The Blue Eye. Ausma Zehanat Khan

       Prologue

      THEY WOULDN’T KILL HIM AT THE COUNCIL. THE TALISMAN COMMANDERS were suspicious of Daniyar, but they held fast to the rules of the loya jirga, the consultation Daniyar had asked for with the leaders of the Talisman tribes. The Shin War, in particular, held themselves to a higher standard. Their commitment to their own honor was the reason Daniyar retained any hope of returning to the Black Khan’s city unharmed.

      Once he returned to the safety of Ashfall, this temporary reprieve would end. Though Daniyar was one of the Shin War, as well as the Guardian of Candour—the city that was now the capital of the Talisman—he would be seen as an enemy. As such, he would be hunted with the same ferocity as the Black Khan himself, unless he could persuade the Talisman commanders that their war against the Khan was futile—that they should retreat for the sake of their own survival. For the sake of the boys who had known too much war, boys conscripted by force.

      He’d passed many of those boys on his way to the Talisman’s central command. Their eyes were sunken in their haggard faces, their cheeks hollow with hunger. Though they hoisted Talisman standards and readied themselves for battle, their hopelessness haunted him.

      He had walked in their midst without fear, meeting each one’s gaze, the Sacred Cloak flowing down his back as he passed, deliberately permitting it to brush their hands even though he knew the Talisman would consider his act a sacrilege. To take something holy that had been guarded for centuries and now allow the basest rabble to touch it was to dishonor the Cloak in their eyes. And as contemptible as that idea was to Daniyar—that some were more deserving of grace than others—he didn’t think of the Talisman’s legions as contemptible. As he met their eyes, eyes that were blue, green, amber-gold, or dark, midnight-flecked brown, he thought of them as his own. Shin War or not, these boys who fought the Talisman’s wars, and inflicted the Talisman’s cruelties, had once been his trust as Guardian of Candour.

      He’d called for the loya jirga as much for them as for himself.

      Somehow, they must have known it.

      As he passed through their ranks unmolested, each boy bowed his head, unable to sustain the clarity of his brilliant silver gaze. Two Talisman pages leapt forward to raise the flaps of the tent as he entered. He memorized their faces and thanked them in a quiet voice.

      Bewildered by this show of respect, they retreated without daring to speak. Daniyar sighed, the movement of his powerful shoulders shifting the Cloak to one side. They reminded him of Wafa, the Hazara boy under his care who distrusted any show of kindness.

      Inside the tent, he was greeted by wary commanders, all of whom were armed. He searched out those who might recognize him as the defender of the First Oralist, sworn enemy to these men. The Talisman’s war was as much against the women mystics known as the Companions of Hira as it was against the Black Khan. Led by the One-Eyed Preacher, the Talisman sought to bring all of Khorasan under their ruthless law. None who defied that law were spared. Women faced a darker fate, sold in slave-chains to the north. Like the Black Khan, the Companions of Hira stood in the way of the Talisman advance. Daniyar had pledged himself to their cause, and to the cause of one woman in particular: Arian, the First Oralist.

      The woman he loved.

      He’d fought his kin for her; he’d killed for her without a second thought.