The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  She pulled Amanvah’s head free of the water, letting her gasp a breath.

  “Sharum blood of the Deliverer. Say it.”

  The girl looked at her in fury, spitting in Ashia’s face.

  Ashia did not let her draw another breath before putting her back under, twisting her arm painfully for long moments.

  “Sharum blood,” Ashia said, pulling her into the air. “Everam’s spear sisters. Say it.” Amanvah shook her head wildly as she gasped and thrashed, so Ashia put her under again.

  This time she waited long minutes, her hands in tune with Amanvah’s body. The muscles tensed one last time before consciousness was lost. When she felt it, she pulled Amanvah out into the air a third time, leaning in close.

  “There is no hora magic in the bath, cousin. No dama’ting, no Enkido. There is only sharusahk. We can do this every day if you wish.”

  Amanvah eyed her with cold rage, but there was fear there as well, and resignation. “Sharum blood of the Deliverer, Everam’s spear sisters,” she agreed. “Cousin.”

  Ashia nodded. “An admission that would have cost you nothing, when I came to you in friendship.” She let go her hold and stepped back, pointing. “I think it is the Betrothed who will use the small fountains where the water is cool from now on. Everam’s spear sisters claim the large one.”

  She looked out over the assembled nie’dama’ting and was satisfied to see them all rock backward under her gaze. “Unless any wish to challenge me?”

  Shanvah and the others broke their line as if the move had been rehearsed, giving room for a challenger to approach, but none was so foolish. They made way as Ashia led her sisters to the large fountain, where they continued their bath as if nothing had happened. The Betrothed helped Amanvah and Jaia onto benches, massaging life back into their limbs. They watched Ashia and the others dazedly, their own bathing forgotten.

  That was incredible, Shanvah’s fingers said.

  You should not have interfered, Ashia replied. I ordered you to stand back.

  Shanvah looked hurt, and the others genuinely surprised.

  But we won, Micha signed.

  Today we won, Ashia agreed. But tomorrow, when they come at us together, you will all need to fight.

  The nie’dama’ting did indeed attack the next day. They entered the bath en masse, moving to surround the large fountain where Ashia and her spear sisters bathed, outnumbering them three to one.

  Six nie’dama’ting were carried from the bath by their sisters that day, limbs too numb to support them. Others limped or nursed black bruises. Some were dizzy from loss of air, and one had still not recovered her sight.

  They went through lessons fearing reprisal, but if the dama’ting asked questions about the state of them, the nie’dama’ting saw nothing.

  When they returned to Enkido, they found him kneeling at the head of a small table with six steaming bowls. Always, the girls had knelt by the wall as they ate their small bowls of plain couscous. The room had never before held any piece of furniture beyond training equipment.

  But even more shocking was the scent that came from the bowls. Ashia turned and saw dark meat atop the couscous, moist with juice and dark with spices. Her mouth watered, and her stomach lurched. Food such as she had not tasted in half a year.

  As if in a daze, the girls followed their noses to the table. It felt like floating.

  The head of the table for the master, Enkido signed.

  The foot, for Nie Ka. He indicated that Ashia kneel at the opposite end. He beckoned Shanvah and Sikvah to kneel on one side. Micha and Jarvah the other.

  Enkido swept his hands over the steaming bowls. Meat this one night, in honor of Sharum blood.

  He thumped his fist on the table, making the bowls jump. The table, always, for Everam’s spear sisters.

  From that day forward, they always ate together, like true family.

  He punished their failures, yes, but Enkido gave rewards, too.

  No meat had ever tasted sweeter.

  Years passed. At sixteen, Ashia and the other girls had been commanded to begin growing back their hair. It seemed heavy now, clumsy. She kept it carefully pinned back.

  At seventeen, her father sent for her. It was the first time she had left the Dama’ting Palace in over four years, and the world outside looked strange to her now. The halls of her father’s palace were bright and garish, but there were places to hide, if one was limber and quick. She could disappear in an instant if she wished, trained to be invisible.

