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‘Breathe,’ Qeva said. ‘You are the palm, and breath is the wind. Use its power to lead you back to balance and guide you from one form to the next.’
Inevera returned to the rhythm, and found the steady breathing did indeed aid her. Qeva noted her renewed balance and nodded, returning to the dais.
The lesson went on for some time. Inevera still wobbled and felt awkward, her joints stretched into fire, but she kept her breath steady, and was relieved when Qeva finally relaxed, reaching into a box beside the dais. There was a clatter of metal and she came away with four tiny cymbals, one strapped to each thumb and forefinger.
At a nod, Melan went and took up the box, taking her own cymbals and passing it along. All the other girls did the same, and soon they were back in place, waiting for Qeva to begin this next part of the lesson.
Qeva turned to stand in profile, her hands held high, cymbals poised. One leg was stretched out before her, the other kept close.
The other girls assumed the same pose, and Inevera did her best to imitate it.
‘Knees bent,’ Qeva said. ‘Weight on the balls of your feet.’
When Inevera corrected herself and found her centre, the dama’ting clapped her cymbals four times, each time snapping her round hips so they cracked like a whip.
‘All,’ she said, and repeated the move. The other girls copied her with practised precision, but Inevera found the move trickier than it looked.
‘Again,’ Qeva said. ‘Watch closer.’
Again she rang the cymbals and snapped her hips, and again the move eluded Inevera. At first she could not figure out how to move her hips, and then her cymbals were out of sync with the others. Doing both at once seemed impossible.
Over and over Qeva took her through the move. Inevera could sense the irritation of the other girls as she struggled, but there was nothing she could do save try and try again.
Finally, Qeva seemed satisfied. She grunted and began to ring the cymbals in a continuous pattern, snapping her hips to match. Inevera fell into the rhythm, and soon it was second nature. She found herself smiling.
But then the dama’ting began to move, stepping around her dais with lithe grace, never ceasing the rhythm of the cymbals or her hips. It was beautiful. Mesmerizing. And when Inevera tried to imitate her, she walked right into Melan, bringing them both down in a heap.
‘Idiot!’ Melan snapped.
Qeva leapt from the dais, slapping Melan hard on the face, her cymbals rang with the impact. ‘The fault is yours, Melan! The Damaji’ting assigned you to teach her the ways of the nie’dama’ting! What have you taught her? She did not know so much as cobra’s hood or the first turn of the hips.’
She lifted a finger and put it in Melan’s face. ‘You must learn to take your responsibility seriously. Until Inevera can keep pace with the class, you are denied the Chamber of Shadows.’
All the other girls gasped, and Melan’s eyes bulged.
‘Point those wilful eyes at me a moment longer,’ Qeva said, ‘and you will find yourself living in the great harem, a plaything of the Sharum.’
Melan dropped her eyes, bowing deeply. ‘Yes, Dama’ting.’
After sharusahk, the girls lined up by the kitchens where a pair of aging eunuchs gave each a ladle of thin porridge. Inevera could see in the eyes of Melan and the other girls that they meant to shove her to the back of the line, so she gave way freely. There was nothing to be gained in pointless confrontation. It was best to appear meek as she learned the ways of the nie’dama’ting.
Inevera’s bowl was less than half full, the final watery remains of the porridge pot. Even so, she barely had time to gulp it down before Melan came for her.
‘It is nearly dawn,’ Melan said. ‘The dama’ting leave for the pavilion shortly, and Nie take us if we are late.’
‘The pavilion?’ Inevera asked.
Melan looked at her as if she were an idiot. ‘The Sharum will be returning from the Maze at dawn, and the injured are taken to the pavilion. We assist the dama’ting in the healing.’
Inevera remembered the screams of injured Sharum filtering through the canvas walls the day before, and imagined men all around her, covered in blood, howling as she helped the dama’ting cut and stitch their flesh.
She felt suddenly dizzy, and her face flushed hot. The thin porridge rose back up her throat.
Melan slapped her hard in the face. Porridge and bile flew in a spray, spattering the stone floor as the crack echoed off the chamber walls. Every girl in the room looked up at that, their gazes cold. There were no dama’ting present, and the eunuchs were mute as ever.
‘Everam’s balls, find your centre!’ Melan snapped. ‘The dama’ting take nothing so seriously as the healing. Already the Chamber of Shadows is denied me. If so much as a drop of Sharum blood falls because of your weakness, the dama’ting will have it from my hide a hundredfold.’ She moved in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘And if that happens, I will cut off your nipples and make you eat them.’
