“Perhaps,” Ashan agreed.
“And perhaps not,” Damaji Ichach cut in. “Andrah, surely you cannot mean to raise these women? They are Khanjin. Let me see to the matter personally.”
“I do not see that I have a choice, Damaji,” Ashan said. “I am of no tribe at all, and must follow the Deliverer’s commands.”
“You are Andrah,” Aleverak snapped. “Of course you have a choice. Your daughter twists the Deliverer’s words to trap you, but she does not speak the whole truth. ‘Any woman who takes a demon in alagai’sharak shall be Sharum’ting,’ the Deliverer said. I do not believe this qualifies. Sharum blooding does not come without the approval of a drillmaster. Alagai’sharak is a sacred ritual, not some fools stealing out into the night on a whim.”
The other Damaji grunted along, and Inevera felt her jaw tighten. Again the rasping chorus as the old men quoted scripture, related irrelevant anecdotes, and warned sagely against being too free with the rights of Sharum. She stroked the hora wand at her belt, imagining for a moment what it would feel like to blast the lot of them into the abyss.
“Did any men witness the event?” Ashan asked when the hubbub had faded. He still had not consulted the women themselves, and likely would not.
Jayan bowed again. “Andrah, the women’s husbands are waiting outside, and beg to speak before you make your decision.”
Ashan nodded, and the men were brought in. All wore blacks, though by their look and equipment none was a warrior of note. Their auras were colored with rage, shame, and awe at the grandeur of the throne. One of the men was particularly distraught, barely contained violence radiating from him like a stink.
The widower. Inevera shifted slightly on her bed of pillows. Watch that one, her fingers said.
I see him, Damajah. Ashia’s hand hung loose at her side, her reply a whisper of nimble fingers.
“These women killed my wife, Holy Andrah,” the distraught warrior said, pointing. “My Chabbavah would not have disobeyed me and acted so foolishly without their foul influence. I demand their lives in recompense.”
“Lies!” another of the men shouted. He pointed to his own wife, the dal’ting who had been beaten. “My wife fled to me after the disaster, and made clear Chabbavah had been one of the ringleaders pressuring the others. I regret my spear brother’s loss, but he has no right to claim vengeance for his own failings as a husband.”
The widower turned and struck at him, and for a moment the two warriors traded blows. Ahmann had tolerated no violence in his court, but none of the men, even Ashan, seemed inclined to stop them until the second man had put the widower onto the floor in a painful hold.
Ashan clapped his hands loudly. “The argument stands. Everam would not give victory to a liar.”
Inevera breathed. Not a liar. Only a warrior who had beaten his wife.
The second man bowed. “I ask the holy Andrah to remand these women to us, their rightful husbands, for punishment. I swear by Everam they will not bring shame to their families, our tribe, or your throne again.”
Ashan sat back on the throne, steepling his fingers and staring at the women. Ashia had made a compelling case, but Inevera could see in his eyes that the new Andrah would still refuse them. Given the opportunity, Ashan would take the spears from every Sharum’ting, Ashia included.
She should have brought the women to me first, Inevera thought. But perhaps this, too, was Everam’s will.
Living in the Northland where women had as many rights as men had shown Krasian women that there was an alternative to living their lives under a husband’s sandal. The greenlanders had not been able to stand against the Krasian spears, but they had struck at the very heart of their enemy in the Daylight War. More and more women would seek their due, and sooner or later the clerics must be confronted on the matter.
Inevera did not want to overrule Ashan publicly on his first day on the Skull Throne, but if he would not see reason, so be it.
She opened her mouth to speak, but was checked as Asome loudly cleared his throat and spoke with a voice that carried through the room. “My honored wife is correct.”
Ashan’s face went slack with surprise, and even Inevera was struck dumb as Asome stepped down from the dais to take the floor. The boy had argued vehemently against the formation of Sharum’ting and his wife and cousin’s raising.
“It is true my honored father said that the demons must be taken in alagai’sharak,” Asome said, “but what is alagai’sharak, truly? It literally means ‘demon war,’ and war is no ritual. The alagai have made all humanity, male and female, their enemy. Any battle against them is alagai’sharak.”