  But no, she was here to be seen. It was an alien concept, half remembered from another life.

  “Beloved daughter!” Imisandre rose and went to embrace her when she entered the throne room.

  “It is a pleasure to see you, honored mother.” Ashia kissed her mother’s cheeks.

  Her brother stood to the right of the throne, draped in the white robes of a full dama. He nodded to her, but did not presume to speak before their father.

  Ashan did not rise, watching her coolly, searching still for some imperfection to judge. But after Enkido, her father’s expectations were met effortlessly. Back straight, eyes down, every fiber of her black robes in place, she silently approached. At the precise distance from the throne, she stopped and bowed, waiting.

  “Daughter,” Ashan said at last. “You are looking well. Does the Dama’ting Palace agree with you?”

  Ashia straightened, but kept her eyes at her father’s sandals. He had two Sharum guards by the door, too far to assist him in time. A Krevakh Watcher lurked in the columns behind the throne. She might not have noticed him when she was younger, but now he might as well have been wearing bells. Pitiful protection for the Damaji of the Kaji and his heir.

  Of course, Ashan himself was a sharusahk master, and could see to his own defense against most any foe. She wondered how he and her brother would fare against her now.

  “Thank you, honored Father,” she said. “I have learned much in the Dama’ting Palace. You were wise to send me and my cousins there.”

  Ashan nodded. “That is well, but your time there has come to an end. You are seventeen now, and it is time you were married.”

  Ashia felt as if she had been punched in the gut, but she embraced the feeling, bowing again. “Has my honored father selected a match at last?” She could see the smile on her brother’s face, and knew who it was before her father spoke again.

  “It has been agreed between fathers,” Ashan said. “You are released from the Dama’ting Palace to marry the Deliverer’s son Asome. Your palace chambers are as you left them. Return there now with your mother to begin preparation.”

  “Please.” Having dismissed her, Ashan was already looking to his advisor Shevali when Ashia spoke.

  “Eh?” he asked.

  Ashia could see storm clouds gathering on her father’s brow. If she were to attempt to refuse the match …

  She knelt, putting her hands on the floor with her head between them. “Excuse me, honored Father, for disturbing you. It was my hope, only, to see my cousins one last time before I go with my honored mother to follow the path Everam has laid before me.”

  Her father’s face softened at that, the closest he had ever come to a show of affection. “Of course, of course.”

  She held her tears until she reached the training chamber. Her spear sisters were practicing sharukin, but they stood straight, bowing. Enkido was not to be found.

  Nie Ka, you have returned, Shanvah signed. Is all well?

  Ashia shook her head. Nie Ka no longer, sister. That title will be yours now, and the care of our little sisters. I am to marry.

  Congratulations, sister, Sikvah signed. Who is the groom?

  Asome, Ashia signed.

  An honor, Micha signed.

  What will we do without you? Jarvah’s hands asked.

  You will have one another, Ashia signed, and Enkido, until such time as we are reunited. She embraced each in turn, and still refused to cry.

  But then the door opened, an
d Enkido appeared. With a wave, the other girls filed out of the room, dismissed.

  Ashia looked at her master, and then, for the first time since she was sent to the Dama’ting Palace, she wept.

  Enkido opened his arms, and she fell into them. From his robes he took a tear bottle. He held her, steady as stone, stroking her hair with one hand as he collected her tears with the other.

  “I’m sorry, master,” she whispered when it was done. It was the first time in years anyone had spoken aloud in the training chamber. The sound echoed to her sensitive ears, seeming wrong, but what did it matter now?

  Even the palm weeps, when the storm washes over it, Enkido signed, moving to hand her the bottle. The tears of Everam’s spear sisters are all the more precious for how seldom they fall.

  Ashia held up her hands, pushing the bottle away. “Then keep them always.”

  She looked down, even now unable to meet his eyes. “I should be overjoyed. What greater husband could a woman dream of the Deliverer’s son? I thought that fate was taken from me when I was sent to you, but now that it has come again, I do not wish it. Why was I sent here, if only to be given to a man who would have had me regardless? What point in the skills you have taught, if I am never to use them? You are my master, and I want no other.”

