Inevera waited nervously in the dama’ting pavilion, her breath fogging in the bitter cold. Qeva was there, as well as three other Brides, seven Betrothed, and four eunuchs, including the powerful Enkido. The eunuchs were dressed in full Sharum blacks, night-veiled with spear and shield. Under their robes was linked armor of dama’ting craft, enough to turn even a demon’s bite.
But despite the powerful gathering in a familiar space, Inevera shifted her feet nervously. It was deep in the night, and they were on the surface. Evejan Law forbid this, even for Brides of Everam, but Qeva and the others stood chatting among themselves as easily as if they stood in the Dama’ting Underpalace. Inevera knew logically the chances of alagai passing the Sharum in the Maze and breaching the great wall was minimal at best—and in truth closer to infinitesimal—but still her heart thudded in her chest.
Fear and pain are only wind, she reminded herself, picturing the palm and finding her center.
Standing by the tent flap, mute Enkido raised a hand and made a quick series of gestures with his fingers.
“Oot!” Qeva said. “They come.”
Everyone quieted, and the Brides moved to stand in front, Qeva at their lead. She nodded to Enkido as he opened the tent flap.
Half a dozen Sharum approached the pavilion, one of them leading a camel with feet wrapped in thick black cloth. There was black cloth over its body as well, and wrapped around the wheels of the large cart it pulled.
Their blacks were dusty from the Maze, with fresh dents in their armor and ichor splattering their heavy shields. One walked with a slight limp, and another had a blood-soaked cloth tied around one thick arm. The Sharum all had their night veils in place, but Inevera recognized them immediately by their sleeveless uniforms with breastplates of blackened steel emblazoned with the golden sunburst of Dama Baden. Even without his characteristic swagger and white kai’Sharum veil Inevera would have recognized Cashiv, and even more so the man beside him. His ajin’pal.
Soli.
She had not seen her brother in years, but she knew him instantly even behind his veil. His eyes had the twinkle of her brother’s easy smile, and she knew his walk, his stance, and his muscular arms as well as she knew her own. She suppressed a gasp, but could not help staring.
Next to her, Melan snorted. “You have as much chance there, bad throw, as you do in beating me to the veil. Those are push’ting. Man lovers. There are said to be none finer in battle than Dama Baden’s Sharum, but they would sooner bed a goat than you.”
Asavi snickered. “And be better for it.”
“Silence!” Qeva hissed.
Cashiv and the other Sharum came before the dama’ting and bowed deeply. As they did, Soli’s eyes passed over Inevera, but though her face was bare, there was no recognition in the dim light.
“Rise, honored Sharum,” Qeva said. “The blessing of Everam be upon you.”
Cashiv and the others straightened. “Everam is great. All honor and glory begins and ends with Him. Our lives belong to Him and his sacred Brides. It is the first night of Waning after winter solstice. We have come to deliver Dama Baden’s tithe.”
Qeva nodded. “Your sacrifice in blood does not go unnoticed by Everam, or His Brides. What gift have you brought?”
Cashiv bowed again. “Twenty-nine alagai, Dama’ting.”
Qeva raised an eyebrow. “Twenty-nine? This is not a holy number.”
Cashiv bowed again. “Of course the dama’ting is correct. Twenty-eight is the traditional tithe; seven sand demons, seven clay, seven flame, and seven wind. One each of the common breeds for every pillar of Heaven.” He paused, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “But Dama Baden is grateful for the blessings of the dama’ting, and commanded us to lay a special trap. To honor the one Creator, we have also brought a single water demon.”
Several of the nie’dama’ting gasped. The Brides showed no obvious sign, but Inevera could read the shift in their stances as easily as if they were shouting in elation. Water demons were beyond rare in Krasia, and there were spells that could only be made from their bones. The spell to create water alone could be accomplished with a fraction of the hora.
“Everam is pleased with your gift to honor Him,” Qeva said. “How did you accomplish this?”
“Dama Baden had us wall off a section of the Maze, removing the wards and breaking the sandstone floor that prevents alagai rising. We dug a deep pool, which the dama filled with water from his own stores, and seeded with fish and other life. It took many months, but at last, the bait was taken and a water demon took residence there. It killed one of my men and injured two others as we hauled it out in the nets this night, surviving far longer than we expected in the night air. It eventually died of suffocation, and is otherwise intact.”
The dama’ting exchanged a glance. The cost of this endeavor was not lost to them. The water alone was a Damaji’s ransom—tainted now and useless. It spoke of Dama Baden’s incredible wealth … and of a favor he sought.
Dama Baden did nothing for free.
“This gift pleases us greatly, Cashiv asu Avram am’Goshin am’Kaji. Your honor, and that of your men, is boundless. The pleasures of Heaven will be yours forever when you pass from this life. Bring forth your wounded.”
The two most heavily wounded men stepped forth, and there was no hesitation as the dama’ting warded the skin about their injuries and drew forth small bits of hora to effect magical healing. The other men had only superficial scrapes and burns the Brides treated with more conventional means.
When it was done, Qeva turned back to the Sharum. “Bring the gifts into the Rendering Chamber.”
Moving with the assuredness of men who had been this way many times, Cashiv and the others began unloading alagai corpses from the cart and carrying them down through a trapdoor Inevera had never seen before, right in the entrance hall. Large punctures in the chests of the sand and wind demons told of death by stingers—arrows the size of spears, launched from wooden scorpions atop the walls. The armor of the clay demons was crushed by heavy stones dropped into demon pits. The smell of rank ichor was nauseating.