Jayan snorted. “Leave it to my dama brother to fail to understand war.”
It was the wrong thing to say in a court dominated by clerics, further proof of Jayan’s tendency to speak without thought. Ashan and the Damaji all turned angry glares upon him.
At last, Ashan found his spine, using the same deep boom he had used on his daughter a moment before. “You forget your place, Sharum Ka. You serve at the will of the white.”
Jayan blanched, and anger blossomed in his aura. His hand tightened on his spear, and if he had been a single grain more the fool he might have used it, even if it plunged all Krasia into civil war.
Asome was wise enough to keep his expression neutral, but it did not save him from the dark gaze Ashan turned his way. “And you, nie’Andrah. Did you not argue long and hard against women taking the spear before this very throne a fortnight ago?”
Asome bowed. “Indeed I did, Uncle. I spoke with passion and belief. But I was wrong, and my honored father was right to ignore my pleas.”
He turned, sweeping his eyes over the room. “Sharak Ka is coming!” he boomed. “Both the Deliverer and the Damajah have said it is so. Yet still we stand divided, coming up with petty excuses why some should be allowed to fight while others stand by and do nothing. But I say when the Deliverer returns with all the armies of Nie biting at his heels, there will be glory and honor enough for all in the great battle. We must be ready, one and all, to fight.”
He pointed to Ashia. “It is true I argued against my wife taking the spear. But she has brought us nothing save honor and glory. Hundreds owe their lives to her and her spear sisters. They carry the Damajah’s honor on the field, trusted with her protection. They elevate us all. Women give us strength. The Deliverer was clear on this. All who have the will for Sharak Ka must be allowed to stand.”
He paused, and Asukaji stepped into the gap as smoothly as if it had been rehearsed. The two were ever the first to support each other.
Ashan shook his head. “Everam, not you, too.”
Asukaji pointed to the Sharum husbands. “What have these men to hide, that they fear the witness their wives might bear against them if raised? Perhaps the threat of it will make some husbands wiser. These women have fought alagai. Should our walls fail, they will be the last defense of our children. With so much resting upon them, why should they not have rights?”
“Why not indeed?” Inevera asked, before any of the older men had time to formulate a retort. She smiled. “You men argue as if the choice were yours, but the Deliverer gave the Sharum’ting to me, and I will decide who shall be raised and who shall not.”
Ashan’s scowl was belied by the relief in his aura, spared responsibility for a decree that would make him enemies regardless of how he ruled.
“Umshala.” She beckoned her sister-wife, Damaji’ting of the Khanjin. “Foretell them.”
Eyes widened. Foretellings were private things. The dama’ting were secretive with their magic, and with good reason. But the men needed reminders that there was more than politics at work here. It was Everam’s will that should guide them, not their own petty needs.
The women knelt in a crescent about Umshala’s casting cloth. All of them wore reddened bandages, and the Damaji’ting touched her dice to the wounds, wetting them with blood for the prophecy.
Inevera dimmed the wardlight in t
he chamber. Not to aid the casting, for wardlight did not affect the dice. Rather, she did it so all would see the unmistakable glow of the hora, pulsing redly with Umshala’s prayers. Hypnotized, men twitched at the flash of light each time she threw.
At last, Umshala sat back on her heels. She turned, ignoring Ashan to address Inevera. “It is done, Damajah.”
“And what have you seen?” Inevera asked. “Did these women stand fast in the night? Are they worthy?”
“They are, Damajah.” Umshala turned, pointing to the woman who had been beaten. “Save for this one. Illijah vah Fahstu faltered in her strike and fled the demon, causing the death of Chabbavah and the injury of several others. The kill is not hers.”
Illijah’s aura went white with terror, but the other women stood by her, reaching out in support—even the woman who had been badly burned. Inevera gave them a moment for pity’s sake, but there was nothing she could do. The dice cut both ways.
“Six are raised,” she said. “Rise, Sharum’ting. Illijah vah Fahstu is returned to her husband.” It was a cruelty, but better than if Inevera had left her fate to Damaji Ichach, who would likely have had her publicly executed for bearing false witness before the throne.
