The Warden grabbed his arm. “The Technologist hasn’t finished with them.”
Illarion shook off the Warden’s hand. His voice was low and dangerous. “I will present them at the Wall. If you wish otherwise, you may explain your wishes to Commander Nevus.”
The guards in the room glanced at one another. No one intervened.
His face pale with alarm, the Warden cleared his throat. “What is it you wish?”
“I wish to be taken to the prisoner. You, man.” He snapped at Marat. “You will show me the way.” He slipped the circlets beneath his breastplate, taking the measure of the Crimson Watch. At last his gaze came to rest on the slack-mouthed Warden. “You may accompany us.”
“The Technologist is in the midst of an experiment. You cannot enter the room.”
Sinnia’s earsplitting scream sounded through Jaslyk again.
“I’m well aware.” He jerked another object off the table behind the Warden. A mask with goggles larger than the Warden’s own. He tossed a second mask at Marat.
“You’re coming with me. Before her mind collapses, I want to know what she knows.”
DANIYAR RESTED HIS HEAD AGAINST THE RIM OF THE GREEN-MARBLED tub. He was soaking in a bath prepared for him by two of the loveliest women he’d ever seen, slaves from the northernmost regions of the Transcasp, their skin translucent, their hair and eyes golden, their luxurious flesh softly rounded. They murmured to each other in dove-soft voices, and he recognized their tongue as the ancient tongue of the people of Russe.
His bath was scented with rose petals and a luminous gold powder that worked its way into the tissue of his deepest scars, easing his pain and healing his damaged skin. His forearms were wrapped in a soft leather binding, protecting his wounds from the water.
The Khanum’s maidservants hovered on either side of the tub, passing him lotions and oils, offering to scrub him from head to toe. He dismissed them with a frown, yet the instant they left, he missed their raillery, their utter absence of malice when everything else the Ark had to offer promised him unrelenting pain. And if he was honest with himself, the gentle feminine interest expressed by the doves’ attentions was a respite he welcomed as a man pushed too hard and too long by his trials.
He was forced to fight in the rites of the Qatilah, sometimes with a sword, sometimes with a club, oftimes bare-handed, falling back on his limited abilities with the Claim. Though each night’s trial concluded in hard-fought victory, his battered and bloody body was dragged back to his cell, his limbs aching from the effort it had taken him to resist, his thoughts inevitably darkened by the killing of so many men.
To be shifted from the Pit to Lania’s luxurious apartments was a contrast that weakened his resolve, testing the extent of his honor. He held fast to one thought in his mind—if he responded to Lania’s overtures, perhaps he might lure her to his side. If he could make her believe he was drawn in by her allure or her resemblance to Arian, an opportunity might arise: a chance to escape the Ark with Arian at his side.
He was half-dressed when Lania called him. Moving less stiffly now, he let her pull him down beside her onto a chaise cushioned in silk. Her feline eyes grew heated as she viewed his state of undress. She leaned close to him, resting a hand on the sculpted planes of his chest. “Another man would not deny himself the pleasures my courtiers offer.”
He met her gaze, his voice courteous but firm. “We’ve discussed this,” he said. “These girls from the north of the Transcasp are slaves. They’re compelled to your wishes by their servitude. I am the Guardian of Candour. I have never touched a woman against her will.”
Lania’s laughter sounded, low and quiet. When she was alone with him like this, she relinquished the adornments of the Khanum. She wore a plain silk dress and had left her face unpainted, her gold-flecked eyes soft and clear. She looked younger and more vulnerable, freeing the silk of her hair with a graceful movement of her arms. A traitorous thought slipped into his mind. He imagined her slender arms gilded by Arian’s circlets. Bound though he was to Arian, it was Lania who held his attention at this moment. Indeed, she looked so much like Arian, defenseless and unafraid, that his yearning and sense of loss expanded. Here was a woman who would grant him what he wanted, with a warmth he could take if he wished. She would gladly end the self-denial he’d chosen to endure too long, a temptation he’d thought himself immune to.
“You underrate yourself, my lord,” she answered him. “You would not need to compel my doves—they would attend to you gladly.” She moved from the chaise to kneel behind him. When he couldn’t see her face, she added, “As would I, if you asked.”
Her hand came to rest upon his bare shoulder, moving to the base of his throat. The air between them was fraught. He knew she could feel the racing of his pulse.
“Am I not teaching you?” she urged him. “Do I not gift you with the Claim and share with you the secrets of the Authoritan? Do I not heal your wounds with the mysteries I know?”
Daniyar tipped back his head. Their eyes met in a dangerously slow seduction. His glance raked over the unpainted curves of her mouth. He caught a handful of her hair in his hand and used it to tug her closer. An answering spark lit her eyes.
“The Qatilah is rigorous,” he murmured against her lips. She kissed him, and he let her feel his response, heat stealing through his blood.
“The Authoritan insists on it,” she said when she had the chance. “He is jealous of my … interest … in you. He takes his revenge through the Qatilah.”
“And you, Lania? Do you seek to punish me as well?”
She slid onto his lap in a whisper of silk, fastening her arms around his neck. “Does this feel like punishment?” she asked.
He kissed her again, the kisses slow and rough, her rich curves pressed against the hard lines of his body, appreciating anew how different she was from Arian—the pampered softness of her flesh distinct from Arian’s strength, the calculation behind her response instead of Arian’s honesty. He pushed the thought of Arian away and kissed Lania more deeply, grasping her head with his hand. When she was pliant in his arms, he murmured the question on his mind—the question he’d waited to ask.
“Your attentions to me are not as marked at the Qatilah. Do you fear the loyalty of the men who bring me here?”
Surprised but too languid to stir, she answered, “No, these men serve only me. Just as the doves are mine.”
“Then what do you fear? If the Authoritan does not claim you as his own, what is it that he wants?”
Irritation crept into her voice. “What does any man want? Territory.”
He traced his hand over the silk of her dress, gently squeezing. “Is this not territory enough? As it would be for me.”
Suspicious now, she asked, “Do you play with me, Daniyar? Or do you offer the truth?”
He sensed the uncertainty behind her words—her longing for his regard, and a deeper yearning yet to take him for herself. But he didn’t know if it was the man she wanted or the legend
