The Black Khan. Ausma Khan Zehanat
hand came to rest upon his bare shoulder, moving to the base of his throat. The air between them was fraught. He knew she could feel the racing of his pulse.
“Am I not teaching you?” she urged him. “Do I not gift you with the Claim and share with you the secrets of the Authoritan? Do I not heal your wounds with the mysteries I know?”
Daniyar tipped back his head. Their eyes met in a dangerously slow seduction. His glance raked over the unpainted curves of her mouth. He caught a handful of her hair in his hand and used it to tug her closer. An answering spark lit her eyes.
“The Qatilah is rigorous,” he murmured against her lips. She kissed him, and he let her feel his response, heat stealing through his blood.
“The Authoritan insists on it,” she said when she had the chance. “He is jealous of my … interest … in you. He takes his revenge through the Qatilah.”
“And you, Lania? Do you seek to punish me as well?”
She slid onto his lap in a whisper of silk, fastening her arms around his neck. “Does this feel like punishment?” she asked.
He kissed her again, the kisses slow and rough, her rich curves pressed against the hard lines of his body, appreciating anew how different she was from Arian—the pampered softness of her flesh distinct from Arian’s strength, the calculation behind her response instead of Arian’s honesty. He pushed the thought of Arian away and kissed Lania more deeply, grasping her head with his hand. When she was pliant in his arms, he murmured the question on his mind—the question he’d waited to ask.
“Your attentions to me are not as marked at the Qatilah. Do you fear the loyalty of the men who bring me here?”
Surprised but too languid to stir, she answered, “No, these men serve only me. Just as the doves are mine.”
“Then what do you fear? If the Authoritan does not claim you as his own, what is it that he wants?”
Irritation crept into her voice. “What does any man want? Territory.”
He traced his hand over the silk of her dress, gently squeezing. “Is this not territory enough? As it would be for me.”
Suspicious now, she asked, “Do you play with me, Daniyar? Or do you offer the truth?”
He sensed the uncertainty behind her words—her longing for his regard, and a deeper yearning yet to take him for herself. But he didn’t know if it was the man she wanted or the legend of the Silver Mage. Or whether she was more damaged than he knew, and she sought to strike at Arian where she knew it would hurt her most. Because unlike Arian, when Lania was in his arms, she resisted the chance to surrender. Beneath the luxurious entreaty of her kisses, she maintained a conspicuous control.
“You are an Augur, Lania.” He used her name to mitigate her mistrust, urging her to believe he respected her sorcerous gifts. “How could I hide the truth from you?”
Suddenly alight, she searched his face for confirmation. “Would you have me think you have given Arian up in the face of this trifling temptation?”
He took her hand and dragged it down his body, forcing her to acknowledge the evidence of his desire. “Do not disparage yourself. And do not think me a fool unable to see who you are.”
For a moment there was silence as Lania caressed him, pushing him back against the chaise. She leaned over to whisper in his ear, her artful tongue flickering inside. “I think you are a man who does not forsake his bonds, though why you have chosen Arian when she is beholden to Hira, I cannot understand. What power does she possess that you practice this self-denial?” Her eyes became hazy and slumberous, occupied by the work of her hands. “Why beg for crumbs from her table when I offer the banquet entire?”
Her clever, caressing hands nearly stole his resolve—it took him a moment to remember his purpose in this room. He shifted her off his lap on the pretext of stretching his back.
“I will fight for you,” he vowed. “But not for the pleasure of the Authoritan. Think of how he diminishes you, while I would be eager to serve you. If I am to stand at your side, why spend my strength at the Ark?” He dropped his voice to its lowest register, growling the words in her ear. “Don’t you wish me to claim the Wall?”
Lania drew away, as if something in his eyes made it impossible for her to hold his gaze.
He pulled her back, curling a hand around her neck, letting her feel the potency of his desire. She needed to believe he would fight at her side, unconquerable in his strength—her partner in all things.
“I see a man at the Wall,” she answered. “And that man is not the Authoritan. More than that, I cannot make out.” Her voice grew cool. “There is a woman at his side … a woman who commands the Wall.”
But Lania wasn’t certain, and Daniyar read the truth of this as well. “The woman must be you.”
“She is dark and fights like a man.”
She misread his frown, drawing away to stare out the window. Daniyar followed her, conscious of his state of undress. He needed to press her now—or all he’d risked to persuade her would be lost, his commitment to Arian forfeit.
“The man at the Wall could be me—it feels as though it should be.”
She touched her forehead to his. Daniyar misjudged the action, hurrying into speech.
“To stand at the Wall at your side, I would need the magic of the Bloodprint. Every moment hastens it away. Flee Black Aura with me. Set me on the Black Khan’s trail.”
Lania went still, in no doubt now of his intentions. With an angry grimace of dismissal, she freed herself from his embrace, spearing a quick glance at the upper galleries of the room, screened by lattices of stone. “I cannot betray the Authoritan. Not after everything he’s sacrificed for me. Besides which, the Bloodprint would not serve you. Why do you imagine the Authoritan was willing to trade it away? He was High Priest of the Bloodless. He studied it so deeply he twisted its meaning beyond recognition. He has mastery over the Claim. You cannot use it against him.”
But Daniyar didn’t believe this. Why else would Arian have been subjected to the humiliation of a slave-collar? The Authoritan feared the powers of the First Oralist of the Claim. Which meant that the Claim could still be used against him. He pressed her for an explanation. “Then why did you summon Arian here, if not to make use of her gifts?”
“I do not require Arian to teach me what she once learned from me,” Lania snapped. “I asked her to tell me of Hira.” She studied him, sensing something of his reaction to her use of Arian’s name—the longing that he was never completely able to suppress.
“Of Hira? Why?”
“It was the seat of my childhood. It was everything I aspired to. Can you not fathom that I have missed the sisterhood of the Companions?”
Daniyar schooled his thoughts. She was lying, an undercurrent of hate feeding the words. And though he couldn’t think why, there might be a way to use it. “Come to Hira, then,” he said. “Arian would aid you in any way you wished. If you help her against the Talisman, she will stand at the Wall by your side.”
“That is not what I have Augured. There is one man, one woman at the Wall. And I know I shall never leave Black Aura.” She said this without self-pity.
She left him and he knew he’d lost her. When she turned back to face him, she was robed in the premeditated power of the Authoritan’s consort again, his betrayal of Arian for naught.
“Are you imagining I would cede command of the Wall when I labored all my life to secure it? Can you possibly believe I would swear my fealty to yet another man, dependent on his intercession to save me from being ravaged by his soldiers?” She spat her next words at him. “Black Aura is mine; these are my men, my slaves, my prisoners. You will take your place among them. Or not, as you decide.” She let the words