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Inevera began to wonder how much control she could keep if Aleverak ascended to the throne.
But again Ashan surprised her, taking a similar stance to Aleverak and focusing his efforts on defence. His feet beat rapidly on the marble floor, back and forth, keeping Aleverak dancing but always stopping short of full attacks that might give the aged Damaji free energy to turn against him. Again and again Aleverak struck at him, but Ashan batted his hand aside every time, keeping up the dance. Aleverak’s kicks were dodged, or blocked smoothly with thighs, shins, and forearms.
He kept it up, his aura calm, until, at last, Aleverak began to tire. Whatever reserves of energy the ancient Damaji had called upon depleted, and his moves began to slow.
When he next stepped forward, he was not quick enough to stop Ashan from stomping on his foot, pinning it. Aleverak stabbed his right hand in, but Ashan caught the wrist, holding it as he snapped his hips around to add torque to a devastating punch to the chest with his now recovered right arm.
Aleverak gasped and stumbled, but Ashan locked his arm and added several more punches before his opponent could recover, driving sharp knuckles into the shoulder joint of the Damaji’s one arm. He swept Aleverak’s feet from him and put him down hard on his back. The retort as he struck the marble echoed throughout the chamber.
Aleverak looked up at Ashan, his eyes hard. ‘Well done, Andrah. Finish me with honour and take your place atop the steps.’
Ashan looked at the ancient Damaji sadly. ‘It was an honour to face you, Damaji. Your fame among the masters of sharusahk is well earned. But tradition does not demand I kill you. Only that I clear you from my path.’
He began to turn away, but Aleverak’s aura flared, as close to a loss of control as Inevera had ever seen. He clutched the hem of Ashan’s robe with quivering fingers.
‘Maji is still in his bido!’ Aleverak coughed. ‘Kill me and let Aleveran have the black turban. No harm will come to the Deliverer’s son.’
Ashan glanced up to Inevera at this. It was a tempting offer. Maji would be safe from the foolish vow Ahmann had made, but in exchange the Majah would have a younger Damaji who might rule for decades to come. She gave a slight shake of her head.
‘Apologies, Damaji,’ Ashan said, pulling his robe free of the old man’s grasp, ‘but the Deliverer still has need of you in this world. It is not yet your time to walk the lonely path. And should any harm come to the Deliverer’s Majah son apart from an open challenge in court on the hour of your natural death, my respect for you will not stop me from having your entire male line killed.’ He turned again, striding for the seven steps leading to the Skull Throne.
Asome met him there, blocking the path.
Inevera hissed. What was the fool boy doing?
‘Apologies, Uncle.’ Asome gave a formal sharusahk bow. ‘I trust you understand this is not personal. You have been as a father to me, but I am the eldest dama son of the Deliverer, and have as much right as any assembled to challenge you.’
Ashan seemed genuinely taken aback, but he did not dispute the claim. He bowed in return. ‘Of course, nephew. Your honour is boundless. But I would not leave my daughter a widow, nor my grandson without his father. I ask this once that you step aside.’
Asome shook his head sadly. ‘Nor would I leave my cousin and wife without a father. My aunt without a husband. Renounce your claim and allow me to ascend.’
Jayan leapt to his feet. ‘What is this?! I demand …!’
‘Silence!’ Inevera shouted. There was no need to enhance her voice this time, the sound echoing around the room. ‘Asome, attend me!’
Asome turned, climbing the steps swiftly to stand before Inevera’s bed of pillows. There was a flare in his aura as he passed by the throne. Was it covetousness? Inevera filed the information away in her mind as she manipulated polished stones on a small pedestal beside her, covering some wards and uncovering others. She could use the stones to control a number of effects, powered by hora placed around the room, and now placed a wall of silence around her pillows, that none save her son should hear her words.
‘You must give up this foolish claim, my son,’ Inevera said. ‘Ashan will kill you.’ Having seen Asome’s sharusahk, she wasn’t certain this was true, but now was not the time to flatter the young man.
‘Have faith, Mother,’ Asome said. ‘I have waited my entire life for this day, and I will prevail.’
‘You will not,’ Inevera said. ‘Because you will not continue your challenge. This is not what Everam wants. Or your father. Or I.’
‘If Everam does not wish me to take the throne, I will not,’ Asome said. ‘And if He does, then it should be Father’s and your wish as well.’
‘Wait, my son,’ Inevera said. ‘I beg you. We have always meant the jewelled turban for you, but it is too soon. Jayan will drive the Sharum into revolt if you take it now.’
‘Then I will kill him, too,’ Asome said.
