The Blue Eye

4

ARIAN SHOOK BACK HER CLOAK TO SHOW THEIR CAPTORS HER CIRCLETS. At once, Sinnia mirrored the gesture. Both women wondered if it would matter, and if there was any hope for Khashayar, their sole remaining escort.

The man in the burnoose paused, his eyes skirting the golden bands. He called another man to stand beside him, his voice rough with command. There were eighteen others gathered on the sand, nineteen including the one who’d spoken. They were dressed in sand-colored cloaks worn over long white thobes, their heads wrapped in red-and-white headcloths. Dark-eyed to a man, their skin was a golden-brown deepened by desert sun, weathered from exposure to its relentless heat. They stood at their ease, their eyes as clear as a desert falcon’s. Nothing in their appearance suggested they were men to fear … save for the whipcord readiness with which they had struck down Khashayar’s men.

“Traders,” Sinnia murmured in Arian’s ear.

The man in the burnoose heard her, his eyes wandering over Sinnia’s face, over the clustered curls that had begun to grow out from her head in tiny spirals. To Sinnia’s surprise, his eyes warmed, as he gave her a slow nod.

“Najashi,” he said with respect, to a murmur from the men behind him. “Companion from the land of the Negus. I do not know the other.”

Arian gave her name. After a pause, she added, “First Oralist of Hira.”

Another murmur, different in tenor than the first. It held a tinge of fear in it.

Arian observed the thick leather belts that cinched the cloaks these men wore. Each belt was inscribed with the words Over this are Nineteen.

She pondered the significance of the nineteen men who surrounded them; perhaps they were the commanders of the army at their back. If the man in the burnoose was the leader of the Nineteen, then the man at his side must be his lieutenant. His stance was poised, his hand holding an iron glaive, a staff with a blade that curved up at shoulder height, just above a spike that pointed outward. The lower half of the glaive was overlaid with damasquinado, a pattern of gold incised on black steel, in contrast to the naked shaft.

The man who held it glanced at Arian’s circlets, then looked up to meet her eyes.

She suppressed a shiver. Though the temperature had fallen, it wasn’t the night that chilled her. It was the man’s gaze—amber eyes with stiletto-sharp flecks of blue and green. He held himself like a weapon, lethally honed and muscled, with an air of quiet command. His leather belt carried a complement of knives, each with a jeweled haft, as if he specialized in killing, and each of the blades he’d chosen was dedicated to a task. Beneath his cloak, he wore a fitted uniform in a color that echoed the sienna of the desert. He watched Arian with a focus that warned her he wasn’t an ordinary soldier.

He was a killer who looked at her like prey.

The man in the burnoose held one hand high to dismiss the soldiers on the dune.

“Gather the horses; return to camp.”

The men who remained fanned out around what was left of Arian’s group to the sound of horses’ hooves behind them. To distract them from her attempted theft, Arian said, “I would welcome the courtesy of your titles.”

The older man spoke first. “Shaykh Al Marra.” He indicated the man with the glaive. “This is Sayyid Najran, my second.”

Arian considered their style of dress. Their headcloths were native to the tribes of the Empty Quarter who made their home in the boundless sands of the Rub Al Khali.

“You are far from your homes, then. What brings you here?”

“What brings you here, sayyidina? You have traveled far from Hira at some risk to yourself.” It was a reasonable question, but it was also a dismissal of Khashayar’s escort, the Shaykh’s shrewd black eyes measuring the impact of his words.

Arian looked over her shoulder to the vanguard of the Nineteen. “And you have brought an army from the Rub Al Khali to the capital of the Black Khan.”

The sayyid planted his glaive in the sand, startling her.

“Is the Black Khan your ally, sayyidina? A pity then, to send his men home to him without their heads.”

His voice rasped like sand over stone, and she tried not to wince at the words. With the party of Zhayedan she’d had as her escort, she could hardly refute his claim. But she could try to temper it.

“The Black Khan is not my enemy, at least.” She made an effort to soften her voice, using a dialect familiar to their ears, rather than the Common Tongue. “Neither are the people of the Rub Al Khali.”