The flame demons—drowned in shallow pools—were unmarked, as was the water demon, a slimy mass of horned tentacles and sharp scales. Its mouth was enormous for its body, with row upon row of wicked teeth.
When it was done, Qeva gestured and Cashiv came to kneel before her. “Four questions,” Qeva said, “and a boon.”
Cashiv nodded. “Thank you, Dama’ting. I humbly accept this gift, though we are yours to command, and act only to bring glory to Everam, not from thought of reward.” His words had the ring of practice, more a chant than speech. Inevera understood that this meeting likely played out every year, a business transaction that had become ritual. The way everyone smoothly gathered into a ring around the scene spoke of it as well.
Qeva knelt across from Cashiv as she reached into her hora pouch. “Have you the dama’s blood?” Cashiv drew forth a polished wooden box. Contained within was a delicate porcelain vial. He passed this to the dama’ting, who emptied its contents onto her dice.
“Lower your veil.” When Cashiv complied, she asked, “Do you swear now that this is the true blood of Dama Baden, and that you speak with his voice—his words and not your own—with Everam as your witness?”
Cashiv put his hands on the canvas floor of the pavilion and pressed his forehead between them. “I do, Dama’ting. I swear before Everam himself, in the name of Kaji and on my honor and hope of Heaven, that this is Dama Baden’s blood and I have memorized his questions precisely.”
Qeva nodded, raising her hand and causing the dice to flare with a harmless glow. Cashiv flinched in spite of himself. “Then ask, Sharum. The dice will know if you lie.”
Cashiv swallowed hard and drew deep breaths, finding his center in much the same way as a dama’ting. Their sharusahk might be vastly different, but the philosophy at its core was not.
Cashiv met Qeva’s eyes, his words slow and careful. “What will be my greatest loss this year, and how can I profit from it?”
“Well said,” Qeva congratulated. “That was two questions last year.” Without waiting for a response, she shook the dice in her hands, chanting as they began to glow. She threw, then studied the pattern carefully.
“A sickness will spread through the goat herds this winter,” she said. “Only two in five will see the spring, and those too weak to have much value. Tell Dama Baden to sell his stock now and buy as many sheep as he can afford.”
Cashiv bowed and asked his second question. “As my palanquin passed through the city a month ago, a khaffit spit upon me from the crowd. How may I find this one again, to visit justice upon him?”
Inevera knew full well what “justice” the dama meant. One fool enough to spit on a dama no doubt deserved it, but it said much of Baden’s pride that he would waste such a valuable question on revenge.
Qeva showed no emotion at all as she consulted the dice. “You will find him in the bazaar. His stall three hundred twenty paces east of the statue of the Holy Mother near the Jaddah gate in the Khanjin district. A seller of …”
Inevera tilted her head, studying the pattern still glowing softly on the dice. Honey melon, she read.
“Honey cakes,” Qeva said after a moment. Inevera stiffened, looking at the dice again, positive of her reading. She glanced at Qeva, and did not know what filled her with more fear, that Dama Baden was going to torture and kill the wrong man, or that her great teacher had made an error.
She hesitated. Should she speak? She quickly dismissed the idea. If she pointed out the mistake in front of the Sharum, it would likely mean her life, as well as that of all the warriors present, Soli included. The dama’ting could not be seen as fallible.
She breathed, finding her center, and did nothing.
Cashiv bowed again. “Dama Lakash is attempting to end the exception that the personal Sharum of dama need fight in the Maze only on Waning. How can this be prevented?”
Qeva grunted and threw the dice a third time. “Dama Lakash’s son-in-law and heir Dama Kivan has spoken ill of you in council. Claim insult and kill him, taking his Jiwah Ka, Lakash’s eldest daughter Gisa, as your Jiwah Sen in recompense. Marry her that night, and get a daughter on her the third afternoon after the ceremony.”
Cashiv’s face wrinkled at the thought. “This brings me to the dama’s final question, Dama’ting: ‘I remain vigorous with men, but have lost my ability to lie with and seed my wives. How can this be restored?’ ”
Qeva snorted and put her dice away. There was a tinkling clatter of small corked bottles as she rifled through the pouch at her waist, finally selecting one. “Apply this personally to the dama’s spear before he does the deed, and tell him to be quick about it.” She tossed the bottle to Cashiv. “If that doesn’t work, stick a finger in his arse.”
Cashiv and the other Sharum laughed at that.
“And the boon?” Qeva asked.
“My master has lost nine poison tasters in the year,” Cashiv said. “He suspects one or more of his many sons.”
“Yet he wastes a question on a spitting khaffit,” Qeva noted.
Cashiv bowed low. “My master’s sons add to his power, and he would not wish to kill one, nor does he think it would deter the others if he did. He asks instead for a chalice, ornate as befits his stature, magicked to turn poison to water.”
“A precious gift,” Qeva said. “Difficult to make.”
Cashiv smiled. “My master prays it will be less so, with the bones of a water demon.”
Qeva nodded, rising to her feet. “You may go. Tell your master his chalice will be ready on the first Waning after spring equinox. We will teach him a precise way to hold it, so that only he may activate its power.”
“The Dama’ting is generous beyond measure.” Cashiv touched his forehead to the ground and got to his feet. As he and the others turned to go, Soli looked back. For an instant, he met Inevera’s eyes.
And winked.
The days that followed were a horror, as Inevera and the other nie’dama’ting who had earned the Chamber of Shadows rendered the demon’s flesh with acid and fire, leaving the hora untouched. The bones were then polished with sacred oils as the nie’dama’ting chanted endless prayers to Everam until they were black and hard as obsidian.
