and deflating with each syllable. A curl of victory shaped Baseer’s lips. Yet when Daniyar made another slow sweep of the men gathered for the loya jirga, he observed a range of responses: admiration and respect from some, uncertainty and fear from others. If he was honest with them, if he spoke the truths of the Silver Mage, some might choose to ally with him. He could see from the way a few paid heed to the women at the back that the taking of slaves unsettled them. Perhaps they could still be persuaded to his point of view.
His voice rough, he said, “I am tired of war. I am tired of the desolation of our lands.” He motioned with a hand, something of his grief in the gesture. “What Candour was compared to what it has become—you must feel it as deeply as I do.” He turned his head to indicate the city of Ashfall. “It is not the way of Shin War, nor of any of our tribes, to wage war against those who do not act against us. The Black Khan seeks to hold his capital. His armies have not ventured into our lands; they haven’t sought to conquer.”
Baseer leaned forward so that his forearms were braced on his thighs, his face close to Daniyar’s. In its harsh lines and powerful certainty, Daniyar understood that this was a man who thrived on war. And to whom the Shin War code was a tool exploited for his own purposes or discarded when it failed to serve him.
“The Black Khan’s truce is a stratagem. You are a fool to believe otherwise.”
Daniyar’s gaze flicked to the Spinzhiray.
“Would you not hold your walls if there was an army at your gates? An army that takes your women captive?” Though it galled him to speak on the Black Khan’s behalf, he added, “The Khan has his own sense of naamus.”
He pointed to the young men he had tutored. They snapped to attention, their spines stiff with pride.
“Why waste their lives on this cause? Gather your men and take them home to engage in work with purpose. Allow them to build their future—restore the glory of Candour.”
He made no attempt to hide the depth of his longing for this outcome.
The men began to debate among themselves, but Daniyar watched the Spinzhiray. Despite the egalitarian structure of the council, its hierarchy would prevail.
“You think our war unjust?” he asked Daniyar, under the cover of the others’ voices.
Daniyar stared at the pulsing light that spiraled out from his ring. The silver light had wrapped itself around the lapis lazuli stone of the other man’s ring. The carved eagle appeared ready to take flight. He took a steadying breath: an honest answer would be seen as an insult, yet the Spinzhiray would see through a lie. With great care, he posed a question instead.
“How many of the Black Khan’s people have you killed or enslaved on your route to Ashfall?”
The Spinzhiray’s nobbled fingers stroked the soft wool of his beard. “To spread the message of the One across these lands is an act of justice.”
The Talisman commanders nodded one by one. In their renewed silence, Daniyar’s sharp ears picked up a sound that filled his thoughts with urgency. The actions of the Zhayedan were intensifying: they were preparing to attack.
He’d known better than to trust the Black Khan, but what other choice had there been? Arian was behind those walls. She was determined to take on the One-Eyed Preacher, even if she did so alone.
He sought a truce with the Talisman because he’d taken on her cause as his own. He had turned from her once, then promised himself he wouldn’t fail her again.
“The people of West Khorasan have long adhered to the message of the One. They named their western gate the Messenger Gate after the Messenger of the One.”
The Spinzhiray’s eyes sharpened … hardened … and Daniyar knew the battle was lost. There would be no truce with the Talisman this night. Or any of the nights that came after.
“Their court is corrupt, their practices a barbarity. The Black Khan’s scriptorium houses works of the profane.”
Daniyar fought not to show his outrage at this characterization of a place dedicated to the preservation of knowledge. “I have visited the scriptorium myself. Treatises on medicine and mathematics are anything but profane.” He debated the wisdom of mentioning the Bloodprint, then decided to keep his knowledge to himself. “The rest is for the One to judge.”
The elder’s grip tightened on his staff as Baseer rose to his feet.
“The One has judged. We have come to carry out the judgment.”
“Spinzhiray, I beg you to put the lives of your men before these notions of judgment.”
The elder shook his head in disapproval. “The dunya is of no value compared to the rewards of the Akhirah.”
A standard Talisman formula: the present world was only a means to gain the bounty of the afterlife. The Talisman used the formula to justify oppression. They would spend the lives of the boys in their army, boys he had once sheltered in Candour, without counting the cost.
“There will be no truce,” he continued. “No retreat.”
The Talisman commanders assisted the Spinzhiray to his feet. Daniyar collected his sword and sheathed it. Before he could bend to reclaim his ring, a roar shattered the night. The wind was in Daniyar’s eyes as a giant boulder tore through the roof of the tent, obliterating the stove, killing the commanders closest to it.
Screams filled the air. Orders were shouted across the tent, but what Daniyar’s keen hearing picked up was the cranking noise of the mechanism that raised the Zhayedan’s catapults. He called out a warning to the others to flee, his eyes on the women who crouched at the back of the tent. He wasn’t swift enough to act. A second boulder followed the first, its terrifying heft bringing the tent to utter silence. When the sound of the crash receded, Daniyar looked across to the back of the tent. The corner where the women had sheltered was ripped away. No one had survived, blood and bone strewn across the carpets.
He was seized from behind by two Talisman commanders who pushed him before the Spinzhiray. The elder’s white robes were flecked with blood and bits of flesh. But the Spinzhiray was used to death. His hands were steady on his staff, his charcoal eyes aflame with rage.
“The Guardian of Candour engaged in rank deception—you called for the loya jirga knowing the Zhayedan would strike!”
“No!” Daniyar protested, struggling to free himself, but the two men who held him were strong. They pinned his arms behind his back. “I could not wear the Sacred Cloak and lie—you know this!”
The Spinzhiray moved close enough that Daniyar felt his breath on his face. He ripped the Shin War crest from Daniyar’s throat, leaving it vulnerable and exposed.
“I know only this: you are a member of the Shin War without honor. Kill him, Baseer.”
Baseer, too, was covered in the blood of others, but his eyes gleamed with unholy satisfaction. He nodded at Daniyar’s captors, who forced him to his knees. He heard the sharp, metallic scrape of a well-honed sword pulled from its sheath.
He raised his head, finding the young men who had known him in Candour.
“It isn’t true,” he said. It mattered to him to convince them, even if he were to die here. “I came to you in good faith for the sake of our people. To barter for their lives and yours.”
Baseer poised 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