Inevera stared at her as the words sank in. Melan gave her no time to respond, grabbing her arm and pulling her back towards the Vault. The girls quickly washed their hands and faces, donning their white robes and lining up once again. Melan led the way back to the Vault doors, where they met the dama’ting who guided them out of the palace and through the Undercity to the catacombs beneath the Kaji dama’ting pavilion, where they waited for the dama to sing the dawn from the minarets of Sharik Hora.
Assisting the dama’ting in their healing was every bit as bloody and horrid as Inevera had feared. Her ears rang with the shouts and screams, half from Sharum too lost in agony to embrace their pain, and half from Melan and the dama’ting, cursing her slowness.
Once, while carrying a jug of instruments soaking in a harsh fluid that made couzi smell mild, she tripped and spilled a few drops. Melan punched her full in the face for that, with Qeva and another dama’ting looking on. Neither woman said a word, more interested in the instruments Inevera carried than her swelling cheek.
On the table before them, a warrior thrashed and flailed as they tried to cut the black robes away from a deep gash in his abdomen. The Brides tossed shattered bits of ceramic armour plates into a palm basket where they clattered, wet with blood.
Qeva threw a pair of silk cords to Melan. ‘Pin him.’
Melan took one of the cords, handing the other to Inevera. ‘Be swift, and do exactly as I do.’ She wound the cord around her fists with perhaps a forearm’s length between.
Inevera had no time to ponder those instructions before Melan moved in, impossibly fast and graceful as she wrapped the cord around the warrior’s wrist, twisting back and using leverage to hold his arm out straight. He tried to resist, but Melan knew the angles where his arm was weakest and kept control.
‘Now!’ she shouted, as the man grabbed at her awkwardly with his other hand. Inevera rushed in, attempting to do as Melan had. She caught the Sharum’s wrist in a twist of silk, but she did not know precisely where to step or how to shift her weight as Melan had. The warrior caught her with a backhand blow that made Melan’s punch feel like a kiss.
Inevera hit the floor hard and Qeva hissed, stabbing two stiffened fingers into the man’s shoulder joint. His arm spasmed and lost its strength long enough for Inevera to recover her cord and pin him once more. Qeva glared at Melan in irritation, and Melan in turn glared at Inevera silently as they held the warrior prone. The dama’ting forced a sleeping draught down his throat, and he soon went limp. The Brides began to cut, oblivious to the blood and other, fouler fluids that stained their pristine white robes.
‘This will not do,’ Qeva said after a time.
‘He needs hora magic, if he is to survive,’ the other Bride agreed. She looked at Melan. ‘Take him to the catacombs.’
Melan nodded, and she and Inevera heaved at the poles of the stretcher that hung limp at the sides of the operating table. The warrior easily outweighed the two girls combined, but Inevera was no stranger to hard work, and her steps did not falter. Asavi scurried ahead to open the trapdoor, and the dama’ting led them down into the darkness.
Asavi waited until Inevera and Melan had descended the steps, then pulled the door shut behind them, leaving them in perfect pitch until Qeva produced her glowing bit of demon bone, lighting the way to a stone chamber with another operating table. There was a steel door cut into the rock wall, and Qeva took a key from around her neck and opened it, revealing what looked like an assortment of coal lumps and blackened bones. Alagaihora. She selected a modestly sized lump and closed the door with a click as the locking mechanism re-engaged.
‘Suction,’ Qeva said, and Melan fetched a device of tubes and bellows, operated by a foot pedal. Inevera pumped the pedal evenly as Melan inserted one of the tubes into the warrior’s open wound, siphoning the blood into a glass chamber.
The dama’ting cleaned the edges of the wound, first clearing the blood and then shaving the surrounding area. As they worked, Asavi prepared brushes and a bowl of ink.
‘Inevera, step close,’ Qeva said. Asavi took her place at the pedal, and Inevera approached the Brides, taking care to stay out of their way.
Qeva did not look at her as she spoke. ‘First, the siphon ward, drawn at the north edge of the wound.’ She dipped a brush in the ink and drew a strange symbol. Inevera watched intently, expecting the ink to glow, but there was no effect. ‘Next, the wards for strength, endurance, and blood.’ She drew quickly, moving her brush clockwise along the Sharum’s flesh, putting wards at each compass point around the wound.
‘Now they must be connected,’ Qeva said, drawing the same ward four times in the gaps between the others, forming an octagon.
When she was done, she gestured to the other dama’ting, who held forth the lump of demon bone from the cabinet. As soon as the bone was brought close to the wound, the wards Qeva had drawn did indeed glow, flaring fiercely to life.
‘The wards are not magic,’ Qeva said, ‘but they leach magic from the demon bone and turn the alagai’s power to Everam’s purpose.’
As Inevera looked on open-mouthed, the Sharum’s flesh began to knit back together, the wound closing like two cupped hands of water brought together as one. In moments the wound was gone without so much as a scar. The new flesh looked paler, untouched by the sun or ever-blowing sands, healthier even than the skin around it.
