Kenevah examined the dice carefully, then set them in a brazier. Melan squirted the precious things, the product of untold hours, with oil and set them ablaze. Inevera had known to expect this, but was still unprepared for how the loss cut at her. Melan looked up at her with a smirk of her own.
Inevera breathed deeply, finding her centre as Kenevah looked at her again. ‘Have you dice of ivory?’
Inevera reached for her pouch a third time, emptying into her hands the dice she had carved from camel teeth, these done blind, with strands of bido silk woven over her eyes. They had taken even longer than the dice of wood, months of work, and every time she needed to request a new tooth, she had spent a week washing bidos.
Kenevah rolled the ivory dice through her fingers, studying them intently. Then she grunted, hurling them against the stone wall of the chamber with surprising strength. The fragile dice shattered on impact. She reached out and took the empty hora pouch from Inevera’s hands, throwing it onto the pyre of her wooden dice. The velvet caught flame, giving off a thick, black smoke.
‘You may enter the Chamber of Shadows,’ Kenevah said, handing Inevera a new hora pouch, this even finer than the first, black velvet tied with golden rope. ‘Inside you will find eight alagai hora. You will carve your seven dice from them, preserving every shaving. If you make no mistakes, the last is yours to use as you see fit; if you need more, it will be a year’s penance for every bone.’
The Chamber of Shadows. Other nie’dama’ting spoke of it only in hushed whispers. Deep in the bowels of the palace, untouched by sun or candle or chemical light, it was said the chamber was so dark its walls seemed miles away at times, and closing in on one the next. A darkness so complete it seemed like the abyss itself, and if one was quiet enough, one could hear Nie whispering in the black.
Melan’s eyes were those of a tunnel asp as Inevera took the pouch.
No sooner had the Vault doors closed for the night than Melan shoved Inevera to the ground. She was fifteen, and Inevera not yet eleven. The difference was clear in their size, though not as great as it had been when Inevera first came to the palace.
‘My dice were nearly done!’ Melan shouted. ‘Another year at most, and I would have been able to take the white veil. The youngest since the Return! But instead I waste two years trying to teach sharusahk to a clumsy pig-eater, only to see her enter the Chamber of Shadows before me!’
She shook her head. ‘No. This will be your last lesson, bad throw. Tonight I kill you.’
Inevera felt her blood run cold. Melan looked angry enough to mean it, but what would the dama’ting do if she carried out her threat? She looked to the other girls around them.
‘I see nothing.’ Asavi, ever loyal to Melan, turned her back on the scene.
‘I see nothing,’ the girl next to her said, turning as well.
‘I see nothing. I see nothing.’ It was repeated like the names of the sharukin as each girl turned her back.
Melan had the other girls well trained. And why not? She was the Damaji’ting’s granddaughter, and undefeated among the Betrothed in sharusahk. The other girls looked to her as their leader, and she had indeed been expected to become the youngest dama’ting since the Return. Only her own mother’s order prevented that.
Inevera had never understood why Melan’s punishment was so severe, and had held on so long. Inevera had excelled at dancing and sharusahk. By her second month in the palace, her forms were as good as the other girls her age. Now, after two years, they were as good as any. Qeva should have lifted the ban long ago, but she had not. Why? It served nothing but to antagonize Melan. If the dama’ting thought she could teach her daughter humility this way, she was a fool.
And then, suddenly, it clicked, as Qeva’s words from two years gone came back to her.
If you prove not humble, competent, or strong enough to survive and advance to the white, then that is inevera.
Carving and warding were not the only tests barring the Chamber of Shadows. Qeva wanted the strongest leader for the Kaji, and she had set her own daughter to bar Inevera’s path, whether Melan knew it or not.
‘Scorpion,’ Melan hissed, coming forward hard.
But Inevera was through pretending to be weak. She had spent two years humble before Everam. Now it was time for strength.
Inevera had never fought back during these nightly beatings. There had been nothing to gain. But she had watched, and waited, and planned. She knew Melan’s weaknesses now, and in her mind she had fought this battle a thousand times.
