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At last, the line began to move. The day wore on slowly as they stood in the hot sun, the girls and their mothers admitted one at a time. Some were inside for mere minutes – others, nearly an hour. All left wearing black, most looking both chastened and relieved. Some of the girls stared hard at nothing, rubbing their arms absently as their mothers steered them home.
As they drew close to the head of the line, Inevera’s mother tightened her grip on the girl’s shoulders, nails digging hard even through her dress.
‘Keep your eyes down and your tongue still save when spoken to,’ Manvah hissed. ‘Never answer a question with a question, and never disagree. Say it with me: “Yes, Dama’ting.”’
‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera repeated.
‘Keep that answer fixed in your mind,’ Manvah said. ‘Offend a dama’ting and you offend fate itself.’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Inevera swallowed deeply, feeling her insides clench. What went on in the pavilion? Hadn’t her mother gone through the same ritual? What was she so afraid of?
A nie’dama’ting opened the tent flap, and the girl who had gone in before Inevera emerged. She wore a headscarf now, but it was tan, as was the dress she still wore. Her mother gentled her shoulders, murmuring comfort as they stumbled along, but both were weeping.
The nie’dama’ting regarded the scene serenely, then turned to Inevera and her mother. She was perhaps thirteen, tall with a sturdy build, harsh cheekbones, and a hooked nose that made her look like a raptor. ‘I am Melan.’ She motioned for them to enter. ‘Dama’ting Qeva will see you now.’
Inevera took a deep breath as she and her mother removed their shoes, drew wards in the air, and passed into the dama’ting pavilion.
The sun filtered through the rising canvas roof, filling the great tent with bright light. Everything was white, from the tent walls to the painted furniture and the thick canvas flooring.
It made the blood all the more startling. There were great splashes of red and brown marring the floor of the entranceway, as well as a thick trail of muddy red footprints heading through partitions to the right and left.
‘That is Sharum blood,’ a voice said, and Inevera jumped, noticing for the first time the Bride of Everam standing right before them, her white robes blending almost perfectly with the background. ‘From the injured brought in at dawn from alagai’sharak. Each day, the canvas floor is cut away and burned atop the minarets of Sharik Hora during the call to prayer.’
As if on cue, Inevera heard the cries of pain surrounding her. On the other side of the thick partitions, men were in agony. She imagined her father – or worse, Soli – among them, and winced at every shriek and groan.
‘Everam take me now!’ a man cried desperately. ‘I will not live a cripple!’
‘Step carefully,’ Dama’ting Qeva warned. ‘The soles of your feet are not worthy to touch the blood honoured warriors have spilled for your sake.’
Inevera and her mother eased their way around the stained canvas to come before the dama’ting. Clad from head to toe in white silk with only her eyes and hands uncovered, Qeva was tall and thick of frame like Melan, but with a woman’s curves.
‘What is your name, girl?’ The Bride of Everam’s voice was deep and hard.
‘Inevera vah Kasaad am’Damaj am’Kaji, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said, bowing deeply. ‘Named after the First Wife of Kaji.’ Manvah’s nails dug into her shoulder at the addition, and she gasped involuntarily. The dama’ting seemed not to notice.
‘No doubt you think that makes you special.’ Qeva snorted. ‘If Krasia had a warrior for every worthless girl who has borne that name, Sharak Ka would be over.’
‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said, bowing again as her mother’s nails eased back.
‘You’re a pretty one,’ the dama’ting noted.
Inevera bowed. ‘Thank you, Dama’ting.’
‘The harems can always use a pretty girl, if she’s not put to good use already,’ Qeva said, looking at Manvah. ‘Who is your husband and what is your profession?’
‘Dal’Sharum Kasaad, Dama’ting,’ Manvah said, bowing. ‘And I am a palm weaver.’
‘First Wife?’ Qeva asked.
‘I am his only wife, Dama’ting,’ Manvah said.
