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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.
“Then Dama Khevat did not know your father as I did,” Kajivah said. “He spoke only truth, and never raised a hand to me in anger, though I bore him three daughters in succession. He kept me with child and put meat in our bellies.” She looked Jardir in the eyes. “There is honor in those things, as much as there is in killing alagai. Repeat that under the sun and remember it.”
Jardir nodded. “I will.”
“You wear the bido now,” Kajivah said. “That means you are no longer a boy, and cannot go below with us. You must wait at the door.”
Jardir nodded. “I am not afraid.”
“Perhaps you should be,” Kajivah said. “The Evejah tells us that on the Waning, Alagai Ka, father of demons, stalks the surface of Ala.”
“Not even he could get past the warriors of the Desert Spear,” Jardir said.
Kajivah stood, lifting Hoshkamin’s spear from the wall. “Perhaps not,” she said, thrusting the weapon into his good left hand, “but if he does, it will fall to you to keep him from our door.”
Shocked, Jardir took the weapon, and Kajivah nodded once before following his sisters below. Jardir immediately moved to the door, his back straight as he stood throughout the night, and the two that followed.
“I’ll need a target,” Jardir said, “for when the dama’ting remove my cast, and I need to get back in the food line.”
“We can do it together,” Abban said, “like we did before.”
Jardir shook his head. “If I need your help, they’ll think I’m weak. I’ve got to show them I’ve healed stronger than before, or I’ll be a target for everyone.”
Abban nodded, considering the problem. “You’ll have to strike higher in the line than the place you left, but not so high as to provoke Hasik and his cronies.”
“You think like a merchant,” Jardir said.
Abban smiled. “I grew up in the bazaar.”
They watched the line carefully over the next few days, their eyes settling just past the center, where Jardir had waited before his injury. The boys there were a few years his senior and larger than him by far. They marked potential targets and began to observe those boys carefully during training.
Training was much as it had been before. The hard cast kept Jardir’s arm in place as he ran the obstacles, and the drillmasters made him throw left-handed during spear and net practice. He was given no special treatment, nor would he have wished it. The strap found his back no less often than before, and Jardir welcomed it, embracing the pain and knowing every blow proved to the other boys that he was not weak, despite his injury.
Weeks passed, and Jardir worked hard, practicing the sharukin whenever he had the chance, and repeating them in his mind as he drifted off to sleep each night. Surprisingly, he found he could throw and punch as well with his left hand as he had with the right. He even took to bludgeoning opponents with the cast, embracing the rush of pain as it swept over him like a hot desert wind. He knew that when the dama’ting finally cut the cast from him, he would be better for the injury.
“Jurim, I think,” Abban said at last, the evening before Jardir’s cast was removed. “He’s tall and strong, but he forgets his lessons and simply tries to overpower his opponents.”
Jardir nodded. “Perhaps. He’s slow, and no one would challenge me if I took him down, but I was thinking of Shanjat.” He nodded to a slender boy just ahead of Jurim in the line.
Abban shook his head. “Don’t be fooled by his size. There’s reason why Shanjat stands ahead of Jurim. His arms and legs crack like whips.”
“But he’s not precise,” Jardir said. “And he overbalances when his blows miss.”
“Which is rare,” Abban warned. “You have a better chance of defeating Jurim. Don’t haggle so much you spoil the sale.”
It was midmorning the next day when Jardir returned from the dama’ting pavilion, and the boys were already assembled in the gruel line. Jardir sucked in a breath, flexed his right arm, and strode in, heading right for the center of the line. Abban had already taken his place, farther back, and would not help him, as they had agreed.
It is the weakest camel that draws the wolves, he heard his father say, and the simple advice steeled him against his fear.
“To the back with you, cripple!” Shanjat barked, seeing him approach.
Jardir ignored him and forced himself to smile widely. “Everam shine upon you for holding my place,” he said.
The look in Shanjat’s eyes was incredulous; he was three years Jardir’s senior, and considerably larger. He hesitated in that moment, and Jardir took the opportunity to shove him hard, knocking him from the line.
Shanjat stumbled, but he was quick and kept his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust as he regained his balance. Jardir could have kicked his hands or feet from under him and struck while he was off balance, but he needed more than mere victory if he was to ward off any rumors that his injury had left him weak.
There were hoots of delight, and the gruel line curved in on itself, surrounding the two boys. The shocked look vanished from Shanjat’s face as it twisted in rage, and he came back in hard.