‘And rule over a civil war with Sharak Ka on our heels,’ Inevera said. ‘No. I will not allow you to kill your brother. If you persist, I will cast you down myself. Recant, and you will have the succession on Ashan’s death. I swear it.’
‘Announce it now,’ Asome said. ‘Before all assembled, or cast me down as you say. My honour will be appeased with nothing else.’
Inevera drew a deep breath, letting it fill her, and flow back out, taking her emotions with it. She nodded, sliding the stones on her pedestal to remove the veil of silence.
‘Upon Ashan’s death, Asome will have the right to challenge the Damaji for the jewelled turban.’
Jayan’s aura swirled with emotion. The anger was still present, but he seemed mollified for the moment. There was no telling what he would have done if his younger brother had been given the chance to fight for a throne that sat higher than his. But seeing Asome thwarted had always brought Jayan pleasure. Ashan was not yet forty, and would stand between Asome and ascension long enough for Jayan to claim his father’s crown.
He stamped his spear loudly on the marble, and turned without leave to exit the throne room. His kai’Sharum followed obediently behind, and Inevera could see in them, and many of the Damaji, a belief that the Deliverer’s eldest son had been robbed of his birthright. The Sharum worshipped Jayan, and they outnumbered the dama greatly. He would be a growing danger.
But for the moment he was dealt with, and Inevera felt the wind ease as Ashan at last climbed the dais to sit the Skull Throne. He looked out at the assembled advisors and said the words Inevera had instructed, though she could tell they were sour on his lips.
‘It is an honour to hold the throne for the Shar’Dama Ka, blessings be upon his name. I will keep the Deliverer’s court much as he left it, with Damaji Aleverak speaking for the council, and Abban the khaffit retaining his position as court scribe and master of logistics. As before, any that dare hinder or harm him or his interests will find no mercy from the Skull Throne.’
Inevera twitched a finger to Belina, and the Majah Damaji’ting stepped forward with hora to heal Aleverak. Soon the Damaji was rising shakily back to his feet. The disorientation would soon pass, leaving him even stronger than before. His first act was a bow of submission to the Skull Throne.
Satisfying as that submission was, it was nothing compared to the flick of Ashan’s eyes to her, obviously asking if this scene was at its end. She gave a subtle nod and Ashan dismissed the Damaji and moved to meet with Asukaji and Asome, as well as his advisors, Halvan and Shevali.
‘Little sisters,’ Inevera said, and the Damaji’ting remained as the men filtered out, clustering at the base of the dais to take private audience with her.
‘You did not tell all, Damajah. My dice foretell that Ahmann may never return.’ Belina kept her voice steady, but her aura was like a raw nerve. Most of the Damaji’ting appeared the same. They had lost not only a leader, but a husband as well.
‘What has happened? Truly?’ Qasha asked. Less disciplined than Belina, the Sharach Damaji’ting could not keep her voice steady. The last word cracked with a whine like a flaw forming in glass.
‘Ahmann spared the Par’chin in secret after claiming the spear,’ Inevera said, disapproval in her tone. ‘The man survived and challenged him to Domin Sharum.’
The women began to chatter at this. Domin Sharum literally meant ‘two warriors’, the name given to the ritual duel first fought by Kaji himself against his murderous half brother Majah three thousand years ago. It was said they battled for seven days and nights atop Nie’s Breast, the tallest of the southern mountains.
‘Surely there is more to the tale than that,’ Damaji’ting Qeva said. ‘I have trouble believing any man could defeat the Shar’Dama Ka in fair combat.’
The other women voiced their assent. No man nor demon they could imagine could stand against Ahmann, especially with the Spear of Kaji in his hands.
‘The Par’chin has covered his skin in inked wards,’ Inevera said. ‘I do not understand it fully, but the symbols have given him terrifying powers, not unlike a demon himself. Ahmann held sway in battle and would have won, but as the sun set the Par’chin began misting like an alagai rising from the abyss, and the Shar’Dama Ka’s blows could not touch him. The Par’chin cast them both from the cliff, and their bodies were never found.’
Qasha gave out a wail at that. Damaji’ting Justya of the Shunjin moved to comfort her, but she, too, had begun to sob. All around the semicircle of women, there was weeping.
‘Silence!’ Inevera hissed, her enhanced voice cutting through the sobs like a lash. ‘You are Damaji’ting, not some pathetic dal’tingjiwah, weeping tear bottles over dead Sharum. Krasia depends on us. We must trust that Ahmann will return, and keep his empire intact until he can reclaim it.’
‘And if he does not?’ Damaji’ting Qeva asked, her words a calm breeze. She alone of the Damaji’ting had not lost a husband.
‘Then we hold our people together until a suitable heir can be found,’ Inevera said. ‘It makes no difference in what we must do here and now.’