The putrid acid slurry was neutralized with a base, the resulting liquid poison to the touch, but thick with magic the dama’ting could tap. It was drained into large vats connected to pipes that sent the stuff through the palace walls like a circulatory system, powering the wardlights, climate control, and countless other spells warded throughout the palace.
The work left the other girls pale and retching, their hands burned and eyes watering, but Inevera barely noticed. Her mind was far away from such inconsequential wind. She breathed through her mouth as she chanted, letting her hands work the monotonous task on their own as her thoughts danced with the image of Soli. She had worried greatly about him over the years, her heart clenching every day Sharum wounded were brought to the pavilion. It would have been enough to see him and know he was alive, but the wink had changed everything. He knew her fate and loved her still. He would tell Manvah that she was well and calm their mother’s heart.
The chamber rang with the sound of Inevera’s cymbals as she gyrated and spun, the grip of her bare feet sure on the polished stone floor. She was thirteen, but already she had a woman’s body, lithe yet well curved. She snapped her hips at Khavel and saw him rock back with every thrust.
The younger girls watched in fascination. Inevera taught the beginner classes in pillow dancing now, though the bido wrap she wore meant she herself had yet to experience the dance in full.
Sacred law held that Everam’s Betrothed remain virgins until they took the veil, as signified by the bido. That first night, the Damaji’ting would break her hymen to consummate the marriage to Everam, and Inevera would become a full Bride.
The second night, she would be free to love any man or object as she pleased, for what were they, compared with Everam’s embrace? Playthings.
Inevera met the eunuch’s gaze as she writhed before him. Firmly under her spell, his eyes were glazed, head swaying in time with her movements. He was hers.
Khavel was a perfect physical specimen—the dama’ting settled for nothing less in a pleasure eunuch—with a handsome face, proud jaw, and muscular body glistening with oil. Trained from an early age in massage and all the other ways a man might give a woman pleasure, he would without question be a skilled lover. It was whispered that most every dama’ting made use of him, and that he was on a constant diet of virility drugs, with a strict ritual exercise and sleep regimen. Most every new dama’ting in the last decade had summoned him to her chambers on her second night, with none regretting.
But while Inevera could see the eunuch’s beauty, he stirred no desire in her, no more than a perfect statue of a man might. Other girls might be eager to practice the pillow dance fully, but Inevera didn’t spend years honing her skills to waste them on half a man. She would sooner bed a khaffit.
When her demonstration ended, she lined up the younger girls, helping them place their feet and practice the twist and snap of the hips that was the core of the pillow dance.
After the lesson, Inevera went to the baths, breathing steam deeply as the hot water soaked into her muscles. Melan and Asavi were there, pointedly ignoring her, but in the many months since Inevera’s defeat of the older girl, most of the other nie’dama’ting had changed their attitude toward her.
“Bathe you, sister?” Jasira asked, holding a soaked cloth lathered with scented soap. She was two years older than Inevera, and had just passed the test of admission to the Chamber of Shadows. Inevera waved her off. Such offers were becoming common, as her power grew and Melan’s waned. As Kenevah predicted, the other girls feared her, whispering among themselves that she would one day be Damaji’ting. Inevera could make willing servants of most of the nie’dama’ting, even so far as taking them as pillow friends and having her pleasure of them. But Inevera had no interest in such things. The girls did not shun her as they once had, but neither were they her friends.
More than anything, Inevera wished she could speak to her mother. Or her brother. The only people she could ever really trust.
As they were dressing, Inevera looked to Melan. “Going to the chamber, sister? We could walk together.” Melan glared at her, and Inevera allowed herself a slight smirk.
“Smile now, bad throw,” Melan whispered. “Today I finish my dice, and tomorrow I will take the veil.” She gave a predatory smile, but Inevera only smiled pleasantly in return.
“I will still be dama’ting before you,” she promised.
The girls sat in a semicircle before Qeva in the entrance hall to the Chamber of Shadows—seven Betrothed aspiring to one day take the white veil.
There was always a lesson before carving began, the dama’ting’s robes blood red in the dim wardlight—the only light allowed in the chamber.
Throughout the lesson, Melan fidgeted, shifting her weight and pursing her lips, rolling the velvet bag with her dice with one hand, eager to get back to carving.
It was always thus. Inevera and Melan had entered the Chamber of Shadows together, but even though Melan had years of work on Inevera and sneered about it publicly, she seemed to take seriously Inevera’s threat to finish her dice first. When Qeva ended the lesson each day, Melan practically ran to a carving chamber, always last to emerge when the dama’ting called an end to the day’s work. Inevera imagined she could hear the frantic scraping of her tools even through the thick stone walls.
If Melan took the veil before Inevera, it could be dangerous … perhaps deadly. All the Betrothed had heard Inevera’s vow to finish first, and any power she had gained among the other girls with her defeat of Melan would vanish if her threat proved hollow. More, Melan would gain the near-limitless privilege of dama’ting, and her opportunities to have Inevera killed would increase manifold. There were others among the Brides of Everam who would surely support her.
The girls were finally dismissed, and padded down the cold stone passage to the long tunnel filled with small carving chambers. There were no wardlights in the tunnel, but Melan and the other girls lifted their unfinished dice, casting a red glow to see by. Only wardlight was permitted in the carving chambers, but even that was not given freely. It had to be earned by the girls’ own hands. Without light, they would not be able to see their tools, their hands, or even the dice themselves.
The circlets of wardsight they left behind, forbidden in the carving cells. Inevera had heard it whispered in the Vault that a girl once tried to sneak her circlet into the cells that she might carve in Everam’s light. Her eyes had been cut out before she was cast from the Dama’ting Palace.
