until the mosaics split apart, an illusion that made the turquoise depths seem infinite.
A mystery she would willingly explore, but the pallor of her skin disturbed the surface of the pool, and her mind was distracted. Her face was lined with weariness, her eyes dull, her hair hanging in limp, damp trails. She’d been a queen at the Black Khan’s banquet—ornamented, perfumed, beguiling, young, and alluringly feminine, a woman who belonged at a court as graceful and dignified as Ashfall’s. How long ago that tranquility seemed now, how deceptive her brief transformation.
She firmed the line of her jaw to make herself appear steadfast, a trick that failed to suffice, her body and spirit bruised in too many ways to count. Now, the dullness was a thing within, the spark of her purpose extinguished. She’d exchanged one guise for another, one quest for another, her course meant to be unerring, but she couldn’t deceive herself. She didn’t want to leave Daniyar. She didn’t trust that she would find her way to Timeback or that she would find what she was searching for in the city. The journey would take time.
What would she return to?
The green eyes that gazed back at her from the pool were bleak with worry and fear. “We must go,” Khashayar said.
Must we? she asked herself.
“WE’VE FACED WORSE ODDS.”
Sinnia’s spyglass was trained on the open grasslands, a brief stretch between the hidden exit of Qaysarieh’s tunnels and the rearguard of the camped-out forces of the Rising Nineteen. She grinned, a white flash against glossy dark skin. “It’s usually just the two of us against our enemies, me with my whip, you with your sword and the Claim.” She stretched out the muscles of her shoulders, a luxurious movement in the cramped confines of the tunnel. “This time we have a boy”—she ran an affectionate hand over Wafa’s unruly curls—“and a ferocious host to accompany us.” Wafa didn’t smile at Sinnia, daunted by the sounds of the battle that raged behind them in the city, but he leaned into her touch.
The host consisted of ten well-armed members of the Khorasan Guard. The men looked harried by the sounds of the battle they had left, impatient to return to the defense of their city, though they knew the journey ahead was a long one. Their route would take them across the Empty Quarter to Axum, the capital of the Negus. A reasonable place to break the journey, as it would allow Sinnia to return to the home she hadn’t visited in a year. But Arian had her own reasons for stopping at Axum. If they were able to get through the Rising Nineteen and come out on the other side unharmed, Axum would be a place of refuge. Hunted by the One-Eyed Preacher, they would need that refuge.
Pausing their journey at Axum would also give her the chance to study its celebrated manuscripts. With its long history of exchange with the maghreb, there might be a clue to the whereabouts of the Sana Codex somewhere in Axum’s lore, or at least some reference to the Mage of the Blue Eye, who was reputed to be its keeper. Perhaps the Negus or his queen would be able to tell her more.
Another uncertainty she faced.
If they did find the elusive Blue Mage, she hoped to persuade him to trust her with the Codex—to convince him that her need for it was urgent. It was the only answer to the Preacher’s mastery of the Bloodprint, and she couldn’t stand against him without it, no matter her proficiency with the Claim. She needed knowledge to match his knowledge, or she would have stayed in Ashfall to fight. The necessity of her return was ever-present on her mind.
Khashayar felt it too. He lowered his spyglass to speak.
“There’s no cover, no means to take them by surprise. We’ll have to engage them, First Oralist.” His nod acknowledged Sinnia. “And despite the Companion’s optimism, this is not a battle we can win. The numbers are against us.”
Sinnia passed her spyglass to Arian so she could see for herself, aware that there was something different about Arian but unable to pinpoint what it was. Arian studied the open grasslands, noting the distance they’d have to clear. Passing the spyglass back to Sinnia, she turned to scan the men behind her, her gaze lighting on each for a moment, until each one lowered his gaze. All except Khashayar, who raised his chin and waited.
Arian pressed one hand against the gold circlet on her upper arm, the insignia worn by the Companions of Hira.
“They haven’t moved. They’re waiting for a signal from the One-Eyed Preacher.”
Khashayar unscrewed a silver flask and took a sip of water. The flask was nothing like the plain leather waterskins Arian and Sinnia carried. It was engraved with ornate calligraphy in the pattern of a lush floral wreath. When he saw that the calligraphy had captured Arian’s attention, he offered the flask to her. Arian read the list of blessings and offered them aloud. She returned Khashayar’s flask to him without drinking from it, though his offer had been generous. She knew Khashayar would understand that as a matter of etiquette, she would not place her lips against the opening his lips had touched. He tucked away his flask without comment.
“What is your counsel, First Oralist?”
“I will provide cover.” She showed him a small hillock of grass-threaded sand in the near distance. “We need to reach that hill without giving ourselves away.”
Khashayar checked the spot with a frown. “Even if you could provide cover, it leaves us too close to their soldiers. Our circle around them should be wider.” He showed her what he meant with a sweep of his hand, inadvertently brushing her arm. Her golden circlet pulsed. He was taken aback by the energy that leapt from her body to his. She shifted to allow it to pass.
“Forgive me, I meant no offense.”
“You gave none.” Her soft words stroked over him, and for a moment he had the sense he was being gentled as one would coax a stallion to the touch of a warrior’s hand. Her answer echoed his thoughts. “We must risk it, Khashayar.” She turned back to the opening again, squeezed against Sinnia and Wafa. “They have horses I intend to take.”
Khashayar rubbed his jaw. He widened his stance, planting his feet.
“Horses will not survive the crossing of the Rub Al Khali. The risk is a foolish one, First Oralist.”
His men murmured behind him. The noise of catapults crashing into Ashfall’s courtyard sounded at their backs. The time for ambivalence was over. Either he convinced the Companions to return, or he accepted their direction.
He’d already learned that the First Oralist shared little of her thoughts or her plans. She was used to traveling without a company of soldiers at her back, unwilling to justify her actions, but something about her certainty spoke to Khashayar. Convinced him to heed her counsel.
“We must go,” she said now. “The Claim will cover us all. The risk is worth it.”
With no further argument, he signaled to the men behind him. They moved into position. He squeezed past Wafa, gestured at the Companions.
“I’ll go first with two of my men. Follow us once we are clear.”
The sound of the Claim filled the tunnel, washing the dankness from it, wrapping around their senses, its notes as close and familiar as if the men were voicing it themselves. When Khashayar and his soldiers had eased out of the tunnel, Arian and Sinnia followed with Wafa, the rest of their escort at their back. The Claim rose around them, strong and sweet, yet oddly hollow, a breeze blowing over plains of fertile scrubland. Their party moved across the grass, cocooned inside the Claim, the soft words blowing across the group of soldiers who kept watch at the rear of the Nineteen’s army. Military men, professional and well-trained, alert to sounds and movement around them, their camp orderly and silent.
Khashayar tallied numbers, noted the count and caliber of weaponry, made sharp-eyed assessments of the men waiting to attack Ashfall from the west. The rearguard consisted of two hundred men. In each small group was a runner,