She looked out over the women. ‘With Ahmann missing, the clerics will try to leach our power. You saw the magic I displayed to the Damaji. Each of you has combat hora you have been husbanding against need. You and your most powerful dama’ting must find excuse for displays of your own. The time to hide our strength is over.’
She looked around the semicircle of women, seeing determined faces where a moment ago there had been tears. ‘Every nie’dama’ting must be put to preparing new hora for spells, and all should be embroidering their robes with the Northlander’s wards of unsight. Abban will have spools of gold thread sent to every dama’ting palace for the task. Any attempts to prevent us walking in the night should be ignored. If men dare hinder you, break them. Publicly. Kill alagai. Heal warriors near death. We must show the men of Krasia we are a force to be feared by man and demon alike, and not afraid to dirty our nails.’
3 (#u5ae22817-5277-5788-8d40-1df52ee0d1a7)
Ashia (#u5ae22817-5277-5788-8d40-1df52ee0d1a7)
333 AR Autumn
Ashia stiffened as her husband challenged her father for the Skull Throne. It was unthinkable that she should interfere, but she could not deny the outcome would greatly affect her, whomever the victor.
She breathed, finding her centre once more. It was inevera.
Shifting slightly, she relaxed some muscles as she tensed others to maintain the pose that held her suspended over the alcove to the left of the Skull dais, braced against the arched ceiling with toes and fingers. In this way she could hold the position indefinitely, even sleeping without losing her perch.
Across the room, her spear sister Micha mirrored her in the opposite alcove, silently watching through a tiny pinhole in the ornate carving above the archway. Jarvah was positioned behind the pillar just past the Skull Throne, where none save the Deliverer and Damajah could tread without invitation.
Cloaked in shadow, the kai’Sharum’ting were imperceptible even to those stepping into the alcoves. But should the Damajah be threatened they could appear in an instant, launching a spray of sharpened, warded glass. Two breaths later, they could interpose themselves between her and any danger, spears and shields at the ready.
The kai’Sharum’ting and their growing number of spear sisters guarded the Damajah openly when she was on the move, but Inevera preferred them to keep to the shadows whenever possible.
At last the court was adjourned and the Damajah was left alone with her two most trusted advisors, Damaji’ting Qeva and her daughter, nie’Damaji’ting Melan.
The Damajah gave a slight flick of her fingers, and Ashia and Micha dropped silently from their perches. Jarvah appeared from behind the pillars, all three moving as escort to the Damajah’s personal chambers.
The Deliverer’s dal’ting wives, Thalaja and Everalia, were waiting with refreshment. Their eyes drifted to their daughters, Micha and Jarvah, but they knew better than to speak to the kai’Sharum’ting while they guarded the Damajah. There was little to say, in any event.
‘A bath has been prepared for you, Damajah,’ Thalaja said.
‘And fresh silks laid,’ Everalia added.
Ashia still could not believe these meek, obsequious women were wives of the Deliverer, though her holy uncle had taken them many years before coming to power. She had once thought the women hid their skills and power, much as she herself had been taught.
Over the years, Ashia had come to see the truth. Thalaja and Everalia were wives in name only now that the usefulness of their wombs had faded. Mere servants to the Deliverer’s wives in white.
But for inevera, Ashia thought, that could have been me.
‘I will need new silks,’ Inevera said. ‘The Deliverer is … travelling. Until his return, I will wear only opaque colours.’ The women nodded, moving hurriedly to comply.
‘There is more news.’ Inevera turned back, first meeting the eyes of Qeva and Melan, then letting her gaze drift to rest on Ashia and her spear sisters.
‘Enkido is dead.’
Ashia pictured the palm, and bent before the wind that rushed over her. She bowed to the Damajah. A step behind, Micha and Jarvah mirrored her. ‘Thank you for telling us, Damajah.’ Her voice was steady and even, eyes carefully on the floor, seeing all in periphery. ‘I will not ask if he died with his honour intact, for it could be no other way.’
Inevera nodded. ‘Enkido’s honour was boundless even before he severed his tongue and tree to serve my predecessor and learn the secrets of dama’ting sharusahk.’
Melan stiffened slightly at the mention of Inevera’s predecessor, Qeva’s mother and Melan’s grandmother, Damaji’ting Kenevah. It was said the Damajah choked the old woman to death to wrest control of the tribe’s women from her. Qeva gave no reaction.
‘Enkido was killed by an alagai changeling, bodyguard to one of Nie’s princelings,’ Inevera went on. ‘These mimic demons can take on any form, real or imagined. I watched the Deliverer himself in pitched battle with one. Enkido died doing his duty, protecting Amanvah, Sikvah, and their honoured husband, the son of Jessum. Your cousins live because of his sacrifice.’