  Enkido looked at her with sad eyes. I had many wives before giving myself to the dama’ting, his fingers said. Many sons. Many daughters. But not one has made me as proud as you have. Your loyalty makes my heart sing.

  She clutched at him. “Asome may be my husband, but you will always be my master.”

  The eunuch shook his head. No, child. The command of the Deliverer cannot be denied. It is not for me or you to speak against his blessing, and I will not shame the Deliverer’s son by coveting what is rightfully his. You will go to Asome a free woman, unbound to me.

  Ashia pulled away, walking to the door. Enkido did not follow.

  “If you are no longer my master,” she said, “then you cannot command my heart.”

  The wedding was everything she might have dreamed as a girl, fit for a prince and princess of Krasia. Her spear sisters stood beside her as she waited for her father to escort her to where Asome waited with Jayan at the foot of the Skull Throne in Sharik Hora.

  Enkido was in attendance as well, guarding the Damajah and watching over the proceedings, though none of the guests knew it. She and her sisters knew the signs, saw the slight ripples he left to mark himself to them.

  The oaths and ceremony were a blur. Two thrones had been provided for the bride and groom at the feast, but Ashia sat alone, waiting on her husband as he accepted gifts and spoke to the guests, Asukaji at his side.

  No expense had been spared, but the rich, honeyed cakes were bland to Ashia’s tongue. She longed to be back safe underground, eating plain couscous at the foot of Enkido’s table.

  But for all she walked through the day in a daze, it was the wedding night that brought home her true fate.

  She waited in the pillow chamber for Asome to come and take her as a husband, but hours passed in silence. Ashia looked more than once at the window, dreaming of escape.

  At last, there was a sound in the hall, but it never reached the door.

  There was a vent above the archway. Ashia was up the wall in an instant, her fingers easily finding holds in the minute cracks between the stones. She put her eye and ear to the vent, seeing the back of Asome’s head, with Asukaji facing him. They looked to be arguing.

  “I cannot do this,” Asome was saying.

  “You can, and you will,” Asukaji said, taking her husband’s face in his hands. “Ashia must give you the son I cannot. Melan has thrown her dice. If you take my sister now, it will be done. One time, and the ordeal be over.”

  Realization was a slap in the face.

  It was no sin for men to love their own gender. It was common enough in the sharaj, boys forming pillow friendships to pass the years before they were old and experienced enough for their first wife. But Everam demanded new generations, and so all but the most stubborn push’ting were eventually bound to marry and share the pillows, if only long enough to produce a son. Everam knew, Kajivah had said as much to Asukaji many times.

  But she had never thought she would be a push’ting bride.

  They entered a moment later. Ashia had plenty of time to get back in the pillows, but her mind was reeling. Asome and Asukaji were push’ting lovers. She had never meant anything to them save as a womb to carry the abomination they wanted to bring into the world.

  They ignored Ashia, Asukaji undressing her husband and stiffening him with his mouth until he could do the deed. He joined them in the pillows, coaxing them together.

  His touch made Ashia’s skin crawl, but she took shallow breaths, and endured.

  Despite his words, there was jealousy in her brother’s eyes, his face darkening as Asome gasped and saw Everam, seeding her. As soon as the deed was done, Asukaji pulled them apart and the two men fell into an embrace, seeming to forget she was even there.

  Ashia thought then about killing them both. It would be simple. They were so lost in each other she doubted they would notice until it was too late. She could even make it seem an accident, as if the act had been too much for poor Asome’s heart. Her brother, distraught at his lover’s death, would have taken a knife to himself rather than live without.

  Enkido had taught her to do those things, so cleanly that the Deliverer himself would never know.

  She closed her eyes, living the fantasy fully, not daring to move lest she make it reality. She breathed, and eventually her center returned. She rose from the pillows, pulling her wedding robes back on, and left.

  Her husband and brother did not notice.