Inevera walked unhurriedly as the other girls slipped into carving chambers. Qeva shut the doors behind them, leaving only the faint glow of wardlight leaking from under the door frames. One by one, the lights winked out until it was only by this faint glow that Inevera came to her own chamber. Qeva shut the door behind her, and she slipped off her robe, using it to stuff the bottom of the door, leaving her in perfect darkness.
Inevera, too, could call light from her dice, but chose not to in the Chamber of Shadows. The Evejah’ting warned that even wardlight could weaken the dice, leaching their power unnecessarily. The Damajah had carved in utter darkness, and Inevera saw no reason to do differently. Everam will guide your hands, if you are worthy, the holy book said.
Kneeling in the darkness, she said a prayer to her namesake as she took out her dice and warding tools, laying them out in a neat, evenly spaced row. She had finished the four-sided die, and the six, now working on the eight. Her work was slow and meticulous—shaping, smoothing, etching, all in rhythm with her breath.
Time passed. She did not know how long. Her trance was broken by a ringing sound that echoed through the silence of the chamber.
Melan had completed her dice.
Inevera quickly gathered her hora back into their pouch and put away her tools. There would be no more work tonight. She drew deep breaths and emerged from her chamber.
The other girls had already gathered, Melan in their center, her face elated in the wardlight. She held up her dice and basked in the sounds of adoration and envy. When she caught sight of Inevera, her smile was one of cold triumph.
Inevera smiled in return, bowing politely.
They gathered in the lesson room, Melan kneeling with the nie’dama’ting surrounding her in a semicircle. Before long, dama’ting began to file into the room as well, nearly every Bride in the tribe forming an outer ring. Kenevah was the last to arrive, moving to the center and kneeling to face her granddaughter. Her face was unreadable as she produced an ancient, faded deck of cards. The sound of her shuffling echoed in the silent chamber.
The Damaji’ting laid three cards facedown on the floor between them. She produced a knife and handed it to Melan, who cut her own hand and let the blood coat her dice. As she did, the wards began to softly glow.
Kenevah pointed to the first card. Melan shook the dice until they glowed fiercely, then threw them to the floor, scattering them in the precise method the girls had been taught. Inevera strained to see the markings, but the angle was wrong for any but Melan and Kenevah to read the pattern.
“Seven of Spears,” Melan said after a moment.
Kenevah pointed to the next card, and again Melan threw. “Damaji of Skulls.”
Again. “Three of Shields.”
Kenevah nodded, her face still unreadable. “One of the Brides announced to me this day that she carries a daughter. Which?”
Melan threw again. This time she took longer, studying the dice carefully. She glanced at the assembled dama’ting, and sweat trickled from her brow.
“Dama’ting Elan,” she said at last, naming one of the younger Brides who had yet to produce an heir.
Kenevah said nothing, turning over the first card. The nie’dama’ting gasped as the Seven of Spears revealed itself. Inevera felt her heart clench.
The next card was turned. The Damaji of Skulls. Inevera’s heart moved into her throat.
Kenevah turned the third card, and there was a gasp from all. It was the Damaji’ting of Water.
Suddenly Kenevah lashed out, smacking Melan hard on the face. “No Bride is pregnant, you idiot girl!”
She snatched the dice from Melan’s hand, holding them up and studying them in the wardlight. “Sloppy! Wasteful! Good enough for light, but naught else. Your dice of wood, carved when you were barely in your bido, were better! Where is your eighth?”
Melan’s face was a mask of shock and horror, her center lost. Numbly, she reached into her hora pouch, producing her eighth bone and handing it to the Damaji’ting.
Even from her vantage, Inevera could see it was a twisted ruin.
Kenevah held the dice under Melan’s nose. “Each of these is a year of your life. They will be shown the sun, and you will return to ivory. When you have made three perfect sets, you may return to the Chamber of Shadows, and carve one hora each year until you have completed a new set. Each die will be examined before you are given another, and Everam help you if there should be the slightest flaw.”
Melan’s eyes widened, and the shocked look left her face as her shame and fate dawned on her fully. Inevera breathed deeply, finding her center and suppressing the smile that threatened to pull at her lips.
Kenevah thrust the dice back into Melan’s hands and pointed to the exit. Melan was weeping openly now, but she rose and stumbled out. Asavi gave a wail and tried to go to her, but Qeva caught the girl’s arm and threw her roughly back.
Outside the chamber, the younger nie’dama’ting were waiting. They gasped as one to see Melan weeping, and all fell in line as Kenevah and every other Bride and Betrothed followed the procession.
They walked to the highest tower in the Dama’ting Palace. When Melan failed to climb fast enough, Kenevah shoved her with surprising strength. More than once the girl stumbled, and Kenevah kicked her until she rose and continued on up the spiraling stairs, coming at last to a high balcony that gave a view of all the Desert Spear.
“Hold out your hand,” Kenevah ordered, and Melan did so as the others all crowded behind her, some on the balcony and others in the topmost chamber of the tower. The girl’s fingers were clenched tightly around her precious dice, the result of half a lifetime’s work.
“Open your hand,” Kenevah said. It was late in the day, the sun low in the sky, but still it flooded the balcony with Everam’s bright light. Weeping, Melan did as she was bade, uncurling her fingers and letting the sunlight strike the dice.
The result was immediate. The bones sparked and caught fire, burning with white-hot intensity. Melan screamed.
In an instant, it was over, Melan’s hand smoking, the flesh blackened where it wasn’t melted away. Her three largest fingers were fused together, and Inevera could see bits of scorched bone amid the ruin.
