of his people. The loneliness of being severed from his clan was a wound that throbbed in his chest, achingly familiar and dull.

My course was honorable, he told himself. No matter what they say about me, I did not betray who I am meant to be.

He focused on the other soldier, the one he might be able to persuade.

His name was Toryal, Daniyar remembered. Toryal pulled the scarf around his neck up to his mouth, trying to lessen the impact of the smoke.

“You were the Guardian of Candour—we believed in you. We trusted you.” He said the words in a tone so hopeless that it arrowed deep inside Daniyar. “For you to raise your hand against us—you taught us to choose the course of honor—now your honor lies in shreds.”

Toryal pulled his scarf higher, so that his neck was exposed. A telltale map of scars spread down from his throat into his armor. He had long been a conscript of the Talisman, one of the lost boys of Candour.

While the young man deliberated, Daniyar took in the fire that blazed a trail through the encampment. The commanders who had escaped were preparing for a counterattack, while the Zhayedan’s catapults continued to pound down destruction.

The devastating noise of battle was unlike anything Daniyar had ever heard. It crashed into his temples, battered his senses. Choking on the smoke, he said, “I promise you—I was not privy to this attack. But you know it for yourself, Toryal. This siege is not a course of honor. There is another way. Come with me instead.”

The younger man blinked, reaching for his sword. Daniyar left his sheathed.

In that strange, suspended moment, both men struggled to breathe, conscious of the rush of others toward them. Whatever else he was forced to do this night, he would not harm Toryal.

“If I go with you, I’ll have nothing. No clan or kin, no honor to call my own.”

Daniyar held Toryal’s gaze. “You’ll have me. I won’t leave you to stand on your own.”

Toryal rubbed one hand over the marks at his throat. Awkwardly, he began to cry. Daniyar stepped closer. When the younger man didn’t back away, he moved to take hold of him, wrapping the folds of the Sacred Cloak around them both. Let Toryal feel the strength that would protect him, even on a Talisman field.

As arrows burned the ground at their feet, he held Toryal until his sobs began to ease. The scent of wild honey filled the air, rising over the smoke, offering a hint of sweetness.

Toryal drew back, his blue-green eyes wet with tears.

“I would have saved the girl,” he said, refusing to look over at the bodies.

Daniyar assessed him. Made a judgment. “I know you would have tried.”

“How?” There was a tremor in Toryal’s voice. “How can you know I speak the truth?”

Daniyar placed one hand on Toryal’s shoulder, stroked the surface of the Cloak.

“You wear the Sacred Cloak. You cannot utter falsehoods under its mantle.” But what he’d said wasn’t enough. The boy needed more, something that didn’t depend on mysteries he couldn’t unravel, something beyond the sacred. “I remember you, Toryal. You wouldn’t have taken this path if you’d been given a choice.”

For a moment, a dazed sense of wonder appeared in Toryal’s eyes. He brought his hand up to the Cloak, stroking its unfathomable texture. Silky, yet heavy as wool. Enfolding him in warmth, yet soft and cool to the touch.

Remembering himself, he dropped his hand. He stepped away from Daniyar, remorse darkening his eyes. Mourning the things he knew he would never be able to have.

“I can’t follow you,” he said. “There’s nothing for me save this. Every man in Candour has been conscripted to the Talisman cause. There’s no way out of it, though many of us have tried.” His fingers ran over his scars. “Those who agree to fight are guaranteed the safety of their women. Those who refuse …” He dragged his tunic open, yanking at his armor.

At first Daniyar thought the pattern across his ribs were lash marks left by a whip. But the raised flesh was red and blistered, the texture of the flesh thick and waxy. Toryal’s body had been burned.

A swirling torrent of rage and grief rose inside him.

“You could still come with me. You could bring those like you to the gates, and the Black Khan would give you shelter. It isn’t too late for you to choose another course.”

But Toryal was shaking his head, desperate and unsure.

“Don’t offer me a future I know I’ll never see. All I have left is my hope that my sisters will not be sold.”

And, with his sword gripped in his hand, Toryal disappeared.

The strange lethargy, the almost-hope that had seized Daniyar and held the battle at bay now evaporated in a rush. He moved through the tent, stepping over bodies, searching for the bowl that held his ring. But its piercing light failed to penetrate the smoke.

Then there was no more time to search. The stench of death in his nostrils, the heat of fire at his back, he swung around to face the group of Talisman who advanced.

