are not my terms, Keeper of the Candour. But then, where is your Candour now?”
The anger melted into laughter. The Authoritan nodded his appreciation of the insult. A hiss of excitement filled the room as Spartak advanced again, pushing Daniyar back against the dais. Their swords met in the air, steel clashing against steel.
His tone conversational, Daniyar considered Spartak’s insult. “I suppose the Candour would be insignificant to an illiterate.”
A rustle of feminine laughter answered the words. Angry now, Spartak shoved Daniyar against the dais with a powerful thrust of his arm. “I read your death in your eyes.”
Now Daniyar had what he needed. Spartak had said he’d seen Daniyar’s death, but in turn the Silver Mage had read his opponent, discovered his vanity and arrogance, and understood his weakness. He called the Claim to answer it, his nearly soundless hum slowing Spartak’s speed, giving him the chance to meet each new parry of his sword with an answering feint of his own. They danced as Lania demanded, and Daniyar’s confidence grew.
But his enemy was not easily bested. He swung his weight around, one leg tripping the Silver Mage, forcing him back against the wall to recover his balance. Daniyar’s arm brushed the hitch of the six-tailed whip even as Spartak’s sword arm skimmed his throat. The crowd of courtiers gasped. The Silver Mage no longer had the space to maneuver.
Daniyar dropped his sword, backing up against the dais. Spartak raised his arm for the killing blow, a gloating pride in his eyes, the victory assumed before the battle had concluded—a hubris that served him ill. Caught by surprise, Spartak staggered back as Daniyar’s chained hands flexed against the wall, unmooring the six-tailed whip. A quick flash of his wrists coiled the tails around the other man’s throat, just above his armor. With a sharp yank, backed by all the strength his weakened body could muster, Daniyar collapsed the Ahdath’s larynx.
Spartak dropped to his knees, sputtering for air. Daniyar kicked their swords aside, yanking the whip tighter. He flashed a look of contempt at the Authoritan. The room fell as silent as the giant warrior before him. “Is strength truly justice?” he demanded. He eased his grip on the whip.
“No!” Lania called. “Do not release him, my lord. In the Ark, we observe the rites of Qatilah. One or the other must die. Here our custom is the sword. Bury it in his chest.”
Daniyar looked down at Spartak, humiliated and defenseless at his feet. Could this be the custom of the Ark? Had the Authoritan corrupted the High Tongue? For in the High Tongue, Qatilah meant “murderer.”
He knew he’d forsaken his honor to get himself to this point, but he would not kill without purpose. He threw down the whip, Spartak gasping at his feet.
“Do you dare to defy the laws of Qatilah?” The Authoritan glided to his feet, his robes whispering in the silence. He pointed a bony finger at his captain. “Bring her,” he said.
Daniyar waited, watchful and wary. Nevus disappeared, and in his absence the throne room seemed to hold its breath. He returned minutes later, thrusting Arian before him, and Daniyar drew a quick breath, joy hammering his heart. Then he realized she was dressed in transparent silk that bared her loveliness to the court in a manner he had never seen. It inflamed him—his desire warring with an anger fueled by the Ahdath’s speculation.
His emotions consumed him for the span of a breath, until his attention was claimed by a sight that shattered him. Fitted about Arian’s neck was a leather collar that tightened about her lower jaw and throat, leaving her face half in shadow. The exterior of the collar was studded with spikes and linked to her wrists by iron chains.
They had dressed the First Oralist of Hira as a slave, debasing her rank as Companion. Demeaning the Council of Hira. Demeaning the woman he loved.
He raised his head, his silver eyes pinning the Authoritan in place. Calmly he said, “This Ark will burn and you along with it.”
The Authoritan’s rigid expression didn’t alter. An unholy glee lit his eyes. He raised a narrow white hand in reply, tightening it into a fist. And unimaginable pain burst through Daniyar’s skull.
“No!” The curt command came from Lania. “The rules of Qatilah must be observed.” She lowered the Authoritan’s hand with her own, her skin whispering over his like the rustle of brittle parchment. “We will suffer no insult before our court. Pick up your sword, my lord.”
Reeling from the pain, Daniyar was unable to comply.
“Nevus.”
At the Authoritan’s command, the captain of the Ahdath unsheathed his dagger. With a calculated flourish, he pressed its tip to Arian’s heart, his fingers lingering on the soft swell of her breast. A smile stretched the tattoo on his face. “If the Authoritan should grant me this prisoner, I will tattoo a matching bloodmark on her breast, so all might know who owns her.”
Propelled by a staggering rage, Daniyar threw himself at Nevus. He was brought down by half a dozen Ahdath.
The Khanum spoke again. “Bring the Silver Mage to his feet and place his sword in his hand. If he will not observe the Qatilah, let him taste the First Oralist’s blood.”
A pair of Ahdath dragged Spartak before the Silver Mage, forcing the Khanum’s champion to his knees. Daniyar’s eyes met Arian’s over Spartak’s head. A silent message passed between them, each offering solace to the other. Arian’s eyes blazed with purpose. And seeing her undiminished fire, desire set fire to his veins in a raw conflagration of need. There was no trial the Authoritan could devise that would keep him from reaching her side.
As if she’d heard the vow from his lips, her eyes became heated and dark. She made him a promise in turn. My love, these torments will pass. We will find each other again.
His gaze dropped to Nevus’s hand, with its cruel hold on Arian’s breast, and he knew there would come a time when he would sever it from his arm. Shaking off the grip of the Ahdath, he scowled at Lania on the dais. “You permit this offense against the First Oralist? With your insistence on protocol? I thought better of you, Khanum.”
Now he brought the full force of his attraction to bear, using the thrall he suspected he cast over Lania’s thoughts. The Claim hummed between them, turbulent and bold, urging her to remember herself as a girl stolen from her home, to be ravaged by Talisman commanders. The strength in her voice faltered. Her eyes locked on Daniyar’s, she jerked Arian free of Nevus.
Satisfied, Daniyar raised his sword. He murmured a prayer of the people of Khorasan. “From the One we come, to the One we return.”
He plunged the sword into Spartak’s chest, stepping clear of the path of the blood spray.
“Prepare the bloodbasin.” The Authoritan’s command didn’t penetrate the reality of what Daniyar had just done. What he would do, night after night, to purchase Arian’s life. He didn’t have time to upbraid himself for his choice; a strange white foam began to bubble at the corners of Spartak’s mouth. His breath rattled from his body on a gasp, his limbs twitching in their armor. The bloodbasin shattered at the first touch of his blood.
Daniyar had driven the sword tip-first into Spartak’s body. Aghast, he stared up at Lania.
A smile vanished from her lips so swiftly, he wasn’t certain he had seen it. In her weakness for him, she had meant to confer an advantage.
Your sword is well suited to your hand.
The tip of the blade was poisoned.
LARISA AND ELENA CLIMBED A TOWERING RED DUNE, FEELING THE SAND shift beneath their feet. Shapes loomed out of the darkness, their edges limned by the light cast down by thickly tangled stars. The strange shapes shifted against the patterns of the desert as if they crested gold-flamed waves.
To the north, a giant nothingness