‘Men think they take on wives as they prosper, Manvah of the Kaji,’ Qeva said, ‘but the reverse is true. Have you tried to secure sister-wives, as prescribed in the Evejah, to help with your weaving and bear him more children?’
‘Yes, Dama’ting. Many times.’ Manvah gritted her teeth. ‘Their fathers … would not approve the match.’
The Bride of Everam grunted. The answer said much about Kasaad. ‘Is the girl educated?’
Manvah nodded. ‘Yes, Dama’ting. Inevera is my apprentice. She is most skilled at weaving, and I have taught her to do sums and keep ledgers. She has read the Evejah once for each of the seven pillars of Heaven.’
The dama’ting’s eyes were unreadable. ‘Follow me.’ She turned away, heading deeper into the pavilion. She gave no mind to the blood on the floor, her flowing silk robes gliding easily over it. Not a drop clung to them. It would not dare.
Melan followed, the nie’dama’ting stepping nimbly around the blood, and Inevera and her mother trailed after. The pavilion was a maze of white cloth walls, with many turns that were upon them before Inevera even knew they were there. There was no blood on the floor here, and even the cries of the injured Sharum grew muffled. Around one bend, the walls and ceiling shifted suddenly from white to black. It was like stepping from day into night. After turning another bend, it became so dark that her mother, in her black dal’ting robes, was nearly invisible, and even the white-clad dama’ting and her apprentice became only ghostly images.
Qeva stopped suddenly, and Melan moved around her to pull open a trapdoor Inevera hadn’t even noticed. Inside she could only just make out the stone staircase leading down into a deeper dark. The cut stone was cold on her bare feet, and when Melan pulled the trap shut behind them, the blackness became complete. They descended slowly, Inevera terrified she might trip and take the Bride of Everam tumbling down the steps with her.
The stairs were mercifully short, though Inevera did indeed stumble in surprise when she came to the landing. She caught herself quickly, and no one seemed to notice.
A red light appeared in Qeva’s hand, casting an evil glow that allowed them to see one another, but did little to abate the oppressive darkness around them. The dama’ting led them down a row of dark cells cut into the living rock. Wards were carved into the walls on both sides.
‘Wait here with Melan,’ Qeva told Manvah, and bade Inevera to enter one of the cells. She winced as the heavy door closed behind them.
There was a stone pedestal in one corner of the room, and the dama’ting deposited the glowing object there. It looked like a lump of coal carved with glowing wards, but even Inevera knew better. It was alagaihora.
Demon bone.
Qeva turned back to her, and Inevera caught the flash of a curved blade in the woman’s hand. In the red light, it appeared to be covered in blood.
Inevera shrieked and backpedalled, but the cell was tiny, and she soon fetched up against the stone wall. The dama’ting lifted the blade right up to Inevera’s nose, and her eyes crossed trying to see it.
‘You fear the blade?’ the dama’ting asked.
‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said automatically, her voice cracking.
‘Close your eyes,’ Qeva commanded. Inevera shook with fear, but she did as she was bade, her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she waited for the blade to pierce her flesh.
But the blow never came. ‘Picture a palm tree, weaver’s daughter,’ Qeva said. Inevera didn’t wholly understand, but she nodded. It was an easy image to form, as she climbed palm trees every day, nimbly shimmying up the trunk to harvest fronds for weaving.
‘Does a palm fear the wind?’ the dama’ting asked.
‘No, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said.
‘What does it do?’
‘It bends, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said.
‘The Evejah teaches us that fear and pain are only wind, Inevera, daughter of Manvah. Let it blow past you.’
‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said.
‘Repeat it three times,’ Qeva commanded.
‘Fear and pain are only wind,’ Inevera said, drawing a deep breath. ‘Fear and pain are only wind. Fear and pain are only wind.’
‘Open your eyes and kneel,’ Qeva said. When Inevera complied, she added, ‘Hold out your arm.’ The limb Inevera lifted seemed detached from her, but it held steady. The Bride of Everam pulled up Inevera’s sleeve and sliced her forearm, drawing a bright line of blood.
