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More than one of the passing Brides was great with child. It was shocking to see dama’ting in such a condition, especially if the only men allowed near them were gelded, but Inevera kept her surprise beneath a haggler’s mask. Kenevah’s patience might be tested by such a question, and if she was to live here, the answer would become apparent soon enough.
There were seven wings to the palace, one for every pillar in Heaven, with the central wing pointing toward Anoch Sun, the final resting place of Kaji. This was the Damaji’ting’s personal wing, and Inevera was escorted into the First Bride’s opulent receiving chamber. Qeva and Melan were instructed to wait outside.
‘Sit,’ the Damaji’ting said, gesturing to the velvet couches set before a polished wood desk. Inevera sat timidly, feeling tiny and insignificant in the massive office. Kenevah sat behind the desk, steepling her fingers and staring at Inevera, who wilted under the harsh gaze.
‘Qeva tells me you know of your namesake,’ Kenevah said grimly, and Inevera could not tell if she was being mocked. ‘Tell me what you know of her.’
‘Inevera was the daughter of Damaj, Kaji’s closest friend and counsellor,’ Inevera said. ‘It is said in the Evejah that she was so beautiful, Kaji fell in love with her at first sight, claiming it was Everam’s will that she be first among his wives.’
Kenevah snorted. ‘The Damajah was more than that, girl. Much more. As she lay in the pillows with Kaji she whispered wisdom into his ear, bringing him to untold heights of power. It is said she spoke with Everam’s voice, which is why the name is synonymous with Everam’s will.
‘Inevera was also the first dama’ting,’ Kenevah went on. ‘She brought us healing, and poison, and hora magic. She wove Kaji’s Cloak of Unsight, and etched the wards of his mighty spear and crown.’
Kenevah looked up at Inevera. ‘And she will come again, when Sharak Ka is nigh, to find the next Deliverer.’
Inevera gasped, but Kenevah gave her only a tolerant look. ‘I have seen a hundred girls with your name gasp so, girl, but not one has produced a Deliverer. How many are there in the Damaj clan alone? Twenty?’
Inevera nodded, and Kenevah grunted. From inside her desk she produced a heavy book with a worn leather spine. Once it had been illuminated in gold leaf, but only bare flecks remained.
‘The Evejah’ting,’ Kenevah said. ‘You will read it.’
Inevera bowed. ‘Of course, Damaji’ting, though I have read the sacred text many times before.’
Kenevah shook her head. ‘You read the Evejah, Kaji’s version, and that altered to suit the dama’s purposes over the years. But the Evejah is only half the story. The Evejah’ting, its companion book, was penned by the Damajah herself and contains her personal wisdom and account of Kaji’s rise. You will memorize every page.’
Inevera took the book. Its pages were impossibly thin and soft, but the Evejah’ting was as thick as the Evejah that Manvah had taught her to read. She brought the book close to her chest, as if to protect it from thieves.
The Damaji’ting presented her with a thick black velvet pouch. There was a clatter inside as Inevera took it.
‘Your hora pouch,’ Kenevah said.
Inevera blanched. ‘There are demon bones inside?’
Kenevah shook her head. ‘It will be months at least before you are sufficiently disciplined to even touch true hora, and likely years more before you are allowed entry to the Chamber of Shadows to carve your dice.’
Inevera undid the drawstrings and emptied the contents of the pouch into her hand. There were seven clay dice, each with a different number of sides. All were lacquered black like demon bone, with symbols engraved in red on every side.
‘The dice can reveal to you all the mysteries of the world if you can learn to read them truly,’ Kenevah said. ‘These are a reminder of what you aspire to, and a model to study. Much of the Evejah’ting is devoted to their understanding.’
Inevera slipped the dice back into the bag and drew it closed, putting it safely in her pocket.
‘They will resent you,’ Kenevah said.
‘Who will, Damaji’ting?’ Inevera asked.
‘Everyone,’ Kenevah said. ‘Betrothed and Bride alike. There is not a woman here who will welcome you.’
