you illustrate so well.”
Rukh dropped her hand. There was no merit to him in such a comparison, but angry at himself for allowing Ilea to provoke him, he picked up her hand again and kissed it.
“No doubt, I am to the Silver Mage what you are to the First Oralist.”
An unexpected glance of appreciation from Daniyar, even as Ilea turned her fury at the comparison on the Silver Mage.
“She’s not coming back to you.” The hit cold and precise.
Daniyar reached for Rukh’s other hand, completing the necessary circle. But it was also a gesture of fellowship.
“She doesn’t need to.”
“Oh?” The disdainful arch of a fine gold brow. “And why is that?”
“Because nothing that happens in Ashfall could keep me from her side.”
So confident, Ilea thought. So certain of his powers of attraction. So certain of the bond between Arian and himself. When she returned to Hira, her actions would sever that bond with the cold finality of truth.
She felt her power rise, augmented by his.
And savored the strike to come.
KHASHAYAR HAD WASTED NO TIME. HE’D FREED HIMSELF AND SLIT THE throats of the two men left to guard him. Quiet prevailed over the Shaykh’s tent as they stole out into the night to cross a wide ridge of sand, disturbing only the rest of cape hares burrowed deep in the grass, under a night of no moon, with stars flung up against the stony darkness.
“Horses?” Arian whispered to Khashayar.
He forged the path ahead, his footsteps sinking into sand, setting a harsh pace.
“It’s too risky to head back. We could be intercepted.” Arian kept pace beside him, though Sinnia was the more sure-footed over sand. Her steady hand propelled Wafa along, the boy stumbling more than once, as he kept glancing back to the camp.
“We’ll be discovered,” Sinnia warned. “We can’t outrun them.”
Khashayar herded them over another rib of sand, moving them farther west.
“I did some scouting earlier. They’ve set up a supply depot just south of us. There are camel herders there. If we can reach it in time …” He shot a grim glance at Arian and Sinnia. “Let me carry the boy.”
Without waiting for permission, he scooped up Wafa and settled him on his back.
“Hold on.” Then, to the Companions: “Now run.”
Wafa’s arms fastened around Khashayar’s neck in a death grip that he adjusted with a grimace. He set the grueling pace of a soldier trained from birth to overcome physical discomfort. His strength was enormous, his pace unflagging as he found a depression between two ridges of grass-feathered sand, its surface nearly flat.
Arian stumbled on the downslope of the ridge, falling to her hands and knees. Khashayar grabbed her under the arm and set her on her feet without breaking his rhythm. Sinnia flew beside him. When Arian brushed off her knees, she found herself staring at a startled caracal, whose tawny coat had camouflaged its hiding place in the sand.
She kept moving, hearing sounds of discovery break out in the camp behind them.
Not enough moon to trace their footprints in the sand, but all it would require to track them was a torch. The army of the Nineteen had men enough to spare to follow several different trails at once. Or they could save themselves the bother and ride the Companions to ground. A simpler method still: they could loose their hunting falcons on the night. It was what she would have done in their place.
All these thoughts raced through her mind as the wind whipped her hair against her face. She was the slowest of their party, Khashayar moving with deadly grace and Sinnia as though born to these sands.
Arian made her way across the depression, picking her steps with care over the swaying grass. She couldn’t see the depot ahead and was trusting to Khashayar’s instincts. She’d had a moment when she wanted to tell him to cut his losses and run—to return to Ashfall, to lend his strength to his Khan. But she needed him. She wouldn’t be able to cross the desert without him.
He cut south across the sand, Wafa clinging to his back. As the ridge dipped southward, the roof of stars cast a sharp orange flare against the sand. Her heart in her mouth, Arian feared they had fallen on a desert-dweller’s campfire. But the light dimmed with the curve of sand, and she realized what she’d seen was a field of orange poppies.
Her relief was short-lived. Angry voices carried across the sand, followed by the thunder of hooves. Desert horses trained for speed and agility. And guided, as Arian had feared, by the telltale cry of a hawk.
The Nineteen had found their trail.
His voice gravel-edged and deep, Khashayar urged them to hurry. “We have to reach the supply depot before the guards hear the alarm.”
They sank into another valley, but Arian knew it for a losing battle. They couldn’t outrun the Nineteen’s horses. And the pursuit was too close to give her time to conjure a mirage. Wind snapped her hair against her face again, and she caught the glimmer of an answer.
“Go,” she said to the others. “I’ll meet you at the depot.”
“No, sahabiya. My orders are to stay at your side.” Khashayar grabbed hold of her arm.
Arian shook herself free. “I’m not helpless, Khashayar. Trust to my use of the Claim.”
He didn’t argue further, her self-assurance persuasive.
When Sinnia hesitated, Arian urged her on. “Khashayar will need your help. If I need you, I’ll call you back.” She pressed her circlets; Sinnia did the same.
They split up without further discussion, though Arian heard Wafa’s broken cry of protest.
She moved through a maze of gullies, seeking the valley of sand’s center. A band of caracals followed her high along one ridge, their golden eyes aglow in the dark. She used them to pinpoint her progress, the sound of hooves at her back. A red fox froze as she crossed his path, its black eyes sharp and curious. It darted away again at the earsplitting cry of a hawk.
She was almost at the center of the valley, bringing the riders with her, leaving Khashayar’s way clear ahead.
She moved along curled eddies of grass deep into the valley of sand. The riders approached, a party of six astride the mares that were bred in the heart of the desert, their arrow-straight manes tossing in the wind, their heads thrown up high and proud.
Five commanders of the Nineteen hooted at her in triumph. One man remained silent, dried blood at the edges of his lips, the glaive in his hand starkly poised. Their eyes met, and she knew his strike would be fatal. But the thrill of fear she felt wasn’t because of the glaive. It was at the realization that she’d failed to kill him with the Claim,
