it hadn’t stripped her of the Claim. Over time, her use of the Claim had weakened the links of the chains. She snapped them with a surge of renewed strength, taking a moment to breathe.
The chamber reeked of the gas. Her skin smelled fetid and damp, a mix of the strange compound of the gas and the odors of sweat and blood. She knew now why the men of the Crimson Watch wore masks. They were shielding themselves from the consequences of their macabre experiments. The terror the masks invoked was a side effect of their work.
Sinnia ran a hand over her neck, feeling the tender areas where the nozzles had raised the skin. She shuddered to think of her disfigurement, but she tried to focus on the door. Each time she escaped, they added another padlock. She could see them now from the hole at the top of the door that passed for a dreary window. She had yet to see another inmate, but she sometimes heard painful, muted whimpers as she sidled past the other cells.
She should try to use the Claim to free the others. She doubted the strength of her skills; her failure might bring them to the same fate she faced—a renewal of the attentions of those who gassed her. She considered the risk and decided against it. She pictured her whip and bow in her mind and formed a resolution.
If she could discover a way out, she wouldn’t forget the desperate halls of Jaslyk. She’d find a way to return and do some damage, a vow she made to herself.
The red eyes of the watchtower settled on Sinnia again. Horns sounded like heralds of a hastening end, a palpable assault on her hearing. The scars on her neck began to throb in anticipation of the agonies of the mask. The guards dragged her by the arms, their studded gloves scoring her shoulders with dozens of bloody strikes.
She sang out verses of the Claim—the music of it seized up in her throat.
She had asked herself this question many times. Why did the Claim deliver Arian from every difficulty while she was able to summon it only in small bursts? What did this say about Sinnia as a Companion or as a member of the Council? Was she not worthy of the Claim? Had the Negus of her country chosen her as his emissary to Hira in error?
She made her body as heavy as possible, forcing the guards to drag her by the heels. They barely slowed their pace as she bumped along the bloodstained floor, pausing for a moment to study the shattered padlocks. Sinnia fought with all her physical strength, aggression and panic rising together as she heard the sound of the cart rattling down the length of the corridor.
She made a temporary break from the arms of her captors, leaping across the hall and crashing against the door of another cell. She fastened her arms on her circlets, holding fast to the strength of the Companions. She choked out one verse of the Claim, then another. For the briefest moment, the actions of the Crimson Watch were suspended—the cart held still, the guards with their bloody palms motionless in the air.
A moan sounded from behind the door. Sinnia glanced up. A man was standing at the hole for the window, his hair matted and wild, his thin face bloody. His eyes burned like two black coals. They fell to Sinnia’s circlets.
“Sahabiya,” he gasped. “You’ve come to us at last.”
At his words, there was a murmuring along the length of the hall. Other faces came to the doors of the cells, eager hands reaching through bars.
It was Sinnia’s turn to freeze. She should have fled during this strange suspended moment, but this was the first time she’d seen the other prisoners. “Who are you?” she whispered to the wild man. She was stirred by a fierce determination. “How do you know who I am?”
“You came for me.” His powerful voice filled with conviction. And then an urgent warning: “Sahabiya, behind you!”
The frozen moment ended. One of the guards caught Sinnia by the neck, squeezing down on her throat. A second man reached for her arms. He’d taken off his gloves to unlatch her circlets.
“No! Don’t touch them!” It was the man in the cell who called out. But underneath his words there was more—a strange, low thrumming through Sinnia’s veins that carried the sound to her heart.
Another guard rapped on the door of the man’s cell. A disembodied voice echoed through the mask. “Get back, all of you! And you there. Still alive? That will change,” he promised.
He shoved the cart toward Sinnia, pushing her back into her cell. Her leaping, twisting body was subdued by a company of guards. The cart was wheeled to the side of her bed. She looked at its surface in terror, only to notice that the dark green canister was missing, as was the mask with the hose. In its place was a tray that held a gleaming array of instruments, polished to a shine. The sound-touch inside her veins intensified—her heart rate began to slow.
The disembodied voice spoke again, the man in charge moving to Sinnia’s side. He held a long thin spike in his hands. “She’s ready for the white needle.”
Sinnia forgot about the sound. All she could do was scream.
THE DOUBLE CUPOLA WHERE ELENA WAS TO MEET LARISA WAS ABANDONED, its twin domes feathered with bird’s nests. A step at a time, Elena crossed Ahdath lines, weaving in and out of the city of the dead. The soldiers were quartering the Hazing. If she hadn’t known its shadowed passages better than she knew her own scars, the Ahdath would have captured her by now.
The Hazing sloped down a hill to an abandoned alley that branched off into several paths that led deeper into Marakand. One path led to the Wall, one to the cemetery of the Russe, another to the Registan. Fires burned on the ramparts, glowing from the Wall like the baleful eyes of demons. The night was dark and cold, and the Ahdath were armored against it.
The First Oralist may have burned down the Registan, but she hadn’t defeated the army at the Wall. Instead, she’d left the people of Marakand to the Ahdath’s bitter revenge. Screams sounded from the alleyways as families were dragged from their homes and accused of giving shelter to the Companions. Elena could hear the sound of furniture being smashed and the crack of boots against bones.
She waited for a patrol to cross the Tomb of the Living King. There was a small marking on the door that signaled the Basmachi had passed on her orders to abandon the necropolis. Basmachi often sheltered in the crypt below the tomb. It was a sacred site in the Hazing. Even the Ahdath had not dared to despoil it. The forty steps known as the Ladder of Sinners led to the underground depths of the tomb. Those who submitted to the One were to count the steps descending and ascending. If they missed a step, their pilgrimage to the tomb was incomplete, and the gateway to paradise was barred. Richly inscribed lapis lazuli paneled the tomb itself. The third level of the tombstone was tiled with a warning that gave the necropolis its name.
NEVER CONSIDER DEAD THOSE SLAIN IN THE WAY OF THE ONE.
NAY, THEIR LIFE IS ETERNAL.
Elena shook her head. Why had Larisa risked meeting her here? She was the one who’d taught them an overabundance of caution. Now she’d broken the rules she’d prescribed for a stranger she scarcely knew. Perhaps she’d been misdirected by the use of the Claim.
Elena passed the door to the tomb to take a step closer to the double cupola that housed the Mausoleum of the Princess. At the slight trace of sound—boots scuffing against stone—she turned to seek out her sister. She was caught by surprise by an Ahdath blade at her throat. The Ahdath clearly believed Elena was one of the Companions: he was ready to slit her throat to prevent her use of the Claim.