She dropped down on one hand and the balls of her feet, driving her stiffened fingers into the point of convergence on Melan’s thigh. ‘Wilting flower,’ she said as Melan’s supporting leg lost strength and she collapsed to the ground.
Melan rolled quickly to her feet, massaging strength back into her leg, and Inevera gave ground freely, offering no aggression of her own. More than one of the girls forming a ring around them peeked over her shoulder.
‘You see nothing!’ Melan shrieked, and they quickly turned away.
‘We see nothing,’ they all echoed.
‘Lucky,’ Melan snarled. Inevera only smiled in return as the girl came at her again, meeting Melan’s cobra’s hood with a deft strike to her throat before melting out of her path.
‘Shattered wind,’ she said as Melan stumbled past, overbalanced and gasping for air. Girls were looking again, but Melan paid them no mind, turning and launching herself at Inevera, her kicks and punches moving like tunnel asp strikes, followed close behind by targeted strikes at Inevera’s own convergence points.
But Inevera bent and swayed like a palm in wind, seeing the lines of energy clearly as Melan set her feet and eyed her targets. Again and again she broke those lines, sometimes simply taking away her breath and balance, other times adding a sharp stab of pain to accentuate the lesson. She was careful to cause no permanent harm, though. Inevera had never told the dama’ting of how Melan and the other girls abused her, but she held no such faith in them. Qeva would be looking for excuses to deny her passage into the chamber, and killing or maiming her daughter would surely qualify.
But she was through being abused. Melan came at her again, appearing to use camel’s kick, but then flowing unexpectedly into ram’s horn, trying to smash Inevera’s nose with her forehead.
Inevera caught Melan’s robe, swaying to the side with a leg left in Melan’s path to trip her into a throw. She kept a hold on Melan’s arm, and if the other girl resisted, her arm would pop from its socket. As expected, Melan added her own momentum to the throw to avoid that, practically leaping along to crash into Asavi’s back. Both girls went down in a heap, and the others around them gasped and scattered.
Melan let out a low growl, twisting and scissoring her legs around Inevera’s feet, tripping her as well and rolling atop her. They struggled for several minutes on the floor, and here the older girl’s strength began to tell as she worked her way behind Inevera into a hold, bashing her forehead against the stone floor more than once. There was a flare of light behind her eyes after each one, leaving Inevera’s ears ringing and her equilibrium shattered.
She managed to free one arm as Melan pulled the cords of Inevera’s bido around her neck, sacrificing control for the hold. After all, what could Inevera do with one arm and Melan firmly planted on her back? She threw her head back to strike Melan’s nose, but the girl was wise to the trick, pulling her face back and to the side.
As Inevera knew she would. Quick as a flame demon, she stuck her index and middle fingers into Melan’s nostrils. Her fingernails were sharp, and they cut into the tender cartilage as she pulled hard, threatening to tear Melan’s nose clean off.
‘Will Asavi still want to kiss you when your nose is a ruined hole?’ she whispered.
Melan wasn’t the prettiest of the nie’dama’ting, but she was easily the most vain. She shrieked, dropping her hold in order to preserve her beauty. Inevera struck several quick blows in the ensuing chaos, then rolled away and
got to her feet. Melan followed wobbling unsteadily. There was nothing she could do as Inevera scorpion-kicked her in the face, feeling Melan’s cheek and nose crumple under the blow. Melan hit the floor hard and struggled to rise again.
‘When she sees your face tomorrow, I think Dama’ting Qeva will lift your banishment,’ Inevera said, holding up her new hora pouch. ‘We will enter the Chamber of Shadows together. And I will finish my dice before you.’
8
Sharum Do Not Bend
302–305 AR
Inevera waited nervously in the dama’ting pavilion, her breath fogging in the bitter cold. Qeva was there, as well as three other Brides, seven Betrothed, and four eunuchs, including the powerful Enkido. The eunuchs were dressed in full Sharum blacks, night-veiled with spear and shield. Under their robes was linked armour of dama’ting craft, enough to turn even a demon’s bite.
But despite the powerful gathering in a familiar space, Inevera shifted her feet nervously. It was deep in the night, and they were on the surface. Evejan law forbade this, even for Brides of Everam, but Qeva and the others stood chatting among themselves as easily as if they stood in the Dama’ting Underpalace. Inevera knew logically the chances of alagai passing the Sharum in the Maze and breaching the great wall was minimal at best – and in truth closer to infinitesimal – but still her heart thudded in her chest.
Fear and pain are only wind, she reminded herself, picturing the palm and finding her centre.
Standing by the tent flap, mute Enkido raised a hand and made a quick series of gestures with his fingers.
‘Oot!’ Qeva said. ‘They come.’
Everyone quieted, and the Brides moved to stand in front, Qeva at their lead. She nodded to Enkido as he opened the tent flap.
Half a dozen Sharum approached the pavilion, one of them leading a camel with feet wrapped in thick black cloth. There was black cloth over its body as well, and wrapped around the wheels of the large cart it pulled.
Their blacks were dusty from the Maze, with fresh dents in their armour and ichor splattering their heavy shields. One walked with a slight limp, and another had a blood-soaked cloth tied around one thick arm. The Sharum all had their night veils in place, but Inevera recognized them immediately by their sleeveless uniforms with breastplates of blackened steel emblazoned with the golden sunburst of Dama Baden. Even without his characteristic swagger and white kai’Sharum veil Inevera would have recognized Cashiv, and even more so the man beside him. His ajin’pal.
Soli.
She had not seen her brother in years, but she knew him instantly even behind his veil. His eyes had the twinkle of her brother’s easy smile, and she knew his walk, his stance, and his muscular arms as well as she knew her own. She suppressed a gasp, but could not help staring.
Next to her, Melan snorted. ‘You have as much chance there, bad throw, as you do in beating me to the veil. Those are push’ting. Man lovers. There are said to be none finer in battle than Dama Baden’s Sharum, but they would sooner bed a goat than you.’
Asavi snickered. ‘And be better for it.’
‘Silence!’ Qeva hissed.
Cashiv and the other Sharum came before the dama’ting and bowed deeply. As they did, Soli’s eyes passed over Inevera, but though her face was bare, there was no recognition in the dim light.
‘Rise, honoured Sharum,’ Qeva said. ‘The blessing of Everam be upon you.’
Cashiv and the others straightened. ‘Everam is great. All honour and glory begins and ends with Him. Our lives belong to Him and his sacred Brides. It is the first night of Waning after winter solstice. We have come to deliver Dama Baden’s tithe.’
Qeva nodded. ‘Your sacrifice in blood does not go unnoticed by Everam, or his Brides. What gift have you brought?’
Cashiv bowed again. ‘Twenty-nine alagai, Dama’ting.’
Qeva raised an eyebrow. ‘Twenty-nine? This is not a holy number.’
Cashiv bowed again. ‘Of course the dama’ting is correct. Twenty-eight is the traditional tithe; seven sand demons, seven clay, seven flame, and seven wind. One each of the common breeds for every pillar of Heaven.’ He paused, his eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘But Dama Baden is grateful for the blessings of the dama’ting, and commanded us to lay a special trap. To honour the one Creator, we have also brought a single water demon.’
Several of the nie’dama’ting gasped. The Brides showed no obvious sign, but Inevera could read the shift in their stances as easily as if they were shouting in elation. Water demons were beyond rare in Krasia, and there were spells that could only be made from their bones. The spell to create water alone could be accomplished with a fraction of the hora.
‘Everam is pleased with your gift to honour Him,’ Qeva said. ‘How did you accomplish this?’
‘Dama Baden had us wall off a section of the Maze, removing the wards and breaking the sandstone floor that prevents alagai rising. We dug a deep pool, which the dama filled with water from his own stores, and seeded with fish and other life. It took many months, but at last, the bait was taken and a water demon took residence there. It killed one of my men and injured two others as we hauled it out in the nets this night, surviving far longer than we expected in the night air. It eventually died of suffocation, and is otherwise intact.’
The dama’ting exchanged a glance. The cost of this endeavour was not lost to them. The water alone was a Damaji’s ransom – tainted now and useless. It spoke of Dama Baden’s incredible wealth … and of a favour he sought.
Dama Baden did nothing for free.