Kenevah turned to Qeva. “Treat and bind her hand, but use no magic. She must always bear the mark of her failure, as a reminder to herself …” She turned, and her gaze took in the other Betrothed. “… and to others.” All the nie’dama’ting save Inevera gasped and stepped back at the words.
With Melan broken, Inevera put the politics of the nie’dama’ting from her mind, finding her center and focusing on her studies. She continued to thrive in her training, mastering herbs and hora magic, teaching classes in sharusahk and pillow dancing, as well as indoctrinating the younger girls, whose training normally began at five.
On the following solstice, she glimpsed Soli again, and threw him a return wink that crinkled his eyes in pleasure. She floated for six months on the memory.
After a year, Melan completed her three sets of ivory and returned to the Chamber of Shadows. Qeva’s ministrations had been skilled, but her daughter’s hand was still a twisted ruin with little of its former dexterity. She grew her nails long and sharp on that hand, giving it the look of an alagai’s clawed appendage. The sight struck terror in the other nie’dama’ting—both of Melan and of the risk taken by all who aspired to the white veil.
But while the other girls were intimidated by Melan and her claw, she was nothing to Inevera—a pile of camel dung she had already stepped around. Blocking out all distraction, she continued her slow, methodical work on her dice. The fact that she worked in utter darkness was now common knowledge, whispered at mealtimes and in hallways as she passed. Rumor was that none of the dama’ting, not even Kenevah, had done the same. Many seemed to think this was a sign that Inevera was indeed the chosen of Everam, meant to take the place of the aging Damaji’ting.
But the talk was just wind, and Inevera ignored it, keeping her center. Working in the dark meant nothing if she grew overconfident as Melan had.
“I have ruined him for his wives,” Dama’ting Elan told Inevera one evening while Inevera served her tea. Just that morning, Elan had whisked away a handsome kai’Sharum to bless her with a daughter.
Each dama’ting was expected to produce at least one daughter to succeed her. The fathers were selected carefully, chosen for their intelligence and power, the choices and timing sanctified by the dice. When a dama’ting selected a man, a palanquin was sent for him, taking him to a private pleasure house the Brides kept outside the sacred palace—where no man could set foot with his stones intact.
No man was fool enough to refuse a summons from the dama’ting, and with their skills at herbs and pillow dancing, compliance with their wishes was assured, even if the man were push’ting. The men stumbled away drained and dazed, having no idea they had just fathered a daughter they would never meet.
Few of the Brides were above gloating about it. “His jiwah will never satisfy him again,” Elan sneered. “He will dream of me for the rest of his days, praying to Everam that I will dance for him once more.”
She winked. “And I may. His spear was hard and true.”
Many of the dama’ting had warmed to Inevera in this way, taking the girl into their confidences and making efforts to befriend her. Since Melan’s failure, it was widely accepted by the Brides that Inevera was to be Kenevah’s heir. Some, like Elan, tried to impress her. Others tried to dominate, or offer gifts with strings attached.
Inevera kept her eyes down, her ears open, and her words noncommittal. While she had put the politics of the Betrothed behind her, the politics of the Brides were a weave she was still learning—one that made tying the bido seem like braiding one’s hair.
“Even among the dama’ting,” she told Elan, “your pillow dancing is regarded.”
Regarded poorly, she added silently, but she had her center, and the dama’ting saw no sign of her true feeling.
“He will never again see the like,” Elan agreed.
Inevera turned away, only to see Asavi coldly glaring at her from across the room. Older than Melan by two years, Asavi had recently taken the veil, and Inevera stepped lightly when she was about, giving her no excuse to take offense. With the Vault doors between them, Asavi and Melan could no longer hold each other in the night, but Melan was summoned frequently to Asavi’s new quarters during the daylight hours, and Inevera did not doubt their pillow friendship continued.
One dawn in her fifth year as Betrothed, Inevera was in the dama’ting pavilion when a familiar shout heralded a group of Sharum rushing in their wounded. It was the morning after Waning, and casualties had increased in recent years.
“Let me through, push’ting scum! That’s my son!”
Inevera felt her blood run cold. Even after half a decade, she knew her father’s voice.
Lifting her robes, she ran without a shred of dama’ting composure to the surgery, where a familiar crowd of sleeveless Sharum stood in their black steel breastplates. Cashiv’s face was wet with tears as he faced Kasaad, each of them with warriors at his back. Kasaad’s eyes were bloodshot, and he stood unsteadily, likely still feeling the effects of the couzi he drank for courage in the Maze.
Several warriors were being treated, but Inevera only had eyes for one, running to Soli’s side with a shout. Her brother’s handsome face was covered in sweat and dust, his eyes glazed, and his skin pale. His good right arm was slashed at the bicep by an alagai talon, nearly severed. A tourniquet had been tied just below his shoulder, and though the sheet below him was soaked with blood, Inevera imagined much more lay on the Maze floor, and the path from there to the pavilion.
She was Betrothed to Everam now, with neither family nor name, but Inevera didn’t care, taking her brother’s head in her hands and gently turning him to meet her eyes.
“Soli,” she whispered, brushing the sweat-soaked hair from his face. “I’m here. I will care for you and make you well. I swear it.”
A dim recognition came to his eyes. Soli tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough that flecked his lips with blood. His voice was a wet wheeze. “It is my duty to care for you, little sister, not the other way ’round.”
“No more, brother,” Inevera whispered, feeling tears begin to well.
“We will not be able to save the arm,” Qeva said at her back. “Not with herb or hora. It will have to be amputated.” If she was bothered by Inevera’s lack of composure, she gave no sign.
