The Blue Eye. Ausma Khan Zehanat

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      Releasing Sinnia’s hand, she called down the Verse of the Throne. This time she shaped it differently, spacing the words to give each one the power of a hammer pounding at quartz. But she did it almost soundlessly. A violation of their hospitality served in response to the murder they had been invited to, which was cause enough.

      The words drove both men to their knees and held them there, frozen. Sinnia searched the tent, returning with a length of the rope they used for tethering their livestock. She bound their feet, and then she tied their arms to their torsos while Wafa kept an eye out for intruders.

      The little herder who had served them stumbled into the tent, his eyes wide at the scene before him. He had an instant to decide—to sound the alarm, to slip past Wafa. Or to allow the Companions to pass from the tent in peace. Even as Najran’s daggered gaze threatened him, the boy sank to his knees before Arian. One small hand reached out to seize the hem of her cloak. He buried his face in its cloth. “Sayyidina. Please say a blessing for my soul.”

      Najran would kill him, she thought. But she could save the boy from that fate by killing Najran herself.

      She knelt and kissed his cheeks. “May the One keep you and all of your people safe.” She nudged him from the tent. “Disappear inside the encampment. Look for a place to hide.”

      He didn’t listen, darting around her to stand before Najran, whose face was mottled with rage, his lips sealed shut by the Claim. The boy’s hands unlatched the belt with the daggers. With the same dexterity he’d shown serving up their meal, he wound the belt around his waist.

      A word broke free of Najran’s throat.

      “Traitor.”

      Traces of blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. The colored flecks in his eyes mutated to crimson. She thought of the Authoritan. She thought of the Claim in his mouth, darkened and degraded.

      Arian shivered. They had to move quickly to free Khashayar without alerting the soldiers gathered outside.

      The little herder rolled up a flap of the tent at the rear. He cast a glance at the iron glaive, then wisely decided against it.

      The sound of gravel in his throat, Najran forced out a threat. “When I find you, boy, I will take my daggers back, flay your skin from your bones, then cut out your heart with my glaive.”

      Losing the little of his color that remained, the boy ducked out of the tent.

      “Kill him,” Sinnia said to Arian. “He’ll hunt us to the ends of the earth.”

      Arian had reached the same conclusion. “Take Wafa. Assess our chances of escape.”

      When they slipped out of the tent, she turned to the men on their knees.

      She couldn’t murder the leader of the tribes of the Rub Al Khali—he may have been misguided in his aims, but he wasn’t an evil man. So, without occulting it, she used a word she had learned from Lania to stun the Shaykh into unconsciousness. He slumped to his side, his body held by the ropes.

      Najran struggled against the ropes that bound him, an unforgiving predator, his eyes crimson and amber, the color of dancing flames with a white-hot tinge of blue at the center. She could have used her knives against him, but she kept up the thrum of the Claim.

      He faced her with savage defiance, gritting out a response. “Over this are Nineteen.”

      Taken by surprise, she stumbled back a step.

       He shouldn’t have been able to speak.

      She used the verse she had used against the High Companion, giving it a sharper edge.

      He answered her again, his voice a thing of blood and ice.

       “Over this are Nineteen.”

      Stunned by the power that flared from his words, the crimson thrust bold and bright against her face, she fell to her knees before him. She tried to grasp one of her weapons, but her hands were frozen at her sides.

      His answering smile was lethal; he knew that she feared him now.

      She couldn’t risk a merciful response. She slashed at him with the Claim, cold, clean fire, spun from an inner conviction; his eyes rolled back in his head. Just as his breath escaped from his body in a long, stuttering exhale that signified his death, Khashayar threw back a flap of the tent. He made a soldier’s instant assessment.

      “You killed them? Good.”

      She didn’t correct his mistake about the Shaykh for fear that he might finish him off.

      “Come, sahabiya, we have to move quickly now.”

      She gestured at the glaive, a question in her eyes.

      “Leave it.” The firm line of his lips pursed in distaste. “I have no use for the enemy’s dishonorable weapon.”

      He reached for Arian’s hand and pulled her from the tent.

       6

      DANIYAR ENTERED THE ANTECHAMBER THROUGH A PAIR OF DOORS carved with maghrebi stars, the Black Khan leading the way down a short flight of marble stairs. The room was twice the size of the war room, one wall lined with wooden shutters that opened to the eastern plains. These were carved with star-centered lattices in patterns that throbbed with distant light.

      The room itself was thick with the musk of scattered petals. Candelabra gleamed on the floor, their light picked up by the crystal loops of a glittering chandelier. But with the doors and windows closed, the chamber was dim—preserving an aura of mystery. Pages hurried to do the Black Khan’s bidding: arranging small tables at intervals, setting a tall mirror edged in gold against one wall. A towering torchiere, dripping with crystal loops, was placed beside it, throwing light upon an alcove in the room, screened by panels of amethyst silk. Several more mirrors and candles were placed around the room to foster an aura of intimacy.

      In the center of the room, a space enclosed by four towering columns, two of the stronger pages set a heavy copper pan upon a black-lacquered table. The curled lip of the pan was engraved with Khorasani script, crimson petals strewn across the water in its depths, the fragrance subtle and rose-edged.

      Watching these preparations, Daniyar said, “The Conference of the Mages requires nothing other than our presence.”

      The Black Khan ignored him, motioning to his pages. They placed four stools cushioned in silk around the table.

      When their preparations were complete, he answered, “Perhaps you are used to simplicity, but grandeur is Ashfall’s great art.” A subtle glance at the Silver Mage’s tattered uniform, at the absence of a crest at his throat, turned his claim into an insult.

      Daniyar examined Rukh in turn. He was dressed in Zhayedan armor, embellished with silver epaulettes that stretched over broad shoulders, still perfectly groomed, his hair pomaded and sleek. At his neck was his imperial symbol, though its СКАЧАТЬ