he wondered if any might recognize him not just as her defender, but also as the rider who had killed his own cousin at the frozen city of Firuzkoh. Or if any had witnessed his killing of the Talisman leader who had roused a mob against Arian in Candour, when Arian had taken the Sacred Cloak from its shrine. Or worse yet, if any might know him from the Sorrowsong, where he’d lied to his Shin War clan mates, to further Arian’s cause. The Lord of the Wandering Cloud Door had slaughtered the Shin War at the Sorrowsong, but there was always the possibility that one or more of the Shin War had escaped to sound the alarm.
But as he looked around the ring of hostile faces, no one accused him of being a traitor to the Shin War. Rather, he recognized two young men as boys he had taken into his care, now grown to manhood as soldiers capable of leadership. Though the others made no personal greeting, these two bowed their heads.
He stepped over the threshold, careful not to touch it with his boots, a sign of grave disrespect. The Talisman kept their hands on their swords. Daniyar lowered his to his sides, bowing his dark head in greeting.
The Talisman moved back, allowing him a view of the interior of the tent. Despite the exigency of the moment, the tent had been arranged for comfort, the walls lined with white felt, bright blue carpets scattered across the floor, and low cushions arranged around a steel stove for warmth, smoke from its long shaft escaping through a hole in the roof.
At the far side of the tent, a dozen women huddled together, their heads bowed, their soot-darkened faces streaked with tears. As Daniyar made his way closer to the stove, they glanced up at him quickly and just as quickly away. A closer look showed him that the women had been chained at the ankles, as were a pair of girls, although two of the women in the group had been left unrestrained to prepare food for the commanders. They performed the task ably despite their overriding fear. Rage flared behind his eyes, but Daniyar did nothing to betray it.
When tea was served in small metal cups, Daniyar was told to take a seat on the cushions. Judging from the Talisman’s grim expressions, he knew none of the men would move from their positions until he did so. The sound of the Black Khan’s army strengthening its defenses filled the night. Daniyar ignored it. Removing his sword and placing it away from his hand, he took his seat. The girl who served his tea glanced at him. He met her gaze frankly, not to convey disrespect, but on the chance that she might know who he was and take an instant’s comfort from his presence. Her hands trembled in response, spilling hot tea on his wrist. He jerked it away without a sound to betray her, but the Talisman commanders had seen. The man closest to her, an Immolan whose beard had been dyed dark red with henna, struck a blow to the girl’s back. She fell at Daniyar’s feet. The other women whimpered at the promise of violence to come. Daniyar placed his hands under the girl’s arms and gently raised her to her feet. This time when her eyes met his, they widened before she ducked her head. She had recognized him as the Silver Mage. The trembling of her body eased, but her dark eyes remained without hope.
“What is your name?” he asked her.
“Masoumeh,” she whispered, with a frightened glance over her shoulder. A pang of sorrow seized him. The girl’s name meant “innocence.” And from her accent and her finely formed features, he saw that she was a girl of West Khorasan, under the Black Khan’s protection, likely one of the refugees who had failed to find safe harbor at Ashfall.
The Immolan who’d struck her snarled at the girl to remove herself. Then he turned on Daniyar, the two men face-to-face, both powerful and dangerous, though Daniyar was seated with his sword set aside as an indication of his sincerity in seeking a truce. The Immolan’s gaze flicked to the Shin War crest that Daniyar wore at his throat.
His face marked by a thousand cruelties, the Immolan said, “As a member of the Shin War, a woman taken as a slave should be beneath your notice.” He jerked his head in the direction of Ashfall. “Or do you solicit the weak as your companions?”
The storm continued to gather in the depths of Daniyar’s eyes, though his voice was even when he answered, “In violence, I seek my equals.”
The insult was subtle yet unmistakable; the tension in the atmosphere deepened.
Then laughter rippled through the men.
The Immolan sliced a glare at the others, but the men fell silent only when a white-bearded elder raised his hand. He took a seat on one of the cushions. When he was settled, the other commanders copied him. The elder was in his eighth decade. He carried a staff instead of a sword, which he closed his hand around and kept near to him. His thin face was alert, eyes of charcoal gray betraying a steely intelligence as he made his assessment of Daniyar.
But it was to the Immolan he spoke.
“Have I not warned you against your misuse of the weak? The One entrusts them to our care, and this girl is nothing but a frightened child.” His disapproval was plain. “You bring dishonor to your name, Baseer.”
The insult was keen, Daniyar realized, for Baseer meant “one of great vision.”
Baseer was undaunted. He sat across from Daniyar, close enough to convey menace.
“She is one of the enemy. I give the enemy no quarter.”
To see what the Talisman elder would do, Daniyar ventured a response. “I thought you came here to test your strength against that of the Zhayedan army. Are your talents better suited to vanquishing an innocent girl?”
He laid a slight emphasis on the meaning of Masoumeh’s name. And he knew that by involving the girl in his scheme, he had no choice but to ensure her escape with his own. She had shrunk down beside the other women at the back, and though the women were frightened, they had come together to shield the girl from Baseer’s malevolent gaze.
Baseer spat at Daniyar’s feet. Close enough to insult him, but not enough to comprise a transgression of the loya jirga.
“Baseer!” The Talisman elder issued a rebuke that Baseer met with surly disrespect, when the elder went on to add, “We have a guest in our midst.”
“We have an enemy in our midst,” Baseer rejoined. “Remember it, Spinzhiray.”
The title referred to the elder’s white beard, yet also encompassed more: the elder’s courage, his wisdom, his skillful use of rhetoric. Though a loya jirga was a consultation of equals, the Spinzhiray held a position of seniority, one of status among the Talisman.
Daniyar observed the reaction of the men in the circle to Baseer’s disrespect. The two he knew kept their eyes on him, while several of the others were openly angry at Baseer. Now and again, a few of the commanders would let their gazes drift to the cloak on Daniyar’s shoulders, a touch of wonder in their eyes. Two other men shifted closer to the elder, who seemed to take Baseer’s arrogance in stride. His personal guard, perhaps, but others stood at Baseer’s back.
The Spinzhiray didn’t respond to Baseer, his focus on Daniyar. He advanced a small clay bowl into the center of their gathering. He took a ring that featured an eagle carved from a block of blue stone threaded with streaks of white from his finger.
“A gesture of trust.”
Daniyar understood. He removed the ring of the Silver Mage from his finger and placed it in the bowl. Its piercing light arrowed up through the hole in the tent’s roof.
Then, obeying the rites of consultation, he waited for the Spinzhiray to speak.
The older man captured his gaze with his own, his gray eyes shrewd and deep-set in his