A nod of appreciation from the Shaykh. “Yet it is not a friend who comes like a thief in the night after the Marra’s horses.”

She understood that he referred to the people of his tribe, and not solely to himself. She was on dangerous ground: she couldn’t justify the theft without giving some hint of her journey. So she used a well-known proverb to pay tribute: “The horses of Al Marra are as numerous as the sheep of Awazim.”

Najran’s riposte was knife-edged, a dagger shearing silk. “That doesn’t give you the right to take them.” He took a step forward, then in a gesture of unthinkable familiarity, he covered her circlet with his palm, his fingers tracing its script. “The First Oralist of Hira should know the penalty for theft.”

Khashayar struggled against the men who held him.

“Kill him,” Najran said.

“No!” Arian cried. “Wait! Tell me the penalty you speak of.”

Najran’s cool fingers trailed down Arian’s arm to her wrist. The contact left her shaken; the Claim she harbored in her deepest self recognized that the danger he represented was something new, the aura of death around him so pervasive that she felt it sink into her bones. And yet his touch was an affront—to both the First Oralist and the woman, awakening her anger.

“Your hand, sayyidina.” His hand closed over her wrist, as he fingered the emerald dagger. He moved close enough for her to count the flecks in his eyes. The green flecks had spread … they were glowing … just as his emerald dagger began to throb with light. She could feel the heat of the dagger, stark coldness from the man himself.

Wafa let out a whimper, but Arian held her ground.

“What law commands the loss of my hand, sayyid?”

His headcloth brushed her ear. “Shall I show you the verse of the Claim?”

She shifted the tiniest fraction closer to Sinnia, touching Sinnia’s circlet with her own.

“Could you?”

She was well aware that he couldn’t. No one could, save for the One-Eyed Preacher, who now possessed the Bloodprint. When the flecks of green in his eyes faded, the light from his dagger dulled, and she knew her guess had been correct.

But it likely didn’t matter—she recognized the echoes of the One-Eyed Preacher’s law, a code proclaimed by the Talisman. It seemed it was now the code of the Rising Nineteen as well.

She faced the Shaykh, buoyed by her bond with Sinnia.

“A boon that is granted to Hira will be remembered. My need for transport was urgent, and I feared my escort would not meet with your approval.” Then, to Najran: “The law of the people of Marra does not sanction aggression. Yet here is your army, ready to begin hostilities. What should be the penalty for that, I wonder?”

The words seethed with scorn at the hypocrisy of the sayyid’s application of the law. She caught sight of Wafa’s frightened face. She could sense his confusion, made all the more apparent when he whispered to her in the dialect of Candour, “Make them sleep. Let’s take the horses and go.”

She couldn’t take that risk. She knew more about the Nineteen’s facility with the Claim than Wafa did. It might turn out to be disastrous to test her skills against the Nineteen’s commanders at once.

The Shaykh jerked Wafa close, ignoring his panicked yelp. Holding him by the chin, he examined Wafa’s face.

“Najashi I know. Talisman I know. First Oralist I know. This I do not know.”

“Hazara,” Arian answered. “A noble tribe of Candour.”

The Shaykh’s eyes flicked to Khashayar. His rugged features hardened.

“The Zhayedan’s man stands no chance. But grant us the boy and I will gift two of my horses to the Negus. If that is where your journey takes you.”

An unexpected opportunity presented itself, an advantage she had to seize. Arian stilled Wafa’s struggles by raising her hand. “Yes. The Companion Sinnia returns to pay her respects to the Negus.” She spread her hands. “But I cannot give you the boy. He is my ward. He is under Hira’s protection.”

She didn’t mention Khashayar. She would have to try to save him by stealth.

The Shaykh held on to Wafa. “What would you give, then? For safe passage across the Rub Al Khali?”

Pain struck her heart at this echo of her journey through the Cloud Door. Daniyar had offered the book of the Guardian of Candour to the Lord of the Wandering Cloud Door in exchange for safe passage through the Ice Kill.