Illijah screamed as Fahstu walked up behind her, grabbing the top of her hair in one thick fist, dragging her backward off her knees. She stumbled, unable to rise fully, as Fahstu dragged her from the room, her wails echoing off the walls as the Damaji watched with cold satisfaction.
Bring me the hand he uses to drag her before the sun sets, her fingers told Ashia.
Ashia’s fingers replied in their customary hidden whisper. I hear and obey, Damajah.
“Wait!” one of the women cried, drawing everyone’s attention. “As Sharum’ting, I wish to testify on Illijah’s behalf to bring witness against the crimes of Fahstu asu Fahstu am’Ichan am’Khanjin.”
Inevera waved, and the guards lowered their spears, preventing Fahstu from leaving the throne room. Illijah was released, and both were escorted back to the throne.
Damaji Ichach threw up his hands. “Is this what the Andrah’s court has become? A place for ungrateful women to complain about their husbands like gossiping washerwomen?”
Several of the Damaji nodded with agreement, but Damaji Qezan of the Jama, Ichach’s greatest rival, smiled widely.
“Surely not,” Qezan said, “but your tribe has brought such drama to the court, we of course must see it through.” Ichach glared at him, but other Damaji, even some of those who had supported him a moment ago, nodded. They might not be washerwomen, but the Damaji loved gossip as much as any.
“Speak,” Ashan commanded.
“I am Uvona vah Hadda am’Ichan am’Khanjin,” the woman said, using a man’s full name for the first time in her life. “Illijah is my cousin. It is true she ran from the alagai, and is not worthy to stand in the night. But her husband, Fahstu asu Fahstu am’Ichan am’Khanjin, has been forcing her to prostitute herself for years to earn money for his couzi and dice. Illijah is an honorable daughter of Everam and refused his initial demands, so Fahstu beat her so badly she was forced to keep to her bed for days. I witnessed her shame personally.”
“Lies!” Fahstu cried, though Inevera could see the truth in his aura. “Do not listen to this vile woman’s falsehoods! What proof does she have? Nothing! It is the word of a woman against mine.”
The woman whose arm and face were wrapped to cover her firespit burns moved to stand beside Uvona. Pain lanced across her aura, but she stood straight, and her voice was firm. “Two women.”
The other four moved in, the women standing together as one.
“Six women bear witness to your crime, Fahstu,” Uvona said. “Six Sharum’ting. We went into the night not to claim rights for ourselves, but for the sake of Illijah, that she might be free of you.”
Fahstu turned to Ashan. “Andrah, surely you will not take the word of women over a loyal Sharum?”
Umshala looked up as well. “I can consult the dice if you wish, Holy Andrah.”
Ashan scowled, knowing as well as any what answer the dice would bring. “Do you wish to confess, son of Fahstu, or shall we clear your name with hora?”
Fahstu blanched, then glanced around, seeking support where there was none. At last he shrugged. “What difference does it make what I do with my own wife? She is my property, and no Sharum’ting. I have committed no crime.”
Ashan looked to Ichach. “He is your tribesman, Damaji. What say you to this?”
“I rule in favor of the husband,” Ichach said without hesitation. “It is a wife’s duty to work and support her husband. If he cannot pay his debts, the failing is hers and she should pay the price, even if he decide it be on her back.”
“Or her knees,” Damaji Qezan said, and the other men laughed.
“The Damaji of the Khanjin has spoken,” Inevera said, drawing looks of surprise. “For prostituting his wife, Fahstu shall not be punished.” A wide smile broke out on Fahstu’s face at the words, even as the eyes of the new Sharum’ting fell. Illijah began to weep once more, and Uvona put an arm around her.
“However, for the crime of lying to the Skull Throne,” Inevera went on, “he is found guilty. The sentence is death.”
Fahstu’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Umshala,” Inevera said.
The Damaji’ting reached into her hora pouch, pulling out a small black lump—a piece of breastbone from a lightning demon. The Damaji’ting knew to avert their eyes, but the rest of the room looked on and was blinded by the flash of light, deafened by the thunder.
When their eyes cleared, Fahstu son of Fahstu lay halfway to the great doors, his chest a charred, smoking ruin. The smell of cooked meat permeated the room.
“You push fast and too hard, Damajah,” Qeva said. “The Damaji will revolt.”
“Let them, if they are such fools,” Belina said. “Ahmann will not weep if he returns to find the entire council reduced to a scorch on his throne room floor and his sons in control of the tribes.”
“And if he does not return?” Melan asked.
“All the more reason to cow the Damaji and recruit as many Sharum’ting as possible now,” Inevera said. “Even Abban the khaffit has more soldiers than I.”
“Kha’Sharum,” Qeva said derisively. “Not true warriors.”
“Tell that to Hasik,” Inevera said. “The Deliverer’s own bodyguard, brought down and gelded by the khaffit. They say the same about the Sharum’ting, but I would take any of Enkido’s spear daughters over a dozen Spears of the Deliverer.”
They reached Inevera’s private gardens, a botanical maze filled with carefully manicured plants, many cultivated from seeds brought all the way from Krasia. There were medicinal herbs and deadly poisons, fresh fruit, nuts and vegetables, as well as grasses, shrubs, flowers, and trees cultivated for purely aesthetic value.
It was easy for Inevera to find her center in the gardens, standing in the sun amidst so much flourishing vegetation. Even in the Palace of the Deliverer in Krasia, such a garden would have been impossible to maintain. The land was too harsh. In Everam’s Bounty, it seemed one had but to throw seeds in any direction and they would thrive unaided.
Inevera breathed deeply, only to be thrown from her center as she caught a hint of the perfume that always signaled an end to tranquility.
“Flee while you can, little sisters,” she said quietly. “The Holy Mother waits within the bowers.”
The words were enough to send her sister-wives hurrying from the garden as fast as their dignity would allow. As his Jiwah Ka, Ahmann’s mother was Inevera’s responsibility, a position the women were all too happy to yield.
Inevera envied them. She, too, would have fled had she been able. Everam must be displeased, not to have warned me in the dice.
Only Qeva, Melan, and Asavi dared to remain. Ashia had vanished into the leaves, though Inevera knew she was watching, never more than a breath away.
Inevera breathed, bending to the
wind. “Best get it over with,” she muttered, and strode ahead to where the Holy Mother waited.
Inevera heard Kajivah before she saw her.
“By Everam, keep your back straight, Thalaja,” the Holy Mother snapped. “You’re a bride of the Deliverer, not some dal’ting merchant in the bazaar.”
The scene came into sight as Kajivah reached and snatched a pastry from her other daughter-in-law. “You’re putting on weight again, Everalia.”
She looked to one of the servants. “Where is that nectar I asked for? And see they chill it this time.” She rounded on another servant, holding a ridiculous fan. “I didn’t tell you to stop fanning, girl.” She fanned herself, hand buzzing like a hummingbird. “You know how I get. Everam my witness, the entire green land is as humid as the baths. How do they stand it? Why, I have half a mind—”
The woman mercifully broke off as Inevera entered the bower. The other women looked as if they were about to be rescued from a coreling. Kajivah might treat every other woman like a servant, but she was wise enough to respect the dama’ting, and Inevera most of all.
Usually.
“Where is my son?!” Kajivah demanded, storming over to Inevera. She wore the black robes and white veil of kai’ting, but had added a white shawl as well, similar to Ahmann’s mode of dress. “The palace buzzes with gossip, my son-in-law sits the Skull Throne, and I am left the fool.”
Truer witness was never given, Inevera thought.
Kajivah grew increasingly shrill. “I demand to know what’s happened!”
Demand. Inevera felt s coil of anger in her center. Had the woman forgotten who she was talking to? Even Ahmann made no demands of her. She imagined herself blasting Kajivah across the gardens like Fahstu at court.
Oh, if it could be so easily done. But while Ahmann would be forgiving if she vaporized the entire council of Damaji, he would hunt his mother’s killer to the ends of Ala, and with his crownsight, there would be no hiding the crime.
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