‘Why?’ Inevera asked.
‘Because your mother was not dama’ting. You were not born to the white,’ Kenevah said. ‘It has been two generations since the dice have called a girl. You will have to work twice as hard as the others, if you wish to earn your veil. Your sisters have been training since birth.’
Inevera digested the news. Outside the palace, everyone knew the dama’ting were chaste. Everyone, it seemed, except the dama’ting themselves.
‘They will resent you,’ Kenevah went on, ‘but they will also fear you. If you are wise, you can use this.’
‘Fear?’ Inevera asked. ‘Why in Everam’s name would they fear me?’
‘Because the last girl called by the dice sits before you now as Damaji’ting,’ Kenevah said. ‘It has always been so, since the time of Kaji. The dice indicate you may succeed me.’
‘I will be Damaji’ting?’ Inevera asked, incredulous.
‘May,’ Kenevah reiterated. ‘If you live long enough. The others will watch you, and judge. Some of your sisters in training may try to curry your favour, and others will seek to dominate you. You must be stronger than them.’
‘I—’ Inevera began.
‘But you must not appear too strong,’ Kenevah cut in, ‘or the dama’ting will have you quietly killed before you take your veil, and let the dice choose another.’
Inevera felt her blood run cold.
‘Everything you know is about to change, girl,’ Kenevah said, ‘but I think you will find in the end that the Dama’ting Palace is not so different from the Great Bazaar.’
Inevera cocked her head, unsure if the woman was joking or not, but Kenevah ignored her, ringing a golden bell on her desk. Qeva and Melan entered the chamber. ‘Take her to the Vault.’
Qeva took Inevera’s arm again, half guiding, half dragging her from the couch.
‘Melan, you will instruct her in the ways of the Betrothed,’ Kenevah said. ‘For the next twelve Wanings, her failures will be your own.’
Melan grimaced, but she bowed deeply. ‘Yes, Grandmother.’
The Vault was not in any of the seven wings of the palace. It was set below, in the underpalace.
Like almost every other great structure in the Desert Spear, the Palace of the Dama’ting had as many levels below as above. The underpalace was colder in both temperature and décor than the structure above. There was no hint of the paint, gilding, and polish of the palace proper. Away from the sun, the Undercity was no place for garish displays of luxury. No place to be too comfortable.
But the underpalace still offered more splendour than the few adobe rooms Inevera and her family called home. The soaring ceilings, great columns, and archways gave even the bare stone grandeur, and the wards carved into their faces were works of art. Even away from the sun it was comfortably warm, with soft rugs running along the stone floors, wards stitched into the edges. If alagai somehow entered this most sacred of places, the Brides of Everam were secure.
Dama’ting patrolled the halls, occasionally passing them by. These nodded at Qeva and walked past, but Inevera could feel their eyes boring into her as they went.
They descended a stairwell, continuing through several more passages. The air grew warmer, and moist. Carpets vanished, and the marble floor became tiled and slick with condensation. A burly dama’ting stood watch over a portal, staring openly at Inevera as a cat stares at a mouse. Inevera shuddered as they passed into a wide chamber with dozens of pegs along the walls. Most held a robe and a long strip of white silk. Up ahead, Inevera could hear the sound of laughter and splashing.
‘Take off your dress and leave it on the floor to be burned,’ Qeva said.
Inevera quickly removed her tan dress and bido – a wide strip of cloth that kept the ever-present sand and dust of the bazaar from her nethers. Manvah wore one of black, and had taught Inevera to tie it in a quick, efficient knot.
Melan undressed, and Inevera saw that under her robe and silk pants she, too, wore a bido, but one far more intricate, woven many times over from a strip of silk less than an inch wide. Her head was wrapped in silk as well, covering her hair, ears, and neck. Her face remained bare.
Melan untied a small knot at her chin and began undoing her headwrap. Her hands moved with quick, practised efficiency, reversing what Inevera could see was an intensely complicated weave. As she worked, her hands twisted continually to wrap the silk neatly about them, keeping it taut.