In the end, however, she had spurned Daniyar on the slightest of excuses, leaving him to the Conference of the Mages, while she charted her course on her own. She had made him believe no sacrifice he made would ever be enough, when in truth her certainties about her course seemed far less certain now.

Sinnia sensed her emotion through the bond of their circlets. She squeezed Arian’s shoulder. Then she altered her voice so that she spoke in the accents of a woman from the Sea of Reeds. “We can make a suitable bargain, Shaykh. But we will need our escort’s assistance to cross the Rub Al Khali.”

“No.” A flat denial from Najran. “There will be no bargain. Your man is an enemy combatant; he will be treated as such.” He shifted the glaive so that the spike was aimed straight at Khashayar’s heart. “No doubt there is much he can tell us about the Zhayedan’s defenses.”

Khashayar spit at Najran’s feet. A single thrust drove the sharp-edged spike through the surface of his armor. A grimace that passed for a smile settled on Najran’s lips.

“No one has failed to speak under the persuasion of the glaive.”

And Arian knew in that moment that no matter what else happened during their confrontation, she would not permit the torture of a man who acted in her service. She marked Najran for death.

“Will you not at least hear the bargain, captains of the Nineteen? If you will permit me, Shaykh.” Sinnia’s voice was sunny and confident, such that the Shaykh released his hold on Wafa, who clung to Arian’s side.

“What will you give me, Najashi? What might a woman, unencumbered with goods, offer in exchange for a man, a boy, and two of the finest horses bred in the Rub Al Khali?”

Sinnia’s bright eyes touched each man in the circle, lingering on the belts at their waists.

“‘Over this are Nineteen,’” she quoted. “What if I give you Nineteen?”

5

THEY WERE TAKEN TO A DESERT TENT, SIMPLE BUT EFFECTIVE IN ITS CONSTRUCTION, a guard assigned to each member of their party, only Khashayar bound. As they had been pushed forward along the sand in the shadow of the dune, Arian had brushed Khashayar’s hands with hers, a message of comfort, encouraging him not to despair.

But Khashayar was a captain of the Zhayedan, brutally honed in battle. There was no fear in his eyes, nor any need for reassurance. He simply remained watchful and alert, waiting for his moment to act.

“Wait,” Arian said quietly. “Wait until I give you a signal.”

Whispering to Sinnia, she switched to the language of the Citadel. “What did you mean? What are you offering to trade?”

Sinnia shook her head, her smile bold and confident. Arian was taken aback. The threat was all around them, the danger to Ashfall ever-present, yet Sinnia showed no hesitation. What had persuaded her she could bargain her way out of this? Arian was still mulling over the Shaykh’s decision to offer hospitality instead of death. But then such were the customs of the people of Al Marra: honor before everything, hospitality before all, even when those who broke bread together were otherwise mortal enemies.

They were taken to a pump to wash their hands, then invited to sit in a circle in the center of the tent. Wafa and Khashayar were pushed into place on either side of Arian and Sinnia, the other men keeping some distance. In a large black cauldron, pieces of camel meat bubbled in water and salt. The pot was tended by a herder not much older than Wafa. The boy served the meat onto heavy platters, his thin arms hardly seeming capable of the task, as he stole admiring glances at the Companions of Hira.

A platter was nudged in front of Arian and Sinnia, two large pieces of meat set aside in the middle. The Shaykh pointed to the chunks of boiled meat.

“Qalb for the First Oralist. Sanam for the Najashi.” An honored gesture to guests—Arian granted a piece of the heart, Sinnia a cut from the camel’s hump. Arian gave a blessing that sharpened the interest of the men. She began to eat, but when she saw that Khashayar couldn’t eat with his hands bound, she urged Wafa to his side with instructions to feed him. Khashayar would need his strength for the battles that lay ahead. But she’d forgotten how much hunger her Hazara companion had suffered; his blue eyes shone with distress.

She kissed Wafa’s forehead. “Fine. One bite for you, one for him.”

The kiss drew Najran’s attention—a sudden spark in deadly amber eyes that rekindled Arian’s fear. She tried to ignore him, speaking to Wafa, who tackled his assignment with gusto, careful not to reach for the piece offered to Arian. He was learning to read nuances, so he knew his greed would be an insult. She was proud of how quickly he’d adapted.