Inevera drew a sharp breath, but she did not flinch away or cry out. Fearandpainareonlywind.
The dama’ting lifted her veil slightly and licked the knife, tasting Inevera’s blood. She sheathed it at her waist and then reached out with a strong hand to squeeze the cut, dripping blood onto a handful of black, warded dice.
Inevera gritted her teeth. Fearandpainareonlywind.
When the blood struck them, the dice began to glow, and Inevera realized they, too, were alagaihora. Her blood was touching the bones of demons. The thought was horrifying.
The dama’ting took a step back, chanting quietly as she shook the dice, their glow increasing with every passing moment.
‘Everam, giver of light and life, I beseech you, give this lowly servant knowledge of what is to come. Tell me of Inevera, daughter of Kasaad, of the Kaji line of Damaj.’
With that, she cast the dice to the floor in front of Inevera. Their light exploded in a flash that caused her to blink, then reduced to a dull throb as the glowing symbols on the floor laid bare the fronds that wove her fate.
The dama’ting said nothing. Her eyes narrowed, staring at the symbols for a long time. Inevera could not say exactly how long it was, but she wobbled as the muscles of her legs, unaccustomed to kneeling so long, began to give way.
Qeva looked up at the movement. ‘Sit back on your heels and keep still!’ She got to her feet, circling the tiny cell to inspect the pattern of the dice from every angle. Slowly the glow began to fade, but still the dama’ting pondered.
Palm in the wind or not, Inevera began to grow very nervous. Her muscles screamed in strain, and her anxiety doubled with every passing second. What did the Bride of Everam see? Was she to be taken from her mother and sold to a harem? Was she barren?
At last, Qeva looked at Inevera. ‘Touch the dice in any way, and it will mean your life.’ With that, she left the room, grunting commands. There was a sound of hurried footsteps as Melan ran off.
A moment later Manvah entered the cell, stepping around the dice carefully to kneel behind Inevera. ‘What happened?’ she whispered.
Inevera shook her head. ‘I don’t know. The dama’ting stared at the dice as if unsure what they meant.’
‘Or she didn’t like what they told her,’ Manvah muttered.
‘What happens now?’ Inevera asked, her face going cold.
‘They are summoning Damaji’ting Kenevah,’ Manvah said, drawing a shocked gasp from Inevera. ‘It is she who will speak the final word. Pray now.’
Inevera shuddered as she lowered her head. She was frightened enough of the dama’ting. The thought of their leader coming to inspect her …
Please, Everam, she begged, letmebefertileandbearsonsfortheKaji. My family could not bear the shame if I were nie’ting. Grant me this one wish, and I will give myself to you forever.
They knelt in the dim red light a long time, praying.
‘Mother?’ Inevera asked.
‘Yes?’ her mother said.
Inevera swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Will you still love me if I’m barren?’ Her voice cracked at the end. She hadn’t meant to cry, but found herself blinking away tears.
A moment later Manvah had folded her in her arms. ‘You are my daughter. I would love you if you put out the sun.’
After an interminable wait, Qeva returned, another Bride of Everam at her back – this one older and thinner, with a sharp look. She wore dama’ting white, but her veil and headwrap were black silk. Damaji’ting Kenevah, the most powerful woman in all Krasia.
The Damaji’ting glanced at the huddling women, and they quickly separated and wiped their eyes, returning to their knees. She said nothing, moving to the dice. For long minutes, she studied the pattern.
At last, Kenevah grunted. ‘Take her.’
Inevera gasped as Qeva strode up, grabbing her arm and hauling her to her feet. She looked frantically at her mother and saw Manvah’s eyes wide with fear. ‘Mother!’
Manvah fell to her belly, clutching at the hem of Qeva’s white robe as the dama’ting pulled her away. ‘Please, Dama’ting,’ she begged. ‘My daughter—’
‘Your daughter is no longer your concern,’ Kenevah cut her off, and Qeva kicked to snap the robe from Manvah’s grasp. ‘She belongs to Everam now.’
