the pain the Authoritan inflicted, Daniyar struggled to recall Uktam’s counsel. He was finding it impossible to breathe, realizing the six-tailed whip was more bearable than the spasms caused by the Authoritan’s dark magic. “Lania,” he managed. “Lania, please.”
He remembered Uktam’s words. “This dishonors us both,” he bit out. “You have the Silver Mage before you. I would serve you, if you asked.”
Lania took the Authoritan’s hand. Again the pain subsided, this time the respite longer. Tears mingled with the blood that had leaked from Daniyar’s eyes to mat in his ragged beard. He was helpless to prevent this humbling before the court, scorched by the Authoritan’s malevolence. He prayed that an interval of time would return the strength to his limbs.
“You will address me as Khanum.” Her eyes were bold and curious, fixed on the proud lines of his face. “How will you serve me? You are the sworn defender of the First Oralist, I believe.”
Uktam’s counsel had provided him with an advantage. If he hadn’t guessed before, with the pain in his skull in abatement, he could read what the Khanum wanted from him, the depths of her sensual interest in the Silver Mage as a man. The test was to make her believe that he could desire her in turn. And Uktam had given him the key.
“Khanum.” He used the title to flatter her, caressing it with his voice. “I do not deny your words; my vows bind me to the First Oralist—it is for her sake you may command me. Set me to any service you wish. I plead with you for her safety.”
He thought he would find the words difficult to speak. But he was learning that all things were possible on Arian’s behalf, this stinging humiliation the least of what he would endure.
The Khanum’s eyes gleamed with a mischief that sat oddly within the painted mask. “I would see you on your knees, then.”
Nevus shoved him face-first to the ground before Daniyar could obey. For a moment he was consumed by rage, unable to think of anything save his desire to destroy the Ahdath who had taken such pleasure in his torture. His breath rasped from his chest, his powerful muscles shuddering beneath Nevus’s harsh grip. Then Nevus dug a knee between his shoulder blades, setting fire to Daniyar’s scars. There was no pretense in the sound of agony that fought free from his lips. He let the tears fall from his eyes, raising his face to the dais.
Struggling to remember his purpose, he whispered, “Please, Lania, I can’t—”
The Khanum blinked. After an uncharacteristic hesitation, she clapped her hands. Two of her attendants bowed before the pearl throne. “Bathe him,” she said. “It does not please me to see the Silver Mage in this state.”
Daniyar remained still as basins were brought to his side by two exquisite young women from the south. His face, his chest, and his back were bathed, washing away the stink of the Pit and easing the bloodmarks of the whip. Inadvertently, he glanced at the six-tailed whip hanging over the dais; the Authoritan’s laughter mocked his fear. Lania’s lips tightened.
“Soothe him,” she said to the attendants. The travesty of a smile edged her lips, her eyes tracing Daniyar’s face. Glancing at him demurely, the Khanum’s doves ran delicate hands over the ruined flesh of his back. The salve they used brought him a measure of relief. After a moment, his thoughts cleared. “Khanum,” he murmured, “I would dress.”
Her crimson lips stretched wide over her sharp white teeth. She waved a hand and her attendants whirled to obey her in a rustling commotion of silk.
“Not just yet, I think.” She rose from her throne and descended from the dais, nodding at Nevus to bring the Silver Mage to his feet. When she reached him, she trailed one scarlet-tipped hand down the expanse of his powerfully muscled chest, exploring its dips and ridges. Her hand lingered just beneath his ribs, tracing the hard planes of his stomach.
“You please me, Daniyar,” she said. She glanced up into his eyes and murmured beneath her breath, “You would please any woman who witnessed the gifts you offer.” Her explorations grew more intimate, her movements concealed by the outspread wings of her robe.
He could have mistaken her voice for Arian’s speaking his name, but he could never mistake her caress. When Arian touched him, he was brought to his knees by the honesty of her desire—by the trust in her eyes when she reached up to kiss him, aflame with an unexpressed love. But Arian’s bright innocence and shimmering hope were missing from Lania’s touch; what she offered him merely a shadow. She read the thought on his face and her sensual trespasses ceased. Her scarlet nails scored his chest, and grudgingly, he groaned.
She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, the plumed headdress swaying with the gesture. “Would you fight for me, Keeper of the Candour? Though my touch offends you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Fight, then.” She let her hand fall, climbing the dais with an imperial majesty. She spared a cold smile for the Authoritan, who had watched her actions throughout.
“The whip no longer interests me. I would have the Silver Mage dance. Nevus,” she snapped at the Ahdath captain, “give the Silver Mage a sword and clear some room for him to fight.” She paused, directing her next words at Daniyar, an enigmatic warning in her eyes. “He is said to be skilled with his hands, though my sister will not answer to the point.”
A wave of laughter rippled through the room.
Daniyar didn’t rise to the bait. He felt a sense of relief mixed with an elation he tried to tamp down. With a sword in his hand, he was on his own ground again. A chance for deliverance at last. A chance to strike at the Authoritan, here at the heart of his citadel.
But he’d mistaken Lania’s intent.
She motioned to Nevus to choose a fighter to stand against him. The man who stepped forward loomed over Daniyar, twice as heavy in muscle. He wore his fair hair long, his features obscured by an overgrown beard. He brought up a double-edged sword, his eyes steady and watchful.
Daniyar extended his chained hands to Lania, searching for any sign that his life was of value to her. And regretting now that he’d missed the chance to express his response to her touch. “If you would have me fight.”
A peal of steel-edged laughter escaped from Lania’s throat. At her side, the Authoritan smiled. “My lord, do you mistake me for a fool? Would I unchain the Silver Mage even if I had a company of soldiers to stand against him, as I do?” Her smile hardened on her face, and any resemblance to Arian’s luminous beauty was erased. “No, my lord. You wished to fight for me, so you will fight. Exactly as you are.”
Daniyar tested the sword in his hands, running one hand along the blade to see if the contest was otherwise equal. The edge was sharp, the sword balanced in his hands. When he looked at Lania to signal his thanks, he sensed her apprehension.
“Your sword is well suited to your hand.” There was something in the words besides her honesty, yet he couldn’t deduce her meaning.
She nodded at the Ahdath. “You may begin, Spartak. Do not underestimate the Silver Mage.”
Anticipation whispered through the throne room. Spartak recited the ritual words of the challenge, and Daniyar echoed them back reflexively. He touched his sword to Spartak’s; they drew away from each other. With a surge of power, Daniyar raised his sword. He retreated a step and Spartak followed, silent and persistent, his own sword raised in one hand. He lunged and Daniyar ducked, missing his footing and stumbling into Spartak’s path. Spartak’s sword slashed down, glancing off Daniyar’s left arm. Spartak brought it around, slashing Daniyar’s other arm with his blade. Sweat broke out on Daniyar’s forehead. He retreated again, the pain of the wounds burning through his thoughts. Spartak stalked him across the floor, pushing him back toward the wall where the whip was poised below the Authoritan’s motto:
STRENGTH IS JUSTICE.
Daniyar knew he would lose this battle unless he could get the other man to speak. “What kind of warrior takes a double-edged sword into battle against an enemy who is bound?” He raised his voice. “How much protection does an