No one spoke until the meal was finished. They had eaten with their hands, and a moment at the end of the meal was taken for further ablutions. When they were ready for it, tea was proffered in little copper cups, and now camel milk was aboil in a pot covered in a layer of milky froth. The milk was poured into cups, followed by a stream of tea splashed over it like a glaze. When Khashayar refused the tea, Arian realized that even though they had shared the same food, the soldier was suspicious of poison in his drink. But she knew the Shaykh would not poison a guest he had invited to his tent. It would be an insult to his honor.

So she drank to lessen any risk of offense, then asked for another cup.

The commanders of the Nineteen watched the Companions with a fascination that spoke to legends that had been spread to their lands. With the meal concluded, Shaykh Al Marra dismissed all his men save Najran, who, though he sat poised on his heels, kept his glaive within easy reach of his hand.

Both men unwound their headcloths to reveal hair looped in braids around their skull, a custom of the people of Marra. But where the Shaykh’s braids were woolly with age, Najran’s were precise, evenly webbed around his skull. And Arian realized with a start that this deadly lieutenant possessed a certain attraction.

The herder cleared the platters away, leaving the tent in silence.

The Shaykh nodded to Sinnia. “Tell me of your Nineteen.”

Arian intervened, pressing Sinnia’s hand. “A question, if you will permit me.”

He fingered the rough growth of beard at his jaw. “As you wish, sayyidina.”

“Why has your army come to Ashfall? Are you governed by the One-Eyed Preacher?”

The questions were meant to remind the Shaykh of the fierce independence of the tribes of the Rub Al Khali.

He sat back on his heels, his legs folded beneath him. “The people of Marra govern themselves. The First Oralist should know this.”

She made her tone conciliatory. “I did not think the Marra would serve a foreign master. But I cannot account for the presence of your army outside the gates of Ashfall.”

“The Shaykh owes you no explanation.”

The Shaykh waved Najran’s warning aside. “We come to honor our own convictions. It may be that these are convictions the One-Eyed Preacher shares, so for the moment, our purposes align.”

The herder who’d cleared the tent now brought the Shaykh the apparatus of a shisha. The Shaykh leaned back on his elbows to inhale from the pipe. He passed it to Najran, who refused it with a word of thanks. No offer was made to Arian or Sinnia, and none expected.

“The Nineteen assert they are guided by the Claim. How do they reconcile their beliefs with the Preacher’s commands?” A careful question from Arian.

Najran leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “The Preacher is guided by the Claim.”

Arian let her power echo in her voice. “Yet none know the Claim as well as the Companions of Hira. None know it as I do. And my knowledge of it does not sanction your war upon these lands.”

Najran made a dismissive gesture. “A woman has no authority over the Claim.”

Wafa spat out his tea. Arian patted his back.

“Do you deny the authority of the Council? Do you refute the Companions of Hira?”

Najran fought back. “Do you refute the supremacy of the Rising Nineteen?”

A dialogue of opposites. A contest of conviction played out for the benefit of an audience of one: the Shaykh, who smoked his shisha, quietly biding his time.

“Can you recite the Claim?” Arian asked Najran with genuine curiosity.

“No.”

“Then how can you assert the supremacy of the Nineteen?”

Najran’s hand slipped to one of his daggers, this one adorned with sapphires. He glanced at her throat; Arian recognized the threat. Horror struck deep and hard, reminding her of the collar that had stolen her voice in Black Aura.

“You speak in riddles.” A growl from Khashayar deflected Najran’s attention. “What supremacy can any man claim compared to the First Oralist of Hira?”

The look in Najran’s eyes promised Khashayar death. “The Nineteen comprehend the perfection of the Claim. Its verses, the mysteries of its arrangement—they give us the miracle of Nineteen.”

“What miracle?” A contemptuous dig from Khashayar. “The First Oralist is the only miracle in these lands.”

Najran barked at the herder. “Tell the guard to chain him outside.”