“No!” shouted Kasaad. “Bad enough Everam has cursed me with a push’ting for a son, but I will not have him a cripple as well! Send him down the lonely path now, and pray Everam forgives him for wasting his seed!”
Cashiv gave a shout of anguish, leaping on Kasaad and easily wrestling him to the floor, pressing his head down savagely. Kasaad’s friends moved to intercede, but Cashiv’s warriors blocked their path. “Soli never meant anything to you!” Cashiv cried. “He is everything to me!”
“You have twisted him with your push’ting ways!” Kasaad growled. “A true Sharum would not suffer life as a cripple!”
Qeva tsked and shook her head. “As if their opinions matter a whit.” She clapped her hands, a loud crack that sounded like thunder. “Enough! Out, all of you! Any unwounded Sharum still in this pavilion by the count of ten will be khaffit before the sun sets!”
That got everyone’s attention. The excess warriors scrambled outside, and Cashiv released Kasaad immediately, getting to his feet and bowing deeply. “I apologize for bringing violence to this place of healing, Dama’ting.” He cast a pained look at Soli and fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. “I beg you, honored Bride, please do not hold my actions against Soli. Even one-armed, he is worth a hundred other men.”
“We will save him,” Inevera said, though it was not her place. “I will not let my brother die.”
“Broth …” Kasaad looked up. “Everam’s beard, Inevera?!”
Recognition lit his face, and he moved with surprising speed, grabbing his spear off the floor and kicking his daughter aside. Caught off guard, Inevera hit the floor hard, looking up just in time to see Kasaad bury the point in Soli’s chest. “Better dead than a push’ting cripple spared by his sister’s soft heart!”
Cashiv had him in an instant, standing behind Kasaad with one iron arm around his throat and a long curved knife at his belly. Inevera rushed to Soli, but her father’s thrust had been true, and her brother was dead.
“You do not deserve to die by alagai talon or spear,” Cashiv growled in Kasaad’s ear. “I will gut you like a khaffit guts a pig, and watch as the life bleeds out of you. You deserve a thousand deaths, and in Nie’s abyss you will have them.”
Kasaad laughed. “I have done Everam’s will, and will drink from his rivers of wine in Heaven. The Evejah tells us, Suffer not the push’ting nor the cripple!”
Qeva approached. “It also says, Drink not of fermented grain … and It is death to strike one of Everam’s Betrothed.”
It was true. The punishment for striking a nie’dama’ting was the same as for a dama’ting—the striker was made khaffit, then executed. Only the offended woman could spare him.
Qeva took her own curved knife and began cutting the blacks from Kasaad. He screamed and thrashed, but she struck swift, precise blows to shatter his lines of power, and his limbs fell weak.
“You are khaffit now, Kasaad of no name worth mentioning. You will forever sit outside Heaven’s gates, and should Everam in His wisdom one day take pity on your soul and send it back to Ala, pray you are less stupid in the next life.” She turned to Inevera, handing her the knife. Cashiv pulled hard, arching Kasaad’s back and presenting her an easy target.
Kasaad wailed and begged, but there was no sympathy in the eyes around him. Finally he calmed and looked at Inevera. “If you will waste a true warrior for the sake of a one-armed push’ting, then so be it. Make it quick, daughter.”
Inevera met his eyes, rage boiling in her veins. The silver knife handle was hard and warm in her hand, moist with her sweat.
“No, I will not kill my own father,” she said at last. “And you do not deserve for it to be quick.”
She looked at Qeva. “The Evejah says I may spare him, if I wish.”
“No!” Cashiv shouted. “Nie take you, girl, you will give your brother justice! If your flesh is too pure to sully, only say the word and I will be your striking hand.”
“You understand what sparing him means?” Qeva asked Inevera, ignoring Cashiv completely. “Everam must be paid in blood for the offense given him.”
“He will be paid,” Inevera said.
Qeva nodded and took a tourniquet, wrapping it firmly around the leg Kasaad had kicked Inevera with. She looked to Cashiv. “Hold him tightly.” The warrior nodded, tightening his iron grip.
Inevera didn’t hesitate, taking the sharp knife to her father’s knee like a butcher working a joint. Hot blood poured over her as his lower leg was severed with a pop right where the bones met. Kasaad’s screams carried all through the pavilion, but it was a place used to such sounds, and it seemed not amiss.
Inevera grabbed her father by the beard, cutting off his screams as she yanked his agonized face to look at her. “You will go to Manvah and serve her. Serve her like she is the Damaji’ting. Do this for the remainder of your days, and I may take pity and let you die in black.
“But if you ever strike my mother again, or fail to obey her slightest whim, I will hear of it and take the other leg, and your arms as well. You will live a long life with no limbs to get you into trouble, and when you die as khaffit, you will be left for dogs to gnaw upon and shit onto the streets.”
Cashiv dropped Kasaad to the floor, bringing a fresh scream of anguish. He pointed a finger in Inevera’s face. “A limb? The limb of a worthless, drunken fool? That is how you value Soli?”
Inevera moved quickly, grabbing his finger and breaking it as easily as she broke the line of energy in his leg with a single raised knuckle. The limb collapsed and she caught him in a throw that put him heavily on his back. “You presume to judge my love of my brother? You think my ties of blood weaker than yours of semen?”
Cashiv looked at her, his eyes cold. “My soul is ready for the lonely path, Inevera vah Kasaad. I have killed many alagai, fathered a son, and I have not struck you. It is your right to kill me if you wish it, but you cannot deny me Heaven as you did your father. I will sit in Everam’s great hall by Soli’s side, and comfort him under the camel’s piss his sister pours on his memory with every breath that pig-eater takes.”