He drove forward into the fray, his sword flashing out into the night, the Cloak streaming from his back singed by trails of fire. The sight of the Cloak gave one of the Talisman pause; the rest rushed to meet his sword. Daniyar was heavy with muscle, but he moved with the grace of a predator, his skill in combat honed by the years he had stood against the Talisman. Bodies fell as others surged to take their place. The Talisman had no strategy beyond an inarticulate fury they intended to assuage. Daniyar took a slash to his arm, another to the opposite shoulder. It slowed him but didn’t bring him down.

The fury of the Zhayedan’s mangonels brought him a moment or two of rest, and then he was thrust upon his mettle again: more of the soldiers recognized him as the man who had promised a truce during the loya jirga.

Under the rage, he read their contempt for a man who could betray his own. He shrugged it aside, blocking a bold attempt at his throat, another under his armor. But in the end, he couldn’t stand against them all. His arms were tiring; there was nowhere to escape to. Sweat dampened his hair, seeped under his armor. Clouds of smoke stung his eyes. There was no sign of his ring, no other powers to call upon, when he needed his every breath to fight.

But then the Talisman fell back, bodies collapsing to the ground, arrows through their necks or rising from their backs. These weren’t fletched like Teerandaz arrows; they were black-tipped, lethal in their accuracy. He blinked to clear his bleary eyes. Two men were fighting at his side, raising their swords when his movements were too slow. They were sheathed in skintight leather, expressionless behind their masks.

They fought back the press of the attack, and when the Talisman’s attention turned elsewhere, one of them grabbed Daniyar’s arm.

“The field is lost,” he warned. “The only way out is with us.”

1

A NARROW CHAMBER LED OFF TO THE RIGHT OF THE QAYSARIEH PORTAL. A faint scent of dampness emanated from within, overlaid with traces of jasmine. When Arian peered inside, the sight she encountered brought her to a halt. A moment later, her escort became aware that she’d fallen behind. Khashayar, a captain of the Zhayedan army, signaled his men to wait. He strode back to join Arian at the entrance to the chamber.

“Does something delay you, First Oralist?”

He spoke to her with the respect her status as First Oralist demanded. More, his manner set an example for his men, who had balked at abandoning Ashfall while the capital was under attack. Yet the order to accompany the First Oralist on her mission had come directly from the Black Khan. The Zhayedan might find little merit in chasing a holy relic while their comrades fought a battle for survival, but they would obey their Khan, and through him Khashayar. The city would have to hold until they returned from their quest.

Arian raised her eyes to Khashayar’s face. He was black-haired, with dramatic dark eyes under an aristocratic brow. Though he was no relation, in appearance he resembled Rukh, the Black Khan. He was young to be charged with escorting her to Time-back, but his youth was a matter of years, not experience. He carried his command with poise: disciplined, experienced, yet adaptable enough to recognize why Arian’s mission mattered to the fate of his city.

“What is this chamber?” she asked him.

“A cistern. We use it to collect rainwater.”

“There’s a prayer nook in the wall.”

Khashayar nodded, but his head was inclined toward the sounds of combat beyond the city walls. When she still didn’t move, he said, “It was built at the request of the Begum Niyousha—the Black Khan’s mother. She observed her worship here. The Princess Darya followed her example.”

A shadow crossed Khashayar’s face. The Princess of Ashfall had been killed during a skirmish on the walls. She should have been safe in the Al Qasr with the rest of the Khan’s household, yet she’d raced to the western gate to prevent her half-brother, Darius, from striking against the Black Khan, her death as chaotic and impetuous as the way she’d lived her life.

“May I take a moment for prayer before we leave?”

Khashayar’s black gaze skipped over the First Oralist’s confederates—Sinnia, the Companion from the lands of the Negus, and Wafa, the blue-eyed Hazara boy under the Companions’ care.

When he hesitated, Arian tried to reassure him. “The blessing is important, otherwise I wouldn’t delay.” A graceful hand swept out from under her cloak, the gold circlet on her upper arm agleam in the muted light. She gestured back at the square they had passed through where the impact of the battle was felt. “I will pray for the deliverance of Ashfall, as much as for our journey ahead.”

Khashayar gave the order to his men to proceed. He settled himself at the entrance to the cistern, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll stand guard.”

“Don’t wait,” Arian said to Sinnia. “Go with the Zhayedan; I won’t be far behind.”

She waited until Sinnia had departed, tugging Wafa along with her. Hesitant now, she nodded at Khashayar. “I will require privacy.”

She flushed a little under the keenness of his gaze.

“I won’t intrude, sahabiya.”