Inevera was shocked to see that the girl’s head was shaved bare, olive skin smooth and shiny like polished stone.
The headwrap ended in the tight braid of silk that ran down Melan’s spine. The girl’s hands continued their dance behind her head, undoing dozens of crossings in the silk until two separate strands reached her bido. Still the acolyte’s hands worked.
It’s all one piece, Inevera realized, staring in awe as Melan slowly unwove her bido. The air of a dance only increased as Melan began to step over the uncrossing strands, her bare feet tamping a steady rhythm. The silk crossed her thighs and between her legs dozens of times, layering weaves one atop another.
Inevera had made enough baskets to know good weaving when she saw it, and this was a masterwork. Something so intricately woven could be worn all day and never come loose, and someone unskilled would likely make a botch of it and never get the weave undone.
‘The woven bido is like the web of flesh that safeguards your virginity,’ Qeva said, tossing Inevera a great roll of thin white silk. ‘You will wear it at all times, save for ablutions and necessaries, done here in the lowest chamber of the Vault. You will not leave the Vault under any circumstances without it, and you will be punished if it is woven improperly. Melan will teach you the weave. It should be simple enough for a basket weaver’s daughter to master.’
Melan snorted at that, and Inevera swallowed hard and tried not to stare at the girl’s bald head as she came over. She was a few years Inevera’s senior, and very pretty without her headwrap. She held out her hands, each wrapped in at least ten feet of silk. Inevera mimicked her, and they stepped over the strip of silk between their hands, bringing it to rest across their buttocks.
‘The first weave is called Everam’s Guardian,’ Melan said, pulling the silk taut and crossing it over her sex. ‘It crosses seven times, one for each pillar in Heaven.’ Inevera copied her, and managed to keep up for some time before Qeva cut in.
‘There is a twist in the silk, begin again,’ the dama’ting said.
Inevera nodded, and both girls undid the weave and started afresh. Inevera knitted her brows, doing her best to mimic the weave perfectly. Kenevah had said Melan would bear the weight of her mistakes, and she did not want the girl punished for her clumsy hands. She managed to keep up all the way to the headwrap before the dama’ting broke in.
‘Not so tight,’ Qeva said. ‘You’re tying a bido, not trying to keep a Sharum’s broken skull together. Do it again.’
Melan gave Inevera a look of annoyance that made her face flush, but again they reversed course, undoing their bidos entirely before beginning anew.
By the third repetition, Inevera had the feel of the weave. Its flow came naturally to her, and soon she and Melan stood in identical silk bidos.
Qeva clapped her hands. ‘There might be something to you after all, girl. It took Melan months to master the bido weave, and she was one of the quicker studies. Isn’t that so, Melan?’
‘As the dama’ting says.’ Melan gave a stiff bow, and Inevera got the sense that Qeva was taunting her.
‘Into the bath with you,’ Qeva said. ‘The day grows long and the kitchens will soon open.’
Inevera’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. It had been many hours since she had eaten.
‘You’ll eat soon enough.’ Qeva smiled. ‘Once you and the other girls finish serving supper and scrubbing out the crockery.’
She gave a laugh and pointed towards the source of the steam and splashing sounds. Melan undid her bido quickly and headed that way. Inevera took longer, trying not to tangle the silk, then followed, her bare feet slapping the tile.
The passage opened up into a great pool, its water hot and the air thick with steam. There were dozens of girls inside, all of them as bald as Melan. Some were Inevera’s age, but many were older, some grown almost fully to womanhood. All stood washing in the stone bath, or lounged on the slick stone steps at its edges, shaving and paring nails.
Inevera thought of the bucket of warm water she and her mother shared to wash. Their ration let them change it only sparingly. She waded out in wonder, the hot water caressing her thighs, running her fingertips through the surface as if through silk in the market.
Everyone looked up as they entered. The loungers sat up like hissing snakes, every eye in the misty room focused on the two girls. They moved in swiftly, surrounding them.
Inevera turned back, but the way was already closed, the ring of girls tightening, barring any escape and blocking them from outside view.