  CHAPTER 5

  KAJIVAH

  333 AR AUTUMN

  Ashia looked up in shock as wardlight flooded the room where she wept. How long since someone had been able to sneak past her guard? Had she forgotten everything her master taught?

  Enkido would be ashamed of you, Micha said, and it was true. How could she lead the Sharum’ting when she could not even lead herself?

  She turned to the doorway expecting to see Kajivah, but her heart sank farther at the sight of her husband. Perhaps it was inevera that Asome should find her so, eyes puffed and wet, as much a failure at motherhood as she was in alagai’sharak. He would tell her now, as so many times before, that she should give up her spear. And perhaps he was right.

  “Tikka was having one of her fits.” Asome produced a spotless white cloth from his sleeve, handing it to her to dry her eyes. “But I wore her down with patience, though Everam knows, a mountain does not have enough.”

  Ashia laughed, sniffing into the cloth.

  “Word of your exploits in the night has already reached the palace, jiwah,” Asome said.

  Ashia looked at him weakly. He knew. Everam damn him, he already knew of her loss on control out beyond the Maze. Would he have her stripped of her spear, now that the Deliverer was not there to stop him? Asome and her father had both argued long and hard to keep her from alagai’sharak. With Ashan on the Skull Throne, this was all they needed. Even the Damajah could not stop them.

  “Those men were foolish to leave their unit behind,” Asome went on. “It was only by Everam’s infinite mercy that you should have been there to save them from themselves. You have done well, jiwah.”

  Relief flooded Ashia, though it was mixed in a sickening swirl of guilt. Was she less a fool?

  Even more confusing was the source of the praise. Had Asome ever spared a compliment for her? Words failed as she watched him, waiting for the twist.

  Asome crossed the room to the greenland bed in her pillow chamber. He sat, sinking into the feathered mattress, then immediately stood back up.

  “Everam’s beard,” he said. “Do you actually sleep on that?”

  Ashia realized her husband had never even seen her sleeping chambers before. She shook her head. “I fear it will swallow me. I sleep on th
e floor.”

  Asome nodded. “The greenland ways threaten to make us as soft as they.”

  “Some, perhaps,” Ashia said. “The weak of will. But it is to us, the blood of the Deliverer, to show them a better way.”

  Asome looked at her a long time, then began to pace the room, arms crossed behind his back, hands thrust into his sleeves.

  “I have failed you as a husband,” he said. “I knew I would never be good at it, but I did not realize what it would drive you to.”

  “My path was laid down by Everam before you took me to wife,” Ashia said. “I am what the Damajah made me, a spear sister of Everam. She knew this, and advised against the match, but our fathers would not listen.”

  Asome nodded. “Nor Asukaji, who pressed for the match at every turn. But perhaps it is inevera. My mother told me on Waning that a great man does not fear his wife will steal his glory. He uses her support to reach even higher.”

  He moved over to her, offering a hand to pull her to her feet, mindless of the greasy black ichor that stained her fingers. “It seems I am not a great man, but perhaps, with your help, it is not too late.”

  Ashia’s eyes narrowed. She ignored the hand, curling her legs and kicking herself to standing. “What are you saying, husband? You must forgive me if I require plain words, but we have had many misunderstandings. What support do you wish from me?”

  Asome bowed. Not so long and deep as to show deference, but still a sign of respect that surprised her. Her husband had not bowed to her since their wedding day. “This night? Nothing save a peace between us, and a renewed hope to preserve our marriage, as the Deliverer has commanded. Tomorrow …” He shrugged. “We shall see what the dawn brings.”

  Ashia shook her head. “If by ‘preserving our marriage’ you mean I submit to your touch again and bear you further sons …”

  Asome held up a hand. “I have eleven nie’dama brothers, and dozens more among the nie’Sharum. Soon I shall have nephews in the hundreds. The house of Jardir, nearly extinct a generation ago, is thriving once again. I have done my duty and produced a son and heir. I need no further children. What child could be greater than our Kaji?”