But the dal’Sharum did not stop there. “If the dama tells you that you are the son of piss, then it is so!” he shouted, whipping Jardir repeatedly. Clad only in his bido, Jardir could do nothing to ward off the blows. Whenever he twisted or turned to protect a wounded area, Qeran found a fresh patch of skin to strip. He screamed, but it only encouraged the assault.
“Enough,” Khevat said. The blows stopped instantly.
“Are you the son of piss?” Qeran asked.
Jardir’s limbs felt like wet bread as he forced himself to his feet. He kept his eyes on the strap, raised and ready to strike again. He knew if he continued his insolence, the drillmaster would kill him. He would die with no glory, and his spirit would spend millennia outside the gates of paradise with the khaffit, looking in at those in Everam’s embrace and waiting for reincarnation. The thought terrified him, but his father’s name was the only thing he owned in the world, and he would not forsake it.
“I am Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, of the line of Jardir,” he said as evenly as he could manage. He heard the other boys gasp, and steeled himself for the attack to come.
Qeran’s face contorted in rage, and he raised the strap, but a slight gesture from the dama checked him.
“I knew your father, boy,” Khevat said. “He stood among men, but he won no great glory in his short life.”
“Then I’ll win glory for both of us,” Jardir promised.
The dama grunted. “Perhaps you will at that. But not today. Today you are less than khaffit.” He turned to Qeran. “Throw him in the waste pits, for true men to shit and piss upon.”
The drillmaster smiled, punching Jardir in the stomach. When he doubled over, Qeran grabbed him by his hair and dragged him toward the pits. As he went, Jardir glanced at Hasik, expecting another smirk, but the older boy’s face, like all the assembled nie’Sharum, was a mix of disbelief and ashen fear.
“Everam saw the cold blackness of Nie, and felt no satisfaction there. He created the sun to give light and warmth, staving off the void. He created Ala, the world, and set it spinning around the sun. He created man, and the beasts to serve him, and watched as His sun gave them life and love.
“But for half its time, Ala faced the dark of Nie, and Everam’s creatures were fearful. So He made the moon and stars to reflect the sun’s light, a reminder in the night that they had not been forgotten.
“Everam did this, and He was satisfied.
“But Nie, too, had a will. She looked upon creation, marring Her perfect blackness, and was vexed. She reached out to crush Ala, but Everam stood fast, and Her hand was stayed.
“But Everam had not been quick enough to stave off Nie’s touch completely. The barest brush of Her dark fingers grew on His perfect world like a plague. The inky blackness of Her evil seeped across the rocks and sand, blew on the winds, and was an oily stain on Ala’s pure water. It swept across the woods, and the molten fire that bubbled up from beneath the world.
“And in those places, alagai took root and grew. Creatures of the blackness, their only purpose to uncreate; killing Everam’s creatures their only joy.
“But lo, the world turned, and the sun shone light and warmth across Nie’s creatures of cold dark, and they were undone. The life-giver burned away their unlife, and the alagai screamed.
“Desperate to escape, they fled to the shadows, oozing deep into the world, infecting its very core.
“There, in the dark abyss at the heart of creation, grew Alagai’ting Ka, the Mother of Demons. Handmaiden of Nie Herself, she waited only for the world to turn that she might send her children forth again to ravage creation.
“Everam saw this, and reached out His hand to purge the evil from His world, but Nie stood fast, and His hand was stayed.
“But He, too, touched the world one last time, giving men the means to turn alagai magic against itself. Giving them wards.
“Locked then in a struggle for the sake of all He had made, Everam had no choice but to turn His back on the world and throw Himself fully upon Nie, struggling endlessly against Her cold strength.
“And as above, so below.”
Every day of Jardir’s first month in sharaj was the same. At dawn, the drillmasters brought the nie’Sharum out into the hot sun to stand for hours as the dama spoke of the glory of Everam. Their bellies were empty and their knees weak from exertion and lack of sleep, but the boys did not protest. The sight of Jardir, returned reeking and bloody from his punishment, had taught them all to obey without question.