‘This gift pleases us greatly, Cashiv asu Avram am’Goshin am’Kaji. Your honour, and that of your men, is boundless. The pleasures of Heaven will be yours forever when you pass from this life. Bring forth your wounded.’
The two most heavily wounded men stepped forth, and there was no hesitation as the dama’ting warded the skin about their injuries and drew forth small bits of hora to effect magical healing. The other men had only superficial scrapes and burns the Brides treated with more conventional means.
When it was done, Qeva turned back to the Sharum. ‘Bring the gifts into the Rendering Chamber.’
Moving with the assuredness of men who had been this way many times, Cashiv and the others began unloading alagai corpses from the cart and carrying them down through a trapdoor Inevera had never seen before, right in the entrance hall. Large punctures in the chests of the sand and wind demons told of death by stingers – arrows the size of spears, launched from wooden scorpions atop the walls. The armour of the clay demons was crushed by heavy stones dropped into demon pits. The smell of rank ichor was nauseating.
The flame demons – drowned in shallow pools – were unmarked, as was the water demon, a slimy mass of horned tentacles and sharp scales. Its mouth was enormous for its body, with row upon row of wicked teeth.
When it was done, Qeva gestured and Cashiv came to kneel before her. ‘Four questions,’ Qeva said, ‘and a boon.’
Cashiv nodded. ‘Thank you, Dama’ting. I humbly accept this gift, though we are yours to command, and act only to bring glory to Everam, not from thought of reward.’ His words had the ring of practice, more a chant than speech. Inevera understood that this meeting likely played out every year, a business transaction that had become ritual. The way everyone smoothly gathered into a ring around the scene spoke of it as well.
Qeva knelt across from Cashiv as she reached into her hora pouch. ‘Have you the dama’s blood?’ Cashiv drew forth a polished wooden box. Contained within was a delicate porcelain vial. He passed this to the dama’ting, who emptied its contents onto her dice.
‘Lower your veil.’ When Cashiv complied, she asked, ‘Do you swear now that this is the true blood of Dama Baden, and that you speak with his voice – his words and not your own – with Everam as your witness?’
Cashiv put his hands on the canvas floor of the pavilion and pressed his forehead between them. ‘I do, Dama’ting. I swear before Everam himself, in the name of Kaji and on
my honour and hope of Heaven, that this is Dama Baden’s blood and I have memorized his questions precisely.’
Qeva nodded, raising her hand and causing the dice to flare with a harmless glow. Cashiv flinched in spite of himself. ‘Then ask, Sharum. The dice will know if you lie.’
Cashiv swallowed hard and drew deep breaths, finding his centre in much the same way as a dama’ting. Their sharusahk might be vastly different, but the philosophy at its core was not.
Cashiv met Qeva’s eyes, his words slow and careful. ‘What will be my greatest loss this year, and how can I profit from it?’
‘Well said,’ Qeva congratulated. ‘That was two questions last year.’ Without waiting for a response, she shook the dice in her hands, chanting as they began to glow. She threw, then studied the pattern carefully.
‘A sickness will spread through the goat herds this winter,’ she said. ‘Only two in five will see the spring, and those too weak to have much value. Tell Dama Baden to sell his stock now and buy as many sheep as he can afford.’
Cashiv bowed and asked his second question. ‘As my palanquin passed through the city a month ago, a khaffit spat upon me from the crowd. How may I find this one again, to visit justice upon him?’
Inevera knew full well what ‘justice’ the dama meant. One fool enough to spit on a dama no doubt deserved it, but it said much of Baden’s pride that he would waste such a valuable question on revenge.
Qeva showed no emotion at all as she consulted the dice. ‘You will find him in the bazaar. His stall three hundred twenty paces east of the statue of the Holy Mother near the Jaddah gate in the Khanjin district. A seller of …’
Inevera tilted her head, studying the pattern still glowing softly on the dice. Honey melon, she read.
‘Honey cakes,’ Qeva said after a moment. Inevera stiffened, looking at the dice again, positive of her reading. She glanced at Qeva, and did not know what filled her with more fear, that Dama Baden was going to torture and kill the wrong man, or that her great teacher had made an error.
The Daylight War Page 20