‘This is her?’ one girl asked.
‘The one the dice called?’ asked another. The questioners were lost in the steam as the girls began to circle, eyeing Inevera from every angle in much the same way Qeva had studied her dice.
Melan nodded, and the ring tightened further. Inevera felt crushed under the weight of their collective stare.
‘Melan, what …?’ Inevera reached out, her heart pounding.
Melan caught her wrist, twisting and pulling hard. Inevera fell towards her, and Melan caught a fistful of her thick hair, using the momentum of her fall to push her head under the water.
There was a burble, then all she could hear was the rushing of water. Inevera reflexively inhaled water and choked, but she could not cough underwater, and her insides spasmed as she resisted the urge to breathe in. The hot water burned her face and she struggled violently, but Melan kept her hold and Inevera was helpless against it. She thrashed as her lungs began to burn, but like Soli in the kiosk, Melan was using sharusahk, her movements swift and precise. Inevera could do nothing to resist.
Melan was shouting something at her, but the sound was muffled by the water, and Inevera couldn’t make out any of it. She realized then that she was going to drown. It seemed so absurd. Inevera had never stood in water past her knees. Water was precious in the Desert Spear, both currency and merchandise in the bazaar. Goldshines, but water is divine, the saying went. Only the wealthiest of Krasia’s citizens could even afford to drown.
She was losing hope when Melan gave a jerk and pulled her upright with a splash. Inevera’s hair was plastered to her face, and she coughed, gasping breaths of thick, steamy air.
‘—just walk in here,’ Melan was shouting, ‘speaking to the Damaji’ting like she was your pillow friend, and learning the bido weave in three tries!’
‘Three tries?’ a girl asked.
‘We should kill her just for that,’ another added.
‘Thinks she’s better than us,’ a third said.
Inevera glanced around desperately through her matted hair, but the other girls watched impassively, their eyes dead. None of them looked like she might lift a finger to help.
‘Melan, please, I—’ Inevera sputtered, but Melan tightened her grip and thrust Inevera back under the water. She managed to hold her breath, but that soon ran out, and she was thrashing wildly again by the time Melan let her up to gasp another breath.
‘Do not speak to me,’ Melan said. ‘I may be bound to you for one year, but we are not friends. You think you can come in and take Kenevah’s place overnight? Over my mother? Over me? I am Kenevah’s blood! You are just a … bad throw.’
She produced a sharp knife from somewhere, and Inevera flinched in terror as Melan slashed it through her hair, cutting off thick locks. ‘You are nothing.’ She flipped the knife in her fingers, catching the blade and handing it hilt-first to the next girl who approached.
‘You are nothing,’ the girl echoed, grabbing another lock of Inevera’s hair and slicing it off.
Each girl came forward and took the knife, cutting at Inevera’s hair until all that remained was a ragged and uneven shadow, patched and bloody. ‘You are nothing,’ they said in turn.
By the time the last of the girls drew back, Inevera was on her knees in the water, limp and weeping. Again and again she broke out coughing, the convulsions tearing hot fire through her throat. It was as if there was some last bit of water in her lungs they were determined to expel.
Kenevah was right. The Dama’ting Palace and the Great Bazaar weren’t so different after all, but here there was no Soli to defend her.
Inevera thought about Manvah, and her final words about Krisha. If she could not match sharusahk with Melan and the other girls, she would deal as her mother had done. She would keep her eyes down and do as she was told. Work hard. Listen. Learn.
And then, when no one was looking, she would find Melan’s storage tent and put vermin in it.
1
Arlen
333 AR Summer
30 Dawns Before New Moon
Renna kissed Arlen again. A gentle breeze swept across the thin sheen of sweat on their bodies, cooling them as they panted on the hot night.
‘Been wonderin’ if you were tattooed under that cloth nappy,’ she said, nestling in next to him and putting her head on his bare chest, listening to his heart.
Arlen laughed and put his arm around her. ‘It’s called a bido. And even my obsession has limits.’