Something in his expression told her she could trust him, though all had come to chaos in both her city and his. His integrity shone from his eyes, his dedication a bond that pulsed between them in the room.

Bowing her head, she slipped past him to make her way to the prayer nook. The vaulted ceiling of the cistern sloped down to a sandstone colonnade. Lanterns in rich blue turquoise were hung between columns of gold above an elongated pool. Between two of these columns, a single pillar, almost like a plinth, had been placed in the center of the pool. The glow of torchlight shone on amber walls, whose high periphery was lined with geometries of tiny blue tiles. At the northeastern corner, a mihrab was fashioned against cold stone like the plume of a peacock’s tail, feathered in emerald green, the exquisite tessellation sheened with light. Beneath it, the golden threads of a well-worn prayer rug reflected echoes of that light.

Arian knelt on the rug. She held words of prayer in her mouth until they bloomed into blessings. Benedictions sought, tumultuous griefs confided. Her fears confessed to the One.

What were they coming to?

What hope did she have of turning the tide of this war?

For years she had battled the tyranny of the Talisman and the greatest cruelty of their reign: their enslavement of the women of the east.

The Companions of Hira were all that stood between the Talisman and total devastation, fighting to preserve Khorasan’s plural heritage, a battle they waged without recourse to force of arms. Instead, they relied upon the scripture of the Claim, the sacred magic passed through oral transmission; its written counterpart had vanished over time, destroyed by the Talisman’s purges.

For a decade, Arian had used her gifts as First Oralist of Hira—First Oralist of the Claim—to disrupt the Talisman’s slave-chains. Then Ilea, the High Companion of her order, had assigned her a new task: to procure the Bloodprint, the sole surviving record of the Claim. Anchored by it, the Companions would have worked to overthrow the Talisman. Months ago, Arian had set out on the trail of the sacred text, but the Black Khan’s machinations had brought the Bloodprint to Ashfall instead.

Now the Talisman’s war had come to the west, to the empire of the Black Khan, and battle raged at his capital. Arian could hear their cries beyond the chamber where she prayed.

Her forehead touched the carpet in prostration. Tears welled up in her eyes, drifting up into her hairline. Her questions sounded like complaints, as if she’d had a crisis of faith. She believed devoutly in the Claim, but she needed to know why she’d struggled so long to lose the Bloodprint in the end. A devastating loss, mitigated only by a new mission: to find the Sana Codex, an ancient record of the Claim hidden away in Timeback, a city of the maghreb.

As a last desperate hope, she had set out with her escort to retrieve it.

I was learning the Bloodprint, she prayed in protest. Why let the One-Eyed Preacher take it? Though I seek the Codex as an answer to its power, is my quest likely to succeed? Do I possess the wisdom to unravel the secrets of the Claim? Will I be able to wield it against one who seems as invincible as the Preacher?

If I fail, who will count the cost?

The prayer rug was wet with her tears now. She had already measured some part of that cost. Her family lost to her in childhood. Her sister’s renunciation when they had chanced to reunite. The Black Khan’s theft of the Bloodprint at the Ark. The manuscript had been in her grasp—then gone. Now two further blows had been struck: she’d been severed from the Council of Hira and divided from the man she loved.

I have Sinnia, she reassured herself. I have Sinnia and Wafa. And this noble soldier of the Zhayedan to guide me, Khashayar, so proud and brave.

She thought about those instances when the Claim had swept over her like a cyclone, overwhelming her conscious will. She whispered a prayer to the One.

Make me a servant of the Word. I have seen the darkness of the Claim. If I must use it to destroy, don’t let it twist who I am. I seek no arcane powers; I disavow the rites of blood.

“Sahabiya.” The soft reminder from Khashayar brought her to the end of her prayers.

Bless these lands, bless this city, bless the people of Khorasan. May the manifest blessings of the One descend upon those who journey at my side, those who wait for me at Hira, and those I leave behind in Ashfall.

Then she made a futile bargain, struck over the ashes of oaths she had already taken.

Keep Daniyar safe, and I’ll give myself to this cause.

She kissed the spot on the carpet that she’d touched with her forehead. When she rose to her feet again, she glimpsed her reflection in the pool. The turquoise waters of the cistern seemed to collect the light—it throbbed at the base of the pool, undulating in a wave that tumbled back into itself. Arian peered into the basin. What caused the light to reflect off the bottomless depths of the pool? Was the basin tiled in silver? She couldn’t tell, the sparks of light kept refracting until the mosaics split apart, an illusion that made the turquoise depths seem infinite.

