‘All of Everam’s creatures are guided by lines of power and points of convergence, where their muscles, tendons, bones, and energy meet,’ the dama’ting said. ‘These are places of great strength, but also vulnerability. Touch the right place, and even the most powerful will lose their strength.’
She beckoned and again the warrior attacked, this time refusing to grapple, striking with lightning-fast kicks and quick, snapping punches like the strikes of a tunnel asp.
But the dama’ting bent like a palm in a windstorm, flowing this way and that, his blows never striking home. Finally, she reached out almost gently while he was mid-kick, pressing one of the points marked on his supporting leg. It collapsed under him, and while Enkido managed to control his fall and quickly come upright, his leg was now slack and would not support him. He stood balanced on the other, hands up protectively as he waited on the dama’ting’s command.
Instead, she turned back to the girls. ‘Trained in Sharik Hora, Enkido was the greatest sharusahk master the Kaji Sharum had known in a hundred years. No man of any tribe could stand against him, and alagai quailed at the sight of him. More than one dama’ting sought his seed to bless their daughters, and through them he learned of our art. But though he begged time and again, he was forbidden to learn it. The Damajah teaches that no man can be trusted with the secrets of flesh. At last, the Damaji’ting took pity on him, and told him that only by yielding his tongue and his freedom would he be allowed to glimpse our secrets. He broke his spear over his knee right there, using the point to cut out his tongue and sever his own manhood, root and stones. Bleeding to death, he laid them at the Damaji’ting’s feet. No longer a man, he was healed and blessed with the right to aid in your training. You will accord him every honour.’
As one, Inevera and the other girls bowed to Enkido. Though he was only a eunuch, he looked at them all with the stern eye of a drillmaster assessing his nie’Sharum, and when he spoke with his hands, the girls quickly obeyed.
Inevera kept her hand on the Evejah’ting but did not open it, eyes closed as she recited the holy verse:
‘And from the sacred metal did the Damajah forge the three holy treasures of Kaji.
First, the cloak,
Sacred metal hammered into supple thread,
Sewn into the finest white silk with wards of unsight.
Months she laboured,
At Everam’s will,
Until the eyes of the alagai slid from Kaji in his raiment,
As easily as her fingers coated in kanis oil,
Slid along his skin.
Second, the spear,
Sacred metal pounded thin as vellum,
Etched with wards,
Rolled seventy-seven times about a shaft of hora.
The blade she made of the same sheet,
Folded and fused with hora dust
Seven times seventy times
In the fires of Nie’s abyss.
A year she laboured,
At Everam’s will,
Until the edge she ground with diamond dust,
Could cut the skin of Nie Herself.
Last, the crown,
Sacred metal warded on both sides,
Masking the many powers she blessed upon it.
Fused to a circlet cut from the skull of a demon prince.
The nine points princeling horns,
Each set with a gem to focus its unique power.
Ten years she laboured,
At Everam’s will,
Until the demon lord himself could not touch the thoughts of Kaji,
Nor approach if the Shar’Dama Ka did not will it.
With these treasures, Kaji became the most feared of all warriors,
And the cowardly princes of Nie
Fled the field whenever he drew the folds of his cloak.’
Qeva nodded as Inevera finished, gesturing to the workbench the nie’dama’ting had gathered around, where bowls of metal filings were arranged, ready to be melted down. ‘Precious metals conduct magic better than base ones. Silver is better than copper, gold better than silver. But the transfer is never perfect. There is always loss.’
She looked at Inevera. ‘What is more precious than gold?’
Inevera hesitated, though she knew better than to look to the other girls around the workbench for aid. At last she shook her head. ‘Apologies, Dama’ting. I do not know.’
Qeva chuckled. ‘You might truly be your namesake reborn if you did. The Damajah, blessings be upon her, gave us many secrets in her holy verses. But in her wisdom, she kept others still in her mind lest they be stolen by her rivals. Now many are lost to the millennia. The wards of unsight, the powers of the spear and crown, and the sacred metal.’
She took up a bowl. ‘And so we begin our lessons with copper …’
Weeks passed, and Inevera found herself standing before a silvered glass, drawing wards around her eyes in soft pencil. She had practised the sigils a thousand times, as they were in the Evejah’ting, and inverted, as she must draw them in the mirror for full potency.
Some of the older girls, Melan and Asavi among them, had progressed beyond pencil, wearing delicate circlets of warded coins across their brows, but Inevera’s first circlet was still a clinking collection of unfinished coins and gold wire in a pouch at her waist.
Qeva inspected her closely when she was finished drawing, holding her chin in a firm grasp and roughly turning her head this way and that. She said nothing, giving only a slight huff of satisfaction, but that breath meant more to Inevera than the most glowing compliment. If there had been the slightest flaw, the dama’ting would have announced it derisively to all and made her wash her face and draw anew.
Inevera felt a chill as the dama’ting touched a finger to a small bowl of black liquid. It looked like ink, but she would have known from the stench alone that it was the rendered ichor of demons.
It was warm when Qeva touched the barest smudge to her forehead, but it did not burn as Inevera feared. The spot tingled like static, and she could feel the magic crawling across her skin, drawn to the pencilled wards, dancing along their delicate lines.
And then her eyes came alive, and Inevera gasped for the wonder of it, her centre lost. The dim wardlight of the room was washed out by light from every corner, drifting across the floor and seeped in the walls, shining in the spirits of Qeva and the other girls. It was Everam’s light, the line of energy they reached for and drew upon each morning in sharusahk, the fire in their centre that gave life and power to all living things. It was the immortal soul.
And she could see it, as clearly as the sun.
‘Praise be to Everam in all his glory.’ Inevera fell to her knees, shaking as she wept for the joy and beauty of it.
‘Place your hands on the floor,’ Qeva said. ‘Let the tears fall free, lest they run through the pencil and rob you of the sight.’
Inevera immediately fell forward, terrified of losing this precious gift. Her tears spattered the stone floor, sending tiny whorls through the magic drifting up through the ala. She expected derision from Melan and the other girls, but there was only silence. Doubtless they had all been as overwhelmed as she when they first saw Everam’s light.
When her convulsions eased, Qeva dropped a silk kerchief to the floor and Inevera carefully dabbed her eyes. The other girls stared silently at her as she rose.
Qeva pointed to a stone pedestal, its smooth surface carved with dozens of wards, some covered in smooth stones. Inevera had seen the dama’ting use the pedestal to control light and temperature in the chamber, but the pattern was far too complex for her to comprehend.
But now, her eyes awash in Everam’s light, she could see the power as it moved through the net. The pattern that had been a mystery a moment before was clear now, a child’s puzzle easily solved.
‘Dim the lights,’ Qeva commanded. ‘We will not need them for this lesson.’
Inevera immediately complied, shifting the polished stones to other positions, and removi
ng others entirely, setting them in a small basin.
Immediately the wardlight dimmed, but Inevera’s vision only sharpened, an unneeded glare removed, allowing her to see even more clearly in Everam’s light.
‘The wardsight will be invaluable to you as you learn our craft,’ Qeva said. ‘It is forbidden only in the deep cells of the Chamber of Shadows where you carve your dice.’
Months passed, and Inevera’s studies consumed her. She woke to sharusahk, assisted dama’ting in the healing, and attended regular classes in history, warding, potions, jewellery making, singing, dance, and seduction. The other girls continued to shun her, especially once they saw her carving wooden dice years ahead of many who had been born to the white.
And every night, Melan beat her, calling it sharusahk practice. Even after half a year, Qeva was not sufficiently pleased with Inevera’s sharusahk, and Melan was still denied the Chamber of Shadows.
Each night Inevera slept alone with nothing save her Evejah’ting clutched to her breast as the other girls whispered to one another in the darkness, or shared beds and caresses. Even her dreams were haunted by the shapes of the seven dice that had ruled her life since the day of Hannu Pash. She would have wept, but for fear that Melan and Asavi, always together in the bed next to her, would take pleasure in the sound of her sobbing.
