Ausma Khan - The Blue Eye

His thoughts shone with new clarity. The warmth that pulsed from his hands to the hands of the other Mages was answered by the Golden Mage. He knew her signature, recognized the golden surge underlined with steely power. It twined with the tendrils of light from his ring, reflecting his power twofold, as lethally honed as a blade, as boundless as the warmth of the sun. But from the Black Khan there was no pulse of energy beyond the strength of his grip. The magic that leapt from Daniyar’s hand to Ilea’s couldn’t complete its circuit. Their power was mutually reinforced, but there was nothing else beyond it.

He opened his eyes to study the Black Khan, to find Ilea frowning at Rukh.

The Black Khan’s eyes were fixed on the petals floating in the copper bowl. His hands were tightly clenched on theirs, his jaw a harsh line, his brows lowered in furious concentration, as if by simply willing it, the power of the Dark Mage would rise.

A litany fell from his lips.

“In the name of the One, the Beneficent, the Merciful.”

His gaze moved from the copper bowl to the light that pulsed from Daniyar’s ring. Then to Ilea’s diadem now ablaze in sheets of gold. He pulled his hand from Daniyar’s, studying the ring on his own finger—an onyx-carved rook on silver to mirror the emblem at his throat.

“Perhaps this is the wrong token. There is no such thing as dark light.”

The others dropped their hands. A hush fell over the room painted in flickers of candlelight.

Ilea’s response was unsparing. “Those who attempt the dark rites should expect their powers to be tainted.”

A black scowl from Rukh in response. “How did you hear of the attempt? Neither Arsalan nor Arian would have told you.”

“Do you still not understand how the power works?” A haughty tilt of her head. “I felt the ripples of it through the continuity of our magic. Just as the Silver Mage would have.”

Daniyar shook his head, dark hair brushing his nape. “I was fighting for my life. When I was brought back to the walls by the Assassin’s men, the One-Eyed Preacher’s thunder served to uproot my magic.”

Something moved behind Rukh’s eyes. Not uncertainty. Perhaps the regret that his attempt to use Arian’s blood in the blood-rites had stripped him of his abilities.

“You reclaimed your power,” he said to Daniyar. “I felt its pulse in my veins. Why can I not feel my own?”

Daniyar edged back from the table. “This is your first attempt. Give yourself more time.”

Rukh swore to himself. “What time do you think I have? They’re battering the Zhayedan Gate. Soon the Talisman will move east. If we lose the gates, we lose the city.” He made a swift calculation. “How far does your power extend—the Golden Mage and Silver Mage in concert?”

But Daniyar was shaking his head. “Not far enough to hold the city.”

Rukh turned to Ilea. “What of the Bloodprint, then? You read from it. You copied a verse you said would serve to defend the Citadel. Use it here, first.”

There was no softness in the golden eyes that dwelt upon Rukh’s face, nor any of the indulgence of a former lover. Her gaze was mesmerizing … predatory. The skin over Rukh’s cheekbones tightened in response. But she ignored his request, speaking to the Silver Mage.

“The only thing that will aid you is the dawn rite. You know it as well as I do. Arian taught you the verse.” It was a signal to Rukh, as well.

Rukh threw back his chair, striding across the room to throw open a pair of windows. A thousand watchfires rose against the darkness, showing them the depth of the Talisman’s forces.

“You think a single verse will hold the Emissary Gate.”

Daniyar came to stand beside him, his gaze picking out the bloodstained flags dotted about the camp.

“ Five verses. Each backed by the power of this Conference.”

Rukh’s hands balled into fists. “I cannot summon it.”

And he wondered then if the Conference of the Mages had failed because each of the Mages was an enemy to the others.

“You have yet to try.” Daniyar motioned to Ilea. “High Companion.”

She moved to join them, her eyes on the Talisman advance. “They will devour everything in their path, if you do not stop them here. You should have forced the First Oralist to stay. The Codex—if it exists—will not deliver you in time.”

Rukh left aside the fact that the only person in the room with the power to command the First Oralist had chosen to disavow her, expelling her from the sisterhood of the Council of Hira.

“What. Of. The Bloodprint.” He ground out the words through his teeth. “You studied it. Your knowledge could deliver us!”

Ilea held up both hands, the ends of her sleeves belling out. With a cutting smile at Rukh, she said, “Your search for easy answers will not avail you, but I will give you what you seek. If only to show you a truth the Council of Hira has long known.”

Eagerly, the Black Khan stepped forward.

“Tell me your truths after you have offered your benediction to my city.”

“Very well.” She turned away from him, calling out an incantation.

“When the sky is shrouded in darkness … when the stars lose their light … when the mountains are made to vanish … when the seas boil over, and when all beings are linked to their deeds …”

Hot white light inside the chamber, the coils of Ilea’s hair catching fire.

“… And when the girl-child that was buried alive is able to ask for what crime she was slain … when the scrolls of your deeds are unfolded … when heaven is laid bare … when the blazing fire is kindled bright, and when paradise is brought into view; on that Day, every human being will come to know what they have prepared for themselves.”

Though chilling in their meaning, the words were curiously devoid of impact.

Then Ilea’s arms jerked forward, forming a V. Her trailing sleeves caught fire, and the fire lanced straight from her arms to cut through Talisman lines. A pale gold tinged with crimson, the fire burned two lines through the camp, searing all in its path. It blazed brightly for an instant—a gilt-edged sword shearing through the final hours of the night. When it vanished, it left two blackened tracks on the ground. She had killed perhaps twenty men all told, but the Talisman rapidly regrouped.

Rukh glared at her. “Is that all?”

Sly acceptance. “That is all.”

He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her.

“Then do it again. Again and again, unto a world without end.”

Daniyar wrested Ilea free of Rukh’s bruising grip. “Even if she did, you would still be facing an army of thousands at your gates.” Rukh paused. Deliberated. Turned his back to them both, a gesture considered offensive at his court. But it was still his court. He may have failed as Dark Mage, but he was still the Prince of Khorasan.

He looked out over the path of Ilea’s deliberate destruction. She had recited verses of the Claim—more in number than Arian and Sinnia combined. Deadly and more threatening than anything he had heard fall from the First Oralist’s lips. Because the Verse of the Throne was an assertion, not a source of annihilation.

Why, then, had Ilea’s recitation had so little impact on his enemy? If Arsalan had been with him in this room, he might have known the answer. Arsalan’s calling to the Claim was sincere, richer and deeper than Rukh’s.

At that, a door opened in Rukh’s mind. He entered a room filled with light. He raised his face into the light—it pushed at him, moved through him, penetrated through to his cells, blinding and calming in the same calamitous instant. Throbbing like the answer to a question he’d forgotten to ask. The light expanded outward into his mind, pricked at his fears, made nonsense of his certainties, mocked him for his stubborn refusal to see it for what it was. Part of him. All of him. That was when he understood.