his sword at the nape of Daniyar’s neck. “You have no people now. You are a traitor expelled from his clan. But that won’t matter to you soon.”
He raised his sword for the killing blow just as flaming arrows whistled into the tent. Fire licked up the felt walls, collapsing what remained as the Talisman tore them down. Screams scraped against the vastness of the sky. Baseer was taken by an arrow. The two men who held Daniyar released him, fleeing outside into the night.
Daniyar came to his feet in a powerful lunge.
“Run,” he said to the young soldiers he knew. “Find your way to Candour.”
Smoke thickened the air, slicked over his skin, and coiled up into his lungs. Flames devoured the tent, and all around him were the sounds of the Talisman regrouping for war.
One of the young soldiers looked him in the eye and spit out, “Khaeen.” Daniyar flinched from the viciousness of the word. But unable to hold the gaze of the Silver Mage after naming him a traitor, the soldier turned on his heel and fled.
Daniyar knew that his own would turn against him now. They would, as the young man had, consider him khaeen; they would erase him from the history of his people. The loneliness of being severed from his clan was a wound that throbbed in his chest, achingly familiar and dull.
My course was honorable, he told himself. No matter what they say about me, I did not betray who I am meant to be.
He focused on the other soldier, the one he might be able to persuade.
His name was Toryal, Daniyar remembered. Toryal pulled the scarf around his neck up to his mouth, trying to lessen the impact of the smoke.
“You were the Guardian of Candour—we believed in you. We trusted you.” He said the words in a tone so hopeless that it arrowed deep inside Daniyar. “For you to raise your hand against us—you taught us to choose the course of honor—now your honor lies in shreds.”
Toryal pulled his scarf higher, so that his neck was exposed. A telltale map of scars spread down from his throat into his armor. He had long been a conscript of the Talisman, one of the lost boys of Candour.
While the young man deliberated, Daniyar took in the fire that blazed a trail through the encampment. The commanders who had escaped were preparing for a counterattack, while the Zhayedan’s catapults continued to pound down destruction.
The devastating noise of battle was unlike anything Daniyar had ever heard. It crashed into his temples, battered his senses. Choking on the smoke, he said, “I promise you—I was not privy to this attack. But you know it for yourself, Toryal. This siege is not a course of honor. There is another way. Come with me instead.”
The younger man blinked, reaching for his sword. Daniyar left his sheathed.
In that strange, suspended moment, both men struggled to breathe, conscious of the rush of others toward them. Whatever else he was forced to do this night, he would not harm Toryal.
“If I go with you, I’ll have nothing. No clan or kin, no honor to call my own.”
Daniyar held Toryal’s gaze. “You’ll have me. I won’t leave you to stand on your own.”
Toryal rubbed one hand over the marks at his throat. Awkwardly, he began to cry. Daniyar stepped closer. When the younger man didn’t back away, he moved to take hold of him, wrapping the folds of the Sacred Cloak around them both. Let Toryal feel the strength that would protect him, even on a Talisman field.
As arrows burned the ground at their feet, he held Toryal until his sobs began to ease. The scent of wild honey filled the air, rising over the smoke, offering a hint of sweetness.
Toryal drew back, his blue-green eyes wet with tears.
“I would have saved the girl,” he said, refusing to look over at the bodies.
Daniyar assessed him. Made a judgment. “I know you would have tried.”
“How?” There was a tremor in Toryal’s voice. “How can you know I speak the truth?”
Daniyar placed one hand on Toryal’s shoulder, stroked the surface of the Cloak.
“You wear the Sacred Cloak. You cannot utter falsehoods under its mantle.” But what he’d said wasn’t enough. The boy needed more, something that didn’t depend on mysteries he couldn’t unravel, something beyond the sacred. “I remember you, Toryal. You wouldn’t have taken this path if you’d been given a choice.”
For a moment, a dazed sense of wonder appeared in Toryal’s eyes. He brought his hand up to the Cloak, stroking its unfathomable texture. Silky, yet heavy as wool. Enfolding him in warmth, yet soft and cool to the touch.
Remembering himself, he dropped his hand. He stepped away from Daniyar, remorse darkening his eyes. Mourning the things he knew he would never be able to have.
“I can’t follow you,” he said. “There’s nothing for me save this. Every man in Candour has been conscripted to the Talisman cause. There’s no way out of it, though many of us have tried.” His fingers ran over his scars. “Those who agree to fight are guaranteed the safety of their women. Those who refuse …” He dragged his tunic open, yanking at his armor.
At first Daniyar thought the pattern across his ribs were lash marks left by a whip. But the raised flesh was red and blistered, the texture of the flesh thick and waxy. Toryal’s body had been burned.
A swirling torrent of rage and grief rose inside him.
“You could still come with me. You could bring those like you to the gates, and the Black Khan would give you shelter. It isn’t too late for you to choose another course.”
But Toryal was shaking his head, desperate and unsure.
“Don’t offer me a future I know I’ll never see. All I have left is my hope that my sisters will not be sold.”
And, with his sword gripped in his hand, Toryal disappeared.
The strange lethargy, the almost-hope that had seized Daniyar and held the battle at bay now evaporated in a rush. He moved through the tent, stepping over bodies, searching for the bowl that held his ring. But its piercing light failed to penetrate the smoke.
Then there was no more time to search. The stench of death in his nostrils, the heat of fire at his back, he swung around to face the group of Talisman who advanced.
He drove forward into the fray, his sword flashing out into the night, the Cloak streaming from his back singed by trails of fire. The sight of the Cloak gave one of the Talisman pause; the rest rushed to meet his sword. Daniyar was heavy with muscle, but he moved with the grace of a predator, his skill in combat honed by the years he had stood against the Talisman. Bodies fell as others surged to take their place. The Talisman had no strategy beyond an inarticulate fury they intended to assuage. Daniyar took a slash to his arm, another to the opposite shoulder. It slowed him but didn’t bring him down.
The fury of the Zhayedan’s mangonels brought him a moment or two of rest, and then he was thrust upon his mettle again: more of the soldiers recognized him as the man who had promised a truce during the loya jirga.
Under the rage, he read their contempt for a man who could betray his own. He shrugged it aside, blocking a bold attempt at his throat, another under his armor. But in the end, he couldn’t stand against them all. His arms were tiring; there was nowhere to escape to. Sweat dampened his hair, seeped under his armor. Clouds of smoke stung his eyes. There was no sign of his ring, no other powers to call upon, when he needed his every breath to fight.
But then the Talisman fell back, bodies collapsing to the ground, arrows through their necks or rising from their backs. These weren’t fletched like Teerandaz arrows; they were black-tipped, lethal in their accuracy. He blinked to clear his bleary eyes. Two men were fighting at his side, raising their swords when his movements were too slow. They were sheathed in skintight leather, expressionless behind their masks.
They