Inevera stood proudly as Kenevah inspected the large bowls. There in the sand Inevera had drawn the most complex circles she had ever attempted. Each was made of forty-nine wards, all linked to work in unison. Between the bowls lay her practice box, a single ward drawn at its centre.
The wards were crisp and clear in the fine yellow sand, but Inevera’s warding had never truly been tested, and she had no way of knowing if they would hold power.
Qeva stood beside her mother, regarding the wards but saying nothing. She didn’t have to. That she had thought Inevera worthy to test for hora after less than two years spoke volumes. Next to Qeva stood Melan, her face serene as her eyes cut at Inevera.
At last Kenevah nodded. ‘Draw the curtains.’ Inevera did as she was bade, and the Damaji’ting drew a large demon bone from the thick velvet of her hora pouch. Inevera wondered how much Sharum blood had been spilled to collect that bone.
Inevera made a cradle of her hands, and Kenevah placed the priceless bit of alagai hora in them. It was the first time she had ever touched demon bone, and though the Evejah’ting had told her what to expect, it was still an alien feeling, tingling with power and pulling at her blood as a lodestone might pull iron.
Carefully, reverently, she laid the bone atop the ward centred between the two bowls, and the wards began to glow softly, brightening as they drew power from the bone. They flared with a golden light even as the sand darkened in colour. The circles began to swirl. At first was a slow churn Inevera thought she was imagining, but it grew faster, like whirlpools in a cookpot after vigorous stirring, flowing into one another in a figure of eight.
The demon bone disappeared into the centre of that vortex, and there was a bright flash of light before the bowls went black. Colours danced before Inevera’s eyes in the darkness, leaving her dizzy and disorientated.
‘It is done,’ Kenevah said. ‘Open the curtains.’
Inevera stumbled through the darkened room more by memory than sight, finding the thick layers of curtain and drawing them back, flooding the room with light.
She returned to Kenevah and Qeva’s side, gasping as she saw the bowls, each sitting in a bright beam of sunlight. The sand within was gone, as was any sign of the demon bone laid between them. The bowl to the left was filled with clear water. The one to the right was filled with couscous, steaming and ready to eat.
In preparation for this trial, Inevera had fasted for six days, taking only one couzi cup of water each morning and one at night. Her throat was parched, and her stomach ached, hollow and sullen. It growled unexpectedly at the smell of the couscous.
Kenevah raised an eyebrow at the sound. ‘Your fast may soon be over.’ She handed Inevera a pair of ivory eating sticks, the handles capped with gold and jewels. ‘If you formed your wards precisely, a mere stickful of the food will fill your stomach …’ She produced a golden chalice encrusted with jewels, dipping it into the water and filling it. ‘… and the water will be the purest, sweetest draught you have ever tasted, quenching your thirst with but a sip.’
She looked at Inevera grimly. ‘If not … you will be dead within moments of either touching your tongue.’
Inevera felt a chill run down her spine. Her hand shook as she took the chalice. ‘Must I?’
Kenevah shook her head. ‘You can set them aside, but if you do, it may be years before I waste another hora on you – if I ever do.’
Inevera found her centre, and her fingers stopped shaking enough to steady the sticks. She reached out, lifting couscous smoothly to her mouth.
She chewed, and her eyes widened. The consuming hunger that had her stumbling on her feet vanished. Already, new strength was flooding through her limbs as she lifted the goblet and drank deeply.
Kenevah smiled as Inevera finished the cup, her eyes aglow. Indeed, she had never tasted water so sweet and refreshing. It was like a sip from Everam’s own river.
The Damaji’ting took the sticks and chalice from Inevera, passing them to Melan. The girl’s nostrils flared, and Inevera allowed herself a slight smirk. Short of dying at the taste, there was nothing Melan could do now to prevent Inevera gaining access to the Chamber of Shadows.
‘Please, sisters,’ she spoke the ritual invitation, ‘eat and drink of my bounty, for we are all the Damajah’s children.’
Melan snatched some of the couscous from the bowl, and dipped the chalice, drinking it quickly to wash the food down. ‘The Damajah’s children.’
Qeva took the items next, handling them with more reverence and not a little pride. She lifted her veil just enough to bring the sticks and chalice to her lips. Inevera caught a touch of smile at the corner of her mouth as the silk slipped back into place. ‘The Damajah’s children.’
Qeva refilled the cup for Kenevah, but the aged Damaji’ting handled the sticks deftly, quickly taking a mouthful without dropping so much as a grain. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, then sipped the water, swishing it gently in her mouth. At last she swallowed, drinking again to empty the chalice. ‘The Damajah’s children.’
The Damaji’ting set the items aside and turned to regard Inevera. ‘What are the best conductors of magic?’
Inevera stood silent a moment, sensing a trap. The Damaji’ting might as well have asked her two plus two. It was an idiot’s question.
‘Gold, Damaji’ting,’ she said, ‘followed by silver, bronze, copper, tin, stone, and steel. Iron will not conduct. There are nine gemstones to focus power, beginning with the diamond, which …’
Kenevah waved her off. ‘How many wards of prophecy are there?’
Another simple question. ‘One, Damaji’ting,’ Inevera said. ‘For there is only one Creator.’ The ward was placed at the centre of one face on each of the seven dice, guiding the throw.
‘Draw it for me,’ Kenevah bade, signalling to Melan, who produced a brush, ink, and vellum.
Inevera had spent the last few months drawing in sand and the brush felt awkward in her hand, but she made no comment, dipping it carefully and wiping off the excess ink on the bowl’s edge before beginning to draw on the valuable vellum.
When she was done, Kenevah nodded. ‘And how many symbols of foretelling?’
‘Three hundred and thirty-seven, Damaji’ting,’ Inevera said. The symbols of foretelling were not wards, but rather words that represented different twists of fate, one adorning the centre of each remaining face and along each side of the seven polyhedral dice the dama’ting used to read the future. Instinctively, Inevera clutched at her hora pouch and the clay dice it contained, their edges now worn from a year of careful study.
Each die had a different number of sides – four, six, eight, ten, twelve, sixteen, a
nd twenty. Each symbol had multiple meanings, based on the pattern of the surrounding symbols and context. The Evejah’ting contained detailed explanations of those meanings, but reading the dice was less a science than an art, and one that was much disputed among the dama’ting. Inevera had witnessed them arguing frequently over the results of a throw. In the most extreme cases, Kenevah was called upon to make a ruling. No one ever dared argue once the Damaji’ting spoke, but they did not always appear convinced.
Kenevah signalled Melan, who laid a fresh sheet of vellum before her. Inevera dipped her brush again. She drew the symbols smaller this time, and though her hand moved with quick precision, it was some time before she was finished. The Damaji’ting had been watching over her shoulder the whole time, and nodded immediately when she was done.
‘Have you dice of clay?’ Kenevah asked formally.
Inevera nodded, reaching into her hora pouch for the clay dice the Damaji’ting had first given her. Kenevah took them and set them on the table next to a block of ivory. This she lifted, smashing it down on the dice until they were little more than shattered lacquer and dust.
‘Have you dice of wood?’ Kenevah asked. Inevera reached into her hora pouch a second time, producing the dice that she had painstakingly carved, sanded, and etched from a solid block of wood. Her hands were crisscrossed with tiny scars from the work.
When Qeva had given her the block, Inevera had thought warding the dice would be the most difficult part of the process, but she had no skill at woodwork, and coaxing even the simplest shapes from the wood almost proved her undoing. She cut herself numerous times, casting aside uneven chunks of wood again and again before setting the block aside and carving from soap until she mastered the tools.
The simple shapes, four, six, and eight, came quickly after that, but even with the geometric calculations laid out in the Evejah’ting, it took hours to carve the ten-sided die, and even then one side was slightly larger than the others, coming up more often than not when thrown. She had to discard it and begin again. For her to pass the test for hora, the dice she gave Kenevah had to be perfect in every way.
The Daylight War Page 19