Drillmaster Qeran struck Jardir hard with his strap. “Why do you suffer?” he demanded.
“Alagai!” Jardir shouted.
Qeran turned and whipped Abban. “Why is the Hannu Pash necessary?”
“Alagai!” Abban screamed.
“Without the alagai, all the world would be the paradise of Heaven, suffused in Everam’s embrace,” Dama Khevat said.
The drillmaster’s strap cracked on Jardir’s back again. Since his insolence the first day, he had taken two lashes for every one suffered by another boy.
“What is your purpose in this life?” Qeran cried.
“To kill alagai!” Jardir screamed.
His hand shot out, clutching Jardir around the throat and pulling him close. “And how will you die?” he asked quietly.
“On alagai talons,” Jardir choked. The drillmaster released him, and he gasped in a breath, standing back to attention before Qeran could find further reason to beat him.
“On alagai talons!” Khevat cried. “Dal’Sharum do not die old in their beds! They do not fall prey to sickness or hunger! Dal’Sharum die in battle, and win into paradise. Basking in Everam’s glory, they bathe and drink from rivers of sweet cool milk, and have virgins beyond count devoted to them.”
“Death to alagai!” the boys all screamed at once, pumping their fists. “Glory to Everam!”
After these sessions, they were given their bowls, and the gruel pot was set out. There was never enough for all, and more than one boy each day went hungry. The older and larger boys, led by Hasik, had established their pecking order and filled their bowls first, but even they took but one ladle each. To take more, or to spill gruel in a scuffle at the pot, was to invite the wrath of the ever-present drillmasters.
As the older boys ate, the youngest and weakest of nie’Sharum fought hard among themselves for a place in line. After his first night’s beating and the day in the pits, Jardir was in no shape to fight for days, but Abban had taken well to using his weight as a weapon, and always secured them a place, even if it was close to the back.
When the bowls were emptied, the training began.
There were obstacle courses to build endurance, and long sessions practicing the sharukin—groups of movements that made up the forms of sharusahk. They learned to march and move in step even at speed. With nothing in their bellies but the thin gruel, the boys became like speartips, thin and hard as the weapons they drilled with.
Sometimes the drillmasters sent groups of boys to ambush nie’Sharum in neighboring sharaji, beating them severely. Nowhere was safe, not even when sitting at the waste pits. Sometimes the older boys like Hasik and his friends would mount the defeated boys from other tribes from behind, thrusting into them as if they were women. It was a grave dishonor, and Jardir had been forced to kick more than one attacker between the legs to avoid such a fate for himself. A Majah boy managed to pull down Abban’s bido once, but Jardir kicked him in the face so hard blood spurted from his nose.
“At any moment, the Majah could attack to take a well,” Kaval told Jardir when they came to him after the assault, “or the Nanji come to carry off our women. We must be ready at every moment of every day to kill or be killed.”
“I hate this place,” Abban whined, close to tears, when the drillmaster left. “I cannot wait for the Waning, when I can go home to my mother and sisters, if only for the new moon.”
Jardir shook his head. “He’s right. Letting your guard down, even for a moment, inv
ites death.” He clenched his fist. “That may have happened to my father, but it won’t happen to me.”
After the drillmasters completed their lessons each day, the older boys supervised repetition, and they were no less quick to punish than the dal’Sharum.
“Keep your knees bent as you pivot, rat,” Hasik growled as Jardir performed a complicated sharukin. He punctuated his advice by kicking behind Jardir’s knees, driving him into the dust.
“The son of piss cannot perform a simple pivot!” Hasik cried to the other boys, laughing. His s’s still came out with a whistle through the gap where Qeran had knocked out one of his teeth.
Jardir growled and launched himself at the older boy. He might have to obey the dama and dal’Sharum, but Hasik was only nie’Sharum, and he would accept no insult to his father from the likes of him.
But Hasik was also five years his senior, and soon to lose his bido. He was larger than Jardir by far, and had years of experience at the deadly art of the empty hand. He caught Jardir’s wrist, twisting and pulling the arm straight, then pivoted to bring his elbow down hard on the locked limb.
