on the answers he needed to find, but he ventured a question. “What did you seek in the Bloodprint?”
The Assassin clasped his gloved hands at his waist. “I sought a key, Shahenshah.”
The Black Khan frowned. Perhaps Hasbah meant to divert him with the title King of Kings. He enjoyed flattery as a commonplace due to a prince, but he kept at the forefront of his mind the favors the flatterer sought. “A key to what, precisely?”
Again that fleeting smile touched the Assassin’s lips. “Your enemies are my enemies, Shahenshah. Thus I sought a key to the Rising Nineteen.”
Rukh subdued a sense of panic. “The Rising Nineteen—why?” He knew well enough that the Nineteen were a force who’d overrun the Empty Quarter: another variant of the Talisman, influenced by the One-Eyed Preacher’s teachings, invested in an arcane numerology.
Above all these are nineteen.
An esoteric riddle of the Claim that the Nineteen worshiped like a cult.
A small sigh escaped the Assassin. Resignation? Or deceit? Rukh could have used the gifts of an Authenticate, but he suspected the Assassin would not be easy to read even had he possessed the ability. And he refused to consider his gifts inferior to those of the Silver Mage, who had made himself over into a guardian of rabble. He thought of his princely city with a fierce, possessive pride. What could compare to its grandeur? Certainly not the ruins of Candour.
Hasbah indicated the army on the plains—the threat he must now contend with. “You think of your eastern border, Shahenshah, and the threat your eyes are able to perceive. My scouts have returned from the west.”
“And?” Now Rukh could not conceal his apprehension. His army of Zhayedan had been ordered to defend the eastern front.
“You will confirm it for yourself upon your return to Ashfall. The Rising Nineteen have launched a force from the west. They will arrive at Ashfall almost on the eve of the Talisman.”
Rukh had left his family undefended in the capital, tarrying too long on the road. The Khorasan Guard would not suffice to protect them. A lack of foresight on his part, swayed by the judgment of the High Companion, who had urged him to seek out the Bloodprint. His jaw tightened with anger: if she had deceived him with Ashfall trapped between two armies, she would pay the price for her betrayal.
His journey suddenly urgent, the Black Khan strode to the carved stone steps that descended from the keep, Hasbah chasing at his heels. “You must send more men to Ashfall, men who follow after, for I cannot delay.” His voice firmed. “And you must come yourself. I cannot do without your assistance now.”
In the limestone chamber at the heart of the Eagle’s Nest, he ordered two of his men to gather up the Bloodprint and the boy. This time Wafa was left untrammeled.
“We are going through Talisman lines,” he warned the boy. “Any sound of betrayal will send you straight into their arms.”
Wide-eyed with fear, Wafa nodded his understanding.
Rukh grasped the Assassin’s arm. “Will you come?” he demanded. “Can I rely upon you?”
Hasbah quoted the Claim. “‘Whoever rallies to a good cause shall have a share in its blessings. Whoever rallies to an evil cause shall be answerable for his part in it.’” He nodded at the Bloodprint, wrapped in its gossamer fibers. “Do not discard the protection I have sealed it in. It will have its uses upon my arrival at Ashfall.”
The tightness in Rukh’s throat eased; the Assassin was a man he could depend on, a man who would not leave him to fight the battle for his city alone. And with so much else to worry over, the Assassin’s support was critical. For though Rukh publicly scorned the Talisman’s brute strength, in truth he was gripped by fear by the unknowable nature of the One-Eyed Preacher, too formidable to defeat on his own. What bolstered him was the aid of men like the Assassin—and the belief it served no purpose to doubt himself. Not when he was armed with the weapons he’d risked so much to secure.
“I will count on every friend I have,” he said. “And when I have sent my enemies to ruin, you may ask me for whatever you wish—it shall be granted at once.”
The Black Khan had played many games with allies and enemies alike, acts that had kept him in power, his promises as elusive as the wind. This time he meant every word.
The Assassin’s head dipped in the direction of the Bloodprint. It was a gesture he checked, but not before Rukh had seen it. He glared at the man behind the hood.
Hasbah hurried into speech. “And what of the other task you assigned me, Shahenshah? You wished me to return to Black Aura, to deliver the First Oralist from ruin.”
Arian, so proud and delicate and sweet … with a spine of steel forged in flame. He had wanted to tame that fire, to taste her willing surrender. But he wanted the Bloodprint more, and there was no woman in all of Khorasan who would stand between him and his empire. She was a prize, not a means. And no prize—regardless how sweet—was worth more than his own ambition.
“Forget her for now,” he said. “Her fate is out of our hands.”
DANIYAR DIDN’T HAVE TO PRETEND HE WAS WEAKENED AND IN PAIN. As Nevus chained his hands to lead him from the Pit to the great hall, his steps faltered down the corridors of the palace. Nevus pushed him along with a callous hand, propelling him before the Authoritan’s dais, half-naked, bloodied, and weakened.
A murmur of interest sounded from the Authoritan’s collection of courtiers and courtesans, a gathering of Ahdath commanders and beautiful girls. He thought of what a single strike at the heart of the Ark could accomplish. Tension tightened his broad shoulders.
His eyes scanned the throne room, their silver brightness dimmed.
There was still no sign of Arian. What had Lania done with her? The sight of the painted face in the mask of white lead, so similar to Arian’s yet so utterly unlike, pierced him with a savage sense of helplessness. He was bereft—bereft of Arian, bereft of the Candour, bereft of his honor as a member of the Shin War.
But if Arian was alive, as Uktam had promised, there were worse fates. He thought of Turan, blooded at the Gallows, and Wafa stolen away to be used as bait. And of Sinnia, taken to Jaslyk, a prison Larisa had described with bleak and terrifying candor.
Sinnia, Wafa, Turan, and Arian. He’d failed them all as Silver Mage.
He raised his head, his thick dark hair matted with sweat and blood. He faced the Authoritan with hatred in his eyes.
Seeing it, the Authoritan raised one finger with a weightless gesture of his hand.
An unbearable pressure was brought to bear against the insides of Daniyar’s skull. His eyes and ears began to leak blood, settling in the hollows of his bones, causing his skin to itch.
Lania quickly raised a hand of her own. If he’d thought she would aid him, he was mistaken. She was making her own preparations for the bloodrites that passed in the throne room. Each night he’d observed that a vial of his blood was presented to the Authoritan to drink—not only to strike fear in his enemies’ hearts, but as the means