‘Praise be to Everam,’ Inevera whispered, awestruck. ‘With such magic, no Sharum need ever die again.’
Qeva shook her head sadly. ‘If only it were so. Even hora magic cannot cure the most serious wounds, and such power is not without its price.’ She gestured to the lump of demon bone, which was crumbling away in the other dama’ting’s hand. ‘Healing is the most taxing of magic, and not used lightly. The alagai may be an endless scourge, but harvesting their bones is costlier in lives than the bones can save. We must use the power sparingly.’
‘And secretly,’ the other Bride added sternly. ‘The Sharum are already too reckless with their lives. Everam only knows what heights of idiocy they might reach if they knew we possessed such power. Better to let as many as possible heal naturally.’
Qeva nodded. ‘We will keep this one from his brothers for some time, drugged senseless as he “heals”.’
‘But is he not needed to defend us from the alagai?’ Inevera asked.
Melan laughed, and Qeva glanced her way. ‘Thank you for volunteering to carry this warrior back up to the pavilion and wash bido silks for the rest of the day, daughter.’
Melan stiffened, but she bowed. ‘I apologize for my disrespect, Mother.’
Qeva whisked a hand, dismissing her. ‘Accepted. Take Asavi with you.’
Unsure of what to do, Inevera stood frozen as the two girls heaved the healed Sharum back up on the stretcher and carried him from the chamber. The other dama’ting led their way with a glowing demon bone.
When all were gone, Qeva turned back to her. ‘Despite her lack of respect, Melan is not incorrect. It is the wardwalls, not warriors, that protect the Desert Spear. Until the Deliverer comes again, alagai’sharak is only the pride of men, throwing lives away for victories not worth their price.’
Inevera’s eyes widened at the blasphemy. Soli and Kasaad risked themselves in the Maze every night. Her grandfathers, uncles, and male ancestors going back three hundred years had died in the Maze, as she had always thought her own sons would. It could not simply be the pride of men. ‘Does not the Evejah tell us that killing alagai is worth any price?’
‘The Evejah tells us that obeying the Shar’Dama Ka is worth any price,’ Qeva said. ‘And the Shar’Dama Ka commanded we kill alagai.’
Inevera opened her mouth, but Qeva raised a finger and cut her off. ‘But the Shar’Dama Ka has been dead for three thousand years, and took the fighting wards to his grave. Each night, more men die in the Maze than are born each day. There were millions of us before the Return. Now, less than a hundred thousand, all because of men and their ridiculous game.’
‘Game?’ Inevera asked. ‘How is defending the city’s walls from demons in sacred alagai’sharak a game?’
‘Because the walls need no defence,’ Qeva said. ‘Kaji built the Desert Spear with two wardwalls – one outer, at the city’s ancient perimeter, and one inner, to protect the oasis and its surrounding palaces and tribes. Between them lies the Maze, built on the ruins of the outer city.’ She paused, making sure to meet Inevera’s eyes. ‘Neither wall has ever been breached.’
Inevera looked at her curiously. ‘Then how do demons get into the Maze each night?’
‘We let them in,’ Qeva growled. ‘The Sharum Ka opens the gates wide till the Maze is well seeded, then closes them again, trapping the demons in the Maze for his men to hunt.’
Inevera felt much as she had earlier in the day, when Melan slapped her. She felt dizzy, and put a hand to the wall to steady herself.
‘Breathe,’ Qeva said. ‘Find your centre.’
Inevera did as she bade, drawing deep, rhythmic breaths and using them to steady both her limbs and her pounding heart.
The technique helped, but not enough to step away from all the anger she felt. Part of her wanted to slap every man in the city across the face. She had thought Soli and her father brave; their sacrifice great as they stepped into the Maze each night. But if the solution was to simply leave the gates closed …
‘Those … idiots,’ Inevera said at last.
Qeva nodded. ‘But idiots or no, it is not the place of nie’dama’ting to make light of their sacrifice.’
Inevera remembered Qeva’s punishment of Melan, and her face flushed. She bowed. ‘I understand, Mother.’
Qeva’s eyebrow arched. ‘Mother?’
Inevera bit her lip. ‘Is “Mother” not the proper form of address from a Betrothed to a Bride?’
Qeva’s eyes crinkled in what Inevera took as a smile. ‘No. Melan addresses me so because she is my daughter.’
The knowledge did nothing to quell Inevera’s sudden tension. ‘She called Kenevah Grandmother …’
Qeva nodded. ‘And so she is. I am the Damaji’ting’s heir.’