Ashia nodded, bending her centre to accept the news. ‘Does this … changeling still live?’ If so, she would find a way to track and kill it, even if she had to follow it all the way to Nie’s abyss.
Inevera shook her head. ‘Amanvah and the son of Jessum weakened the creature, but it was the Par’chin’s Jiwah Ka who at last took its unholy life.’
‘She must be formidable indeed to succeed where our honoured master failed,’ Ashia said.
‘Beware that one, should your paths ever cross,’ the Damajah agreed. ‘She is nearly as powerful as her husband, but both, I fear, have drunk too deeply of alagai magic, and made the madness that comes with it a part of them.’
Ashia put her hands together, eyes still on the floor. ‘My spear sisters and I beg the Damajah’s leave to go into the night and kill seven alagai each in his honour, one for each pillar of Heaven, to guide our lost master on the lonely road.’
The Damajah whisked her fingers. ‘Of course. Assist the Sharum.’
Ashia’s hand worked with precision, painting wards on her nails. They were not long in the fashionable way of pampered wives and some dama’ting. Enkido’s students kept a warrior’s cut, barely past the nub, the better to handle weapons.
But Ashia had no need to claw at the alagai. A knife or speartip served best for that. She had other intentions.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched her spear sisters, silent save for the sounds of oil and leather, stitching and polishing as they readied weapons for the coming night.
The Damajah had given her kai’Sharum’ting spears and shields of warded glass, much like the Spears of the Deliverer. The blades needed no sharpening, but the grips and harnesses were just as important, and Enkido had inspected all their equipment regularly, never satisfied. A single crooked stitch on a shield strap, barely visible and irrelevant to performance, and he would rip out the thick leather with his bare hands, forcing the owner to replace it entirely.
Other infractions were treated less gently.
There were three kai’Sharum’ting remaining in Everam’s Bounty. Ashia, Micha, and Jarvah. Micha and Jarvah were full daughters of the Deliverer, but born to his dal’ting wives, Thalaja and Everalia. They, too, had been refused the white.
Their blood might have ranked them above the Deliverer’s nieces, but Ashia was four years older than Micha, and six older than Jarvah. The girls walked in women’s bodies thanks to the magic they absorbed each night, but they still looked to Ashia to guide them.
More women were becoming Sharum’ting every day, but only they were blood of the Deliverer. Only they wore the white veils.
Only they had been trained by Enkido.
That dusk, the gates of the city opened to release the Sharum into the vast territory they dubbed the New Maze. Two hours later, when full night had fallen, the three kai’Sharum’ting and half a dozen of their new spear sisters slipped quietly over the wall.
The Damajah’s command to ‘assist’ the Sharum was very clear. They would hunt the outer edges of the New Maze, where demons were thickest, and patrol for foolhardy Sharum, so drunk on magic and eager for carnage they let themselves be surrounded.
Ashia and her spear sisters would then step in to rescue the men. It was meant to create blood ties with as many Sharum as possible, but being saved by women stung the warriors’ pride. This, too, was part of the Damajah’s plan, for they were to invite challenges from the men, killing or crippling enough to send clear examples to the others.
Miles melted away under their fleet steps. Their black robes were embroidered with wards of unsight to render them invisible to the alagai, their veils with wards of sight to let them see as clearly in night as in day.
It wasn’t long before they found four overeager Majah dal’Sharum who had ranged too far from their unit and been caught by a reap of field demons. Three of the demons were down, but so was one of the Sharum, clutching a bloodied leg. His fellows ignored him – and their training – fighting as individuals when a formation might yet save them.
Drunk on alagai magic, Ashia signed to her sisters. The madness of magic’s grip was known to them, but it was easily ignored by a warrior who kept her centre. We must save them from themselves.
Ashia herself speared the field demon that would have killed the abandoned Sharum as Micha, Jarvah, and the others waded into the dozen remaining demons in the reap.
The jolt of magic as she speared the demon thrummed through her. In Everam’s light, she could see the magic running like fire along the lines of power in her aura. The same lines drawn in the Evejah’ting, and tattooed on her master’s body. The Riddle of Enkido.
Ashia felt the surge of strength and speed, understanding how easily one could get drunk upon it. She felt invincible. Aggression tugged at her centre. She bent her spirit as the palm in the wind and let it pass over her.
Ashia examined the deep wound in the Sharum’s leg. Already it was closing as the alagai magic he had absorbed turned its workings inward to repair. ‘Next time, angle your shield properly.’
‘What would a woman know of such things?’ the warrior demanded.
Ashia stood. ‘This woman saved your life, Sharum.’