Jardir flowed like a dancer to avoid Shanjat’s initial blows, which were just as fast as Abban had warned. Finally, as expected, Shanjat launched a wild swing that put him off balance when it failed to connect. Jardir stepped to the left, ducking the arm and driving his right elbow into Shanjat’s kidney like a spear. Shanjat screamed in pain as he stumbled past.
Jardir whipped around and followed through with another elbow strike to Shanjat’s back, driving him to the ground. His arm was thin and pale from weeks in the cast, but the bones did feel stronger now, just as the dama’ting had said.
But Shanjat caught Jardir’s ankle, yanking him from his feet and falling on him. They wrestled in the dust, where Shanjat’s weight and greater reach were to his advantage. He caught Jardir in a headlock, pulling his right fist into Jardir’s windpipe with his left hand.
As the world began to blacken, Jardir began to fear he had taken on too much, but he embraced the feeling as he did pain, refusing to give up. He kicked hard behind him, a crushing blow between the legs that made Shanjat loosen his choke hold with a howl. Jardir twisted free and got in close to Shanjat’s joints, where his blows held little force when they could reach Jardir at all. Slowly, laboriously, he worked his way behind Shanjat, striking hard at any vulnerable spots—eyes, throat, gut—as he went.
Finally in position, Jardir caught Shanjat’s right arm and twisted it behind him, driving his full weight into the older boy’s back with both knees. When he felt the elbow lock, he braced it on his own shoulder and heaved the arm upward.
“Aaahhh!” Shanjat cried, and Jardir knew it would be a simple thing now to break the boy’s arm, as Hasik had done to him.
“You were saving my place, were you not?” Jardir asked loudly.
“I will kill you, rat!” Shanjat screamed, beating the dust with his free hand as he twisted and thrashed, but he could not dislodge Jardir.
“Say it!” Jardir demanded, lifting Shanjat’s arm higher. He felt the strain in that limb, and knew it could not withstand much more.
“I would sooner go to Nie’s abyss!” Shanjat cried.
Jardir shrugged. “Bones become stronger after being broken. Enjoy your stay with the dama’ting.” With a heave, he felt bone snap and muscle tear. Shanjat screamed in agony.
Jardir stood slowly, scanning the gathered boys for signs that another meant to challenge him, but while there were many wide-eyed stares, none seemed ready to avenge Shanjat, who lay howling in the dust.
“Make way!” Drillmaster Kaval barked, pushing through the crowd. He looked to Shanjat, then to Jardir. “Hope for you yet, boy,” he grunted. “Back in line, all of you,” he shouted, “or we’ll empty the gruel pot in the waste pits!” The boys quickly flowed back to their places, but Jardir beckoned to Abban amid the confusion, gesturing for his friend to take the place behind him in line.
“Hey!” cried Jurim, the next boy in line, but Jardir glared at him and he backed off, making room for Abban.
Kaval kicked at Shanjat. “On your feet, rat!” he shouted. “Your legs aren’t broken, so don’t expect to be carried to the dama’ting after being bested by a boy half your size!” He grabbed Shanjat’s good arm and hauled the boy to his feet, dragging him off toward the healing pavilion. The boys still in line hooted and catcalled at his back.
“I don’t understand,” Abban said. “Why didn’t he just yield?”
“Because he’s a warrior,” Jardir said. “Will you yield when the alagai come for you?”
Abban shuddered at the thought. “That’s different.”
Jardir shook his head. “No, it isn’t.”
Hasik and some of the other older boys began training on the Maze walls not long after Jardir lost his cast. They lost their bidos in the Maze a year later, and those who survived, Hasik among them, could be seen strutting about the training grounds in their new blacks, visiting the great harem. Like all dal’Sharum, they had as little as possible to do with nie’Sharum after that.
Time passed quickly for Jardir, days blending together into an endless loop. In the mornings, he listened to dama extolling the glories of Everam and the Kaji tribe. He learned of the other Krasian tribes and why they were inferior, and why the Majah, most of all, were blind to Everam’s truths. The dama spoke, too, of other lands, and the cowardly chin to the north who had forsaken the spear and lived like khaffit, quailing before the alagai.
Jardir was never satisfied with their place in the gruel line, always focused on moving up to where the bowls became fuller. He targeted the boys ahead of him and sent them to the dama’ting pavilion one by one, always bringing Abban in his wake. By the time Jardir was eleven, they were at the front of the line, ahead of several older boys, all of whom gave them a wide berth.
Afternoons were spent training or running as practice targets for dal’Sharum netters. At night, Jardir lay on the cold stone of the Kaji’sharaj floor, his ears straining to hear the sounds of alagai’sharak outside, and dreaming of the day he might stand among men.