Inevera felt her heart clench. Qeva had always seemed stern, but fair. Not a friend, perhaps, but neither an enemy. But now …
‘Breathe,’ Qeva said again, holding up a hand and waiting as Inevera found her centre. ‘I am not your enemy. I’ve grown used to my place of power as second among the dama’ting, but I learned long ago to accept that I would not succeed my mother in leading the women of Kaji. Melan has yet to embrace this truth and bend before its wind, but I pray to Everam that she will in time.’
Qeva’s placating hand changed into a pointing finger. ‘But do not mistake my meaning. I am not your enemy, but neither am I your friend. It takes a special woman to lead the Kaji dama’ting with strength, competence, and humility before Everam as my mother does. If you prove not humble, competent, or strong enough to survive and advance to the white,’ she shrugged, ‘then that is inevera.’
Inevera’s face went cold, but she focused on her breath and kept her centre. ‘Yes, Dama’ting.’
‘Good,’ Qeva said. ‘Come with me.’ She strode from the chamber, and Inevera followed her through the hidden passages of the Undercity leading back to the Dama’ting Palace. Most of these tunnels were lit by glowing wards running in continuous lines along the top and bottom of the tunnel walls.
When they arrived at the dama’ting’s quarters, the eunuch Qeva had spoken to the day before admitted them, naked save for his golden shackles. Stoneless he might be, but his manhood hung heavy before her, and Inevera could not help but gaze at it.
‘Impressive, is he not?’ Qeva asked. ‘Khavel is a favourite of mine, a skilled lover and a loyal servant. But you must tear your gaze from him now, I’m afraid. You will see his prowess first-hand during your pillow dancing lessons.’
Pillowdancinglessons? Inevera felt a wave of anxiety at the sound of that, though there was at least a little curiosity bound up in it.
Qeva gave her no time to ponder. She produced a square box of fine white sand and a slender stick. There was a track along the top and bottom that allowed her to slide a pane from one side to the other, smoothing the sand into an unblemished flat. She handed the stick to Inevera. ‘You watched me paint five wards this morning. Draw them for me now.’
Inevera pursed her lips, but she took the stick, closing her eyes to visualize each ward before carefully drawing. As Qeva had, she drew an octagon, a ward at each of the points. Four were unique, and the fifth was repeated four times to connect them. She held the stick close to its end like a pen, forming the curved symbols with precise turns of her supple wrist. When she was finished, she looked up proudly.
Qeva studied her work for long minutes before grunting. ‘You were better at sharusahk. Only two of these hold any power at all, and little enough at that.’
Inevera’s face fell as the Bride slid the pane to clear her work and took the stick. ‘Let us begin with the siphon ward. These are the demon’s fangs,’ Qeva said, drawing two curved marks in the sand as Inevera leaned in, studying the markings closely. ‘They float next to or hide within every ward, drawing magic into the symbol. The shape of the ward is what guides that power into its final form.’ She continued to draw, holding the stick at its far end. ‘See how my wrist remains straight. I move the brush with my arm, not my hand. Wards are strongest when drawn in a single continuous line, and you cannot do that with your wrist alone.’
Quickly, Qeva drew the siphon, and Inevera saw just how poor her memory had been. Her cheeks coloured in shame, but Qeva seemed not to notice, clearing the sand and handing the stick back to her.
‘Again.’
Inevera complied, but holding the stick as Qeva had shown was awkward, and if anything, her warding was worse the second time.
Qeva’s eyes were expressionless as she cleared the sand again.
When Inevera at last returned to the Vault, her arm ached from holding the stick almost as much as her bladder, which was ready to burst. Her robes were still spattered with Sharum blood.
But these seemed distant things, physical discomforts easily ignored. With Melan and Asavi occupied, she was finally able to empty her water and use the baths.
There were scented oils and cakes of soap, tools for paring nails, and rough stones for smoothing skin. The other girls pointedly ignored her as she took a razor and finished the job they had begun the night before, shaving away the last ragged bits of hair from her head until it was completely smooth to the touch. It felt alien, like someone else’s skin.
But while her body relaxed, Inevera’s mind was in free fall. Everything she had ever known, ever believed, had been stripped from her or revealed as a lie. Nothing made sense any more. Nothing seemed to matter.
Inevera felt as if she had stepped outside herself at dinner. She was dimly aware of her body as she served the dama’ting, hopping at their need and vanishing just as quickly. Ironically, this seemed to be just what the women wanted, and she served better when giving the task no conscious thought. Not that she had thought to spare, still struggling to find a constant or truth to cling to. Even the Evejah she had been raised to, once believed to be the ultimate truth, was proving subjective now, the great deeds of Kaji and the laws the dama drew from them unravelling before her eyes. The Evejah’ting included the Damajah’s perspective on those world-shaping events, and it was often very different from the male account.