He sneered. “Strike. Do it!” A madness came into his eyes, and Inevera realized he wanted her to. He was begging for it.
Inevera shook her head. “Begone from here. I will not kill you for loving my brother, even if it has made you a fool.”
After she returned to the palace, Inevera went quickly to the Vault. Few girls were there at that hour, and those hurrying to get ready for classes. Inevera was due to teach one herself before entering the Chamber of Shadows later that afternoon.
She saw nie’dama’ting Shaselle weaving her bido after a bath and snapped her fingers, getting the girl’s attention. Though older, Shaselle jumped at the sound. “I have matters to attend,” Inevera said. “Take over teaching basic herbs to the second-years.”
“Of course, nie’Damaji’ting.” Shaselle bowed and scurried away to attend the matter.
Nie’Damaji’ting. Kenevah’s heir apparent. It was no formal title—likely any girl caught using it would be punished severely.
Inevera had never ordered another girl to teach for her, nor did she have any right to, but at the moment she didn’t care. All that mattered was she was alone at last. She threw herself onto her tiny cot and cried. She sought to capture the water in tear bottles she might offer to Everam with prayers for her brother’s soul, but her hands shook with her sobs, and the task was impossible. She buried her face in her pillow, letting the rough cloth soak up the tears.
Soli was gone. She would never again see his easy smile or handsome face, never again be comforted by his words, or feel the safety of his presence. In an instant, all those futures had vanished. She wondered if the dama’ting had seen it in the dice at the end of his Hannu Pash.
And Kasaad? Had she done the world any favors by sparing him, or would he be an even greater drain to the Desert Spear? Was Cashiv right? Had she failed to avenge her brother as he deserved?
Time passed, and the afternoon bell was rung. The Chamber of Shadows beckoned, but still Inevera did not rise. Since her admission, she had never missed a session, but there was no law forcing her attendance. If she wished to take a lifetime to carve her dice, it was within her rights.
At last, the Vault door opened and Qeva entered, standing by the door. “Enough, girl, you’ve had your tears. There isn’t water enough to spare in the Desert Spear for you to gush all day. Find your center. Kenevah has summoned you.”
Inevera drew a deep breath, then another, subtly wiping her eyes on the cuff of her sleeve. When she rose, she had regained her composure, though her insides still felt torn to shreds.
Kenevah was waiting in her office when Inevera arrived. The teakettle was steaming, and at a signal Inevera poured for them both and took a seat across from the Damaji’ting.
“You never told me your brother was one of Baden’s men,” the old woman noted.
Inevera nodded numbly. “I feared you would keep me from him each year if you knew.” The confession was tantamount to admitting lying to the Damaji’ting, but Inevera found she lacked the strength to care.
Kenevah grunted. “Likely I would have. And perhaps he would be alive today if you had.” Inevera looked up at her, and she shrugged. “Or perhaps not. The dice can let us glean much of the future, but on the past they are silent.”
“The past is gone,” Inevera said, quoting the Damajah, “it is pointless to chase it.”
“Then why have you spent the day weeping?” Kenevah asked.
“My pain is a mighty wind, Damaji’ting,” Inevera said. “Even the palm must bow before the wind, straightening only when it passes.”
Kenevah lifted her veil just enough to blow steam from the surface of her tea. “Sharum do not bend.”
Inevera looked up at that. “Eh?”
“They do not bend, they do not weep,” Kenevah said. “These are luxuries Sharum cannot afford in the Maze, when life and death are a hair’s breadth apart. Where we bend before the wind, Sharum embrace their pain and ignore it. To the untrained, the effect seems much the same, but it is not. And as a great wind can break even the most supple tree, there are pains too great for Sharum to hold. When this happens, they hurl themselves into its cause in hopes they might die an honorable death with no submission on their lips.”
“Cashiv wanted such a death,” Inevera said. “He and my brother were lovers.”
Kenevah sipped her tea. “Other Sharum lock their loved ones away in the Undercity at night when they go into the Maze. Push’ting stand side by side with them. They fight more wisely because of this, but also feel the loss more keenly when one of them is taken.” She looked at Inevera. “But you denied him this death. And your father, too, though the Evejah demanded it.”
“The Evejah gave me a choice,” Inevera said, “and why should Cashiv be given a release from suffering over Soli’s death when I am not?”
Kenevah nodded. “We have become too free with death in Krasia. A frequent but unwelcome visitor has become like an old friend, greeted with open arms. Three centuries ago there were millions of us, filling this great city and all the lands beyond. We fought among ourselves even then, but a few lives lost over stolen wells was nothing when we were as numerous as grains of sand in the desert. Now we are scarce as raindrops, and every life matters.”
“The alagai—” Inevera began.
Kenevah whisked a hand dismissively. “The alagai may be taking most of the lives, but it is our own foolishness that keeps feeding them.”
“Alagai’sharak,” Inevera said.
“Millennia of tribal feuding are not forgotten at sunset, no matter what the Andrah and Sharum Ka say,” Kenevah said. “They are corrupt, putting the Kaji first in all things and doing what they can to cull their rivals. The Sharum Ka is old and remains in his palace at night, leaving no true leadership in the Maze, but still we funnel our strongest men into that meat grinder night after night, losing warriors faster than they are born. The dama’ting do all we can to keep every fertile womb in Krasia full with child, but there are simply not enough wombs to keep pace with men determined to rush to extinction.”
“But what can be done?” Inevera asked.
Kenevah sighed. “I do not know if there is anything to be done. Our power has its limits. It may be that you will one day inherit my veil, only to preside over the end of our people.”