A mystery she would willingly explore, but the pallor of her skin disturbed the surface of the pool, and her mind was distracted. Her face was lined with weariness, her eyes dull, her hair hanging in limp, damp trails. She’d been a queen at the Black Khan’s banquet—ornamented, perfumed, beguiling, young, and alluringly feminine, a woman who belonged at a court as graceful and dignified as Ashfall’s. How long ago that tranquility seemed now, how deceptive her brief transformation.

She firmed the line of her jaw to make herself appear steadfast, a trick that failed to suffice, her body and spirit bruised in too many ways to count. Now, the dullness was a thing within, the spark of her purpose extinguished. She’d exchanged one guise for another, one quest for another, her course meant to be unerring, but she couldn’t deceive herself. She didn’t want to leave Daniyar. She didn’t trust that she would find her way to Timeback or that she would find what she was searching for in the city. The journey would take time.

What would she return to?

The green eyes that gazed back at her from the pool were bleak with worry and fear. “We must go,” Khashayar said.

Must we? she asked herself.

2

“WE’VE FACED WORSE ODDS.”

Sinnia’s spyglass was trained on the open grasslands, a brief stretch between the hidden exit of Qaysarieh’s tunnels and the rearguard of the camped-out forces of the Rising Nineteen. She grinned, a white flash against glossy dark skin. “It’s usually just the two of us against our enemies, me with my whip, you with your sword and the Claim.” She stretched out the muscles of her shoulders, a luxurious movement in the cramped confines of the tunnel. “This time we have a boy”—she ran an affectionate hand over Wafa’s unruly curls—“and a ferocious host to accompany us.” Wafa didn’t smile at Sinnia, daunted by the sounds of the battle that raged behind them in the city, but he leaned into her touch.

The host consisted of ten well-armed members of the Khorasan Guard. The men looked harried by the sounds of the battle they had left, impatient to return to the defense of their city, though they knew the journey ahead was a long one. Their route would take them across the Empty Quarter to Axum, the capital of the Negus. A reasonable place to break the journey, as it would allow Sinnia to return to the home she hadn’t visited in a year. But Arian had her own reasons for stopping at Axum. If they were able to get through the Rising Nineteen and come out on the other side unharmed, Axum would be a place of refuge. Hunted by the One-Eyed Preacher, they would need that refuge.

Pausing their journey at Axum would also give her the chance to study its celebrated manuscripts. With its long history of exchange with the maghreb, there might be a clue to the whereabouts of the Sana Codex somewhere in Axum’s lore, or at least some reference to the Mage of the Blue Eye, who was reputed to be its keeper. Perhaps the Negus or his queen would be able to tell her more.

Another uncertainty she faced.

If they did find the elusive Blue Mage, she hoped to persuade him to trust her with the Codex—to convince him that her need for it was urgent. It was the only answer to the Preacher’s mastery of the Bloodprint, and she couldn’t stand against him without it, no matter her proficiency with the Claim. She needed knowledge to match his knowledge, or she would have stayed in Ashfall to fight. The necessity of her return was ever-present on her mind.

Khashayar felt it too. He lowered his spyglass to speak.

“There’s no cover, no means to take them by surprise. We’ll have to engage them, First Oralist.” His nod acknowledged Sinnia. “And despite the Companion’s optimism, this is not a battle we can win. The numbers are against us.”

Sinnia passed her spyglass to Arian so she could see for herself, aware that there was something different about Arian but unable to pinpoint what it was. Arian studied the open grasslands, noting the distance they’d have to clear. Passing the spyglass back to Sinnia, she turned to scan the men behind her, her gaze lighting on each for a moment, until each one lowered his gaze. All except Khashayar, who raised his chin and waited.

Arian pressed one hand against the gold circlet on her upper arm, the insignia worn by the Companions of Hira.

“They haven’t moved. They’re waiting for a signal from the One-Eyed Preacher.”

Khashayar unscrewed a silver flask and took a sip of water. The flask was nothing like the plain leather waterskins Arian and Sinnia carried. It was engraved with ornate calligraphy in the pattern of a lush floral wreath. When he saw that the calligraphy had captured Arian’s attention, he offered the flask to her. Arian read the list of blessings and offered them aloud. She returned Khashayar’s flask to him without drinking from it, though his offer had been generous. She knew Khashayar would understand that as a matter of etiquette, she would not place her lips against the opening his lips had touched. He tucked away his flask without comment.

“What is your counsel, First Oralist?”

“I will provide cover.” She showed him a small hillock of grass-threaded sand in the near distance. “We need to reach that hill without giving ourselves away.”