‘There must be some mistake,’ Inevera said numbly as Qeva guided her along the road with a firm grasp on her arm. It felt more like she was being escorted to a whipping post than a palace. Damaji’ting Kenevah and Melan, the nie’dama’ting apprentice, walked with them.
‘The dice do not make mistakes,’ Kenevah said. ‘And you should be rejoicing. You, the daughter of a basket weaver and a Sharum of no particular note, will be betrothed to Everam. Can you not see the great honour paid to your family this day?’
‘Then why wasn’t I allowed to say goodbye to them? To my mother, even?’ Neveransweraquestionwithaquestion, Manvah had said, but Inevera was past caring.
‘Best to make a clean break,’ Kenevah said. ‘They are beneath you now. Irrelevant. You will not be permitted to see them during your training, and by the time you are ready to test for the white, you will no longer even wish to.’
Inevera had no response to such a ridiculous statement. Not want to see her mother again? Her brother? Unthinkable. She would even miss her father, though in all likelihood Kasaad would never notice she was gone.
The Kaji Dama’ting Palace soon came into sight. Equal to those of even the greatest Damaji, the Dama’ting Palace had a twenty-foot-tall wardwall, proof against daylight enemies as well as alagai. Over the top of the wall she could see the tall spires and great dome of the palace, but Inevera had never seen inside the walls. None but the dama’ting and their apprentices ever passed its great gates. No men, not even the Andrah himself, could set foot on its hallowed grounds.
That was what Inevera had been told, at least, but as the gates – which had seemed to open of their own accord – closed behind them, she could see a pair of muscular men pushing them shut. They were clad only in white bidos and sandals, and their hair and bodies glistened with oil. Each wore golden shackles on his ankles and wrists, but there were no chains Inevera could see.
‘I thought no men were allowed in the palace,’ Inevera said, ‘to protect dama’ting chastity.’
The Brides of Everam barked a laugh as though this were a great joke. Even Melan chuckled.
‘You are half right,’ Kenevah said. ‘The eunuchs are without stones, and thus not men in the Eyes of Everam.’
‘So they are … push’ting?’ Inevera asked.
Kenevah cackled. ‘Stoneless they may be, but their spears work well enough to do a true man’s work.’
Inevera gave a pained smile as they climbed the wide marble steps, polished a pristine glistening white. She held her arms in close, attempting to be as small and unobtrusive as possible as the great doors were opened by more handsome, muscular slaves in golden shackles. They bowed, and Qeva ran a finger under one’s chin.
‘It has been a trying day, Khavel. Come to my chambers in an hour with heated stones and scented oil to stroke the tension away.’ The slave bowed deeply, saying nothing.
‘They are not allowed to speak?’ Inevera asked.
‘Not able,’ Kenevah said. ‘Their tongues were cut out with their stones and they know no letters. They can never tell of the wonders they see in the Dama’ting Palace.’
Indeed, the palace was filled with luxury and opulence beyond anything Inevera had ever imagined. Everything from the columns and high dome to the floors, walls, and stairs was cut from flawless white marble, polished to a bright shine. Thick woven carpets, amazingly soft beneath her bare feet, ran along the halls, filling them with bright colour. Tapestries hung on the walls – masterworks of artistry bringing the tales of the Evejah to life. Beautiful glazed pottery stood on marble pedestals, along with items of crystal, gold, and polished silver; from delicate sculpture and filigree to heavy chalices and bowls. In the bazaar, such items would have been under close guard – any one of them could sell for enough to keep a family in staples for a decade – but who in all Krasia would dare steal from the dama’ting?
Other Brides passed them in the halls, some alone, others in chattering groups. All wore the same flowing white silk, hooded and veiled – even inside with no men to see. They stopped and bowed deeply as Kenevah passed, and though they tried to hide it, each gave Inevera a curious and not altogether welcoming appraisal.