Inevera shook her head. “I do not accept that. Everam is testing us. He will not let our people fall.”
“He has been letting it happen for three centuries,” Kenevah said. “Everam favors the strong, but also the cunning. Perhaps He has lost patience suffering fools.”
She continued to work with calm precision, but Inevera felt the tension grow as she drew closer and closer to finishing her dice. Another week, two at the most, and she would test for the veil. At fourteen. The youngest in centuries.
Unbidden, her mind flashed to Melan as her dice burned in the sunlight. The sound of her screams. The smell of burning flesh and the putrid smoke that stung her eyes. Even now, after many cuttings and more than one suspected hora healing by Asavi, Melan’s hand was like a sand demon’s paw, misshapen and scarred.
Would that be her fate? Inevera’s instincts told her no, but there were no absolutes, even in Kenevah’s foretellings.
She woke from a nightmare, her heart pounding. It was still dark in the Vault, but Inevera guessed morning was not far off, and knew there would be no further sleep for her. She slipped quietly from her cot and padded to make her ablutions and take fresh bido silk from the pile, wrapping it as quickly as a man might don his robes. She was ready when the wardlights activated, and quickly had the younger girls dressed and ready for sharusahk.
Casualties were low in the pavilion that day, and she was about to head back to the palace when a pair of boys still in their bidos arrived. One was surprisingly fat—she knew the drillmasters all but starved the nie’Sharum—and supported another boy, shorter and skinnier by far, little more than stringy muscle and bone. He could not have been more than ten years old, his arm broken so badly the bone jutted white from his torn flesh and blood streamed down the limp appendage. His face was pale and sweaty, but he did not cry, and walked on his own feet to the table where Qeva was to set the arm. As soon as Qeva nodded, the fat one bowed and vanished.
Inevera had helped treat broken bones many times, and knew the herbs and implements to bring the dama’ting. For the boy she brought a stick wrapped in a thick layer of cloth for him to bite upon. He looked at her with eyes glazed from pain, and her heart went out to him.
She set the stick in his mouth. “Dal’Sharum embrace their pain.”
The boy nodded, though the confusion was clear upon his face. He bit hard as Qeva set the arm, but then, after a moment, his body went limp and his jaw slackened, the stick falling away. Inevera thought he must have passed out—perfectly understandable—but his eyes were open, calmly watching as the dama’ting fit his broken bones together and treated the wound. It was impressive. Inevera had seen full Sharum turn away from the stitching of their flesh. When she was done, Qeva gave him a potion to dull him to sleep and keep him from moving while Inevera prepared the plaster.
“Drillmasters.” Qeva spat the word. “That boy is the last of the Jardir line, his father killed senselessly in a Majah well raid. Bad enough our men are slaughtered in the night, but I tire of patching up boys in sharaj. Many never even reach the Maze, crippled or killed just in the training. It must stop.”
“It will stop,” Inevera said. “I will find a way.”
“You?” Qeva scoffed. “Do you think yourself the Damajah, then?”
Inevera shrugged. “Is it better to wait idly by waiting for her to appear?”
Qeva’s eyes narrowed. “Ware your words, girl. They ring close to blasphemy.”
Inevera bowed. “None was meant, Dama’ting.”
Inevera watched the boy as he slept, long after she might have gone back to the palace. He was good-looking, perhaps enough to catch a dama’ting’s eye, but she did not imagine this one would give up his stones for life as a eunuch. There was power in him. She could sense it. Perhaps that was why she felt the need to speak to him again.
He stirred, opening his brown eyes, and she smiled. “The young warrior awakens.”
“Am I a beast, that I should not?” Inevera asked, though she knew full well what he meant. Dama’ting did not deign to speak to nie’Sharum in the pavilion. They left that duty to the girls.
“To me, I mean,” the boy said. “I am only nie’Sharum.”
Inevera 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 lifted a 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.”
The boy nodded, sipping hungrily, and soon emptied the bowl. He looked up at her. “What is your name?”
Inevera smiled again as she wiped a bit of porridge from his mouth. “Bold, for a boy barely old enough for his bido.”
“I’m sorry,” the boy said.
Inevera laughed. “Boldness is no cause for sorrow. Everam has no love for the timid. My name is Inevera.”
“As Everam wills,” the boy translated, and nodded his head, as if pointing to his chest with his chin. “Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin.”
Inevera bit back a laugh. Did he mean to court her, this boy? She nodded politely, wondering what it was that drew her to him. She wondered if this bold, strong boy would be one of those killed in training, his life wasted before it truly began, or if he would be sacrificed to the Maze and the will of fools, like Soli.
Inevera returned to the palace, going directly to the Chamber of Shadows. There was no more time to delay. She had questions only the dice could answer. She went right to a chamber and laid out her tools, running sensitive fingers over the bones as she took them from her hora pouch. Smoothed by ten thousand handlings and polished with holy oils, their surface was like glass, broken only by the grooves of the symbols.
A ward of prophecy for each, and then one symbol of foretelling for each side and the center of the remaining faces. The four-sided die alone had sixteen symbols. The six had thirty. The eight, thirty-two. And so on. One by one, Inevera traced the symbols in the darkness, testing their perfection as she had countless times before. They grew smaller as the sides increased, but she knew them all as if etched into her soul.
Finally, she lifted the twenty-sided die. The last of the set. Still in her hora pouch lay the eighth bone, untouched since Kenevah had first given it to her. Most girls made mistakes along the way and needed the spare. There was no shame in using it, but to “make it in seven” was a special honor, and it was only with great reluctance that a bone was discarded. That eighth was hers to use if it was kept pