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 battle-scarred face.
“I’d hoped I would not pass from this earth without meeting the Silver Mage, the Guardian of Candour. Tell me—why do you stand with the Black Khan’s army?” He noted the torn crest at Daniyar’s throat, the stroke of black on a field of green.
Baseer interrupted before Daniyar could answer. “How do we know he is one of our own? Or that he holds to our code?”
Again Daniyar waited for the Spinzhiray to speak. But in this case, the elder tipped his staff at Daniyar, an indication for him to answer.
Looking from the Spinzhiray to Baseer, Daniyar offered, “The Shin War I know recognize melmastia, and I am a guest in your tent.” He acknowledged their hospitality by taking a sip of his tea. “Nanawatai—forgiveness. Turah—courage. Musaawat—equality. Wisa—trust. And ghayrat—self-honor.” He nodded at the elder. “I place the ring of the Silver Mage in your bowl, and the sword of the Silver Mage at my side, because I have no fear in your company. I rely upon your honor.”
Something in the men settled at those words. They sat back on their heels, their hands easing off their swords.
“You forgot badal. What is a member of the Shin War—of any of the Talisman tribes—without his commitment to revenge?”
Daniyar considered how best to answer Baseer. A tribal society that defended its lands from warfare found revenge necessary not only to uphold their honor, but for survival.
“What is meted out in self-defense, I see as a matter of justice, not of dishonor or revenge,” he said at last.
“You think to recalibrate the foundations on which the Shin War have stood?”
Daniyar shook his head, realizing that nothing he could say would win Baseer’s favor. Turning to the Spinzhiray, he said, “Honor is the foundation of everything we stand for.” Flicking a steely glance at Baseer, he added, “You point out my omissions, but what of yours? You chose not to mention naamus.”
Baseer made a show of grasping his sword.
“The honor of women?” He pretended to laugh. “Women have no honor.”
Unexpectedly, the Spinzhiray said, “They are garments for you, and you are garments for them.”
And having just had his involvement with the Black Khan questioned, Daniyar now wondered how a man who would recite this verse of the Claim could be in a position of leadership at this loya jirga.