Jardir heard the snap and saw the bone jut free of his skin, but there was a long moment of dawning horror before the blast of pain hit him.
And he screamed.
Hasik’s hand snapped over Jardir’s mouth, cutting off his howls and pulling him close.
“The next time you come for me, son of piss, I will kill you,” he promised.
Abban ducked under Jardir’s good arm and half carried him to the dama’ting pavilion at the far end of the training grounds. The tent opened as they approached, as if they had been expected. A tall woman clad in white from head to toe held the flap open, only her hands and eyes visible. She gestured to a table inside, and Abban hurried to place Jardir there, beside a girl who was clad all in white like a dama’ting. But her face, young and beautiful, was uncovered.
Dama’ting did not speak to nie’Sharum.
Abban bowed deeply when Jardir was in place. The dama’ting nodded toward the flaps, and he practically fell over himself in his haste to exit. It was said the dama’ting could see the future, and knew a man’s death just by looking at him.
The woman glided over to Jardir, a blur of white to his pain-clouded eyes. He could not tell if she was young or old, beautiful or ugly, stern or kind. She seemed above such petty things, her devotion to Everam transcending all mortal concern.
The girl lifted a small stick wrapped many times in white cloth and placed it in Jardir’s mouth, gently pushing his jaw closed. Jardir understood, and bit down.
“Dal’Sharum embrace their pain,” the girl whispered as the dama’ting moved to a table to gather instruments.
There was a sharp sting as the dama’ting cleansed the wound, and a flare of agony as she wrenched his arm to set the bone. Jardir bit hard into the stick, and tried to do as the girl said, opening himself to the pain, though he did not fully understand. For a moment the pain seemed more than he could endure, but then, as if he were passing through a doorway, it became a distant thing, a suffering he was aware of but not part of. His jaw unclenched, and the stick fell away unneeded.
As Jardir relaxed into the pain, he turned to watch the dama’ting. She worked with calm efficiency, murmuring prayers to Everam as she stitched muscle and skin. She ground herbs into a paste she slathered on the wound, wrapping it in clean cloth soaked in a thick white mixture.
With surprising strength, she lifted him from the table and set him on a hard cot. She put a flask to his lips and Jardir drank, immediately feeling warm and woozy.
The dama’ting turned away, but the girl lingered a moment. “Bones become stronger after being broken,” she whispered, giving comfort as Jardir drifted off to sleep.
He woke to find the girl sitting beside his cot. She pressed a damp cloth to his forehead. It was the coolness that had woken him. His eyes danced over her uncovered face. He had once thought his mother beautiful, but it was nothing compared with this girl.
“The young warrior awakens,” she said, smiling at him.
“You speak,” Jardir said through parched lips. His arm seemed encased in white stone; the dama’ting’s wrappings had hardened while he slept.
“Am I a beast, that I should not?” the girl asked.
“To me, I mean,” Jardir said. “I am only nie’Sharum.” And not yet worthy of you by half, he added silently.
The girl nodded. “And I am nie’dama’ting. I will earn my veil soon, but I do not wear it yet, and thus may speak to whomever I wish.”
She set the cloth aside, lifting a steaming bowl of porridge to his lips. “I expect they are starving you in the Kaji’sharaj. Eat. It will help the dama’ting’s spells to heal you.”
Jardir swallowed the hot food quickly. “What is your name?” he asked when done.
The girl smiled as she wiped his mouth with a soft cloth. “Bold, for a boy barely old enough for his bido.”
“I’m sorry,” Jardir said.
She laughed. “Boldness is no cause for sorrow. Everam has no love for the timid. My name is Inevera.”
“As Everam wills,” Jardir translated. It was a common saying in Krasia. Inevera nodded.
“Ahmann,” Jardir introduced himself, “son of Hoshkamin.”
The girl nodded as if this were grave news, but there was amusement in her eyes.
“He is strong and may return to training,” the dama’ting told Qeran the next day, “but he must eat regularly, and if further harm comes to the arm before I remove the wrappings, I will hold you to account.”
The drillmaster bowed. “It will be as the dama’ting commands.” Jardir was given his bowl and allowed to go to the front of the line. None of the other boys, even Hasik, dared question this, but Jardir could feel their looks of resentment at his back. He would have preferred fighting for his meals, even with his arm in a cast, rather than weather those stares, but the dama’ting had given an order. If he did not eat willingly, the drillmasters would not hesitate to force the gruel down his throat.
“Will you be all right?” Abban asked as they ate in their customary spot.
Jardir nodded. “Bones heal stronger after being broken.”
“I’d rather not test that,” Abban said. Jardir shrugged. “At least the Waning begins tomorrow,” Abban added. “You can have a few days at home.”
Jardir looked at the cast and felt profound shame. There would be no hiding this from his mother and sisters. Barely in sharaj a cycle, and he was already a disgrace to them.
The Waning was the three-day cycle of the new moon, when Nie’s power was said to be strongest. Boys in Hannu Pash spent this period at home with their families, so that fathers could look upon their sons and remember what they fought for in the night.
But Jardir’s father was gone, and Jardir doubted he would fill the man’s heart with pride in any event. His mother, Kajivah, made no mention of his injury when he returned home, but Jardir’s younger sisters lacked her discretion.
Among the other nie’Sharum, Jardir had gotten used to living in only his bido and sandals. Among his sisters, all covered head-to-toe in tan robes revealing only their hands and faces, he felt naked, and there was no way to disguise his cast.
“What happened to your arm?” his youngest sister Hanya asked the moment he arrived.
“I broke it in my training,” Jardir said.
“How?” Imisandre, the eldest of his sisters and the one Jardir was closest to, asked. She put her hand on his other arm.
Her sympathetic touch, once a balm to Jardir, now multiplied his shame tenfold. He pulled his arm away. “It was broken in sharusahk practice. It is nothing.”
“How many boys did it take?” Hanya said, and Jardir remembered the time he had beaten two older boys in the bazaar after one of them had mocked her. “At least ten, I bet.”
Jardir scowled. “One,” he snapped.
Hoshvah, his middle sister, shook her head. “He must have been ten feet tall.
” Jardir wanted to scream.
“Enough pestering your brother!” Kajivah said. “Prepare a place for him at the table and leave him in peace.”
Hanya took Jardir’s sandals while Imisandre pulled out the bench at the head of the table. There were no pillows, but she laid a clean cloth on the wood for him to sit upon. After a month sitting on the floor of the sharaj, even that seemed a luxury. Hoshvah hurried with the chipped clay bowls Kajivah filled from the steaming pot.
Most nights, Jardir’s family ate only plain couscous, but Kajivah saved her stipend, and on Waning there were always vegetables and seasoning mixed in. On this, his first Waning home from Hannu Pash, there were even a few hard bits of unidentifiable meat mixed into Jardir’s bowl. It was more food than Jardir had seen in quite some time and it smelled of a mother’s love, but Jardir found he had little appetite, especially when he noted that the bowls of his mother and sisters lacked the bits of meat. He forced the food down so as not to insult his mother, but the fact that he ate with his left hand only made his shame worse.
After the meal, they prayed as a family until the call came from the minarets of Sharik Hora, signaling dusk. Evejan law dictated that when the call sounded from the minarets of Sharik Hora, all women and children were to go below.
Even Kajivah’s mean adobe hovel had a barred and warded basement with a connection to the Undercity, a vast network of caverns that connected all of the Desert Spear in the event of a breach.
“Go below,” Kajivah told his sisters. “I will speak privately with your brother.” The girls followed her command, and Kajivah beckoned Jardir to the corner where his father’s spear and shield hung.
As always, the arms seemed to look down on him in judgment. Jardir felt the weight of his cast keenly, but there was something that had been weighing on him even more. He looked to his mother.
“Dama Khevat said father took no honor with him when he died,” Jardir said.
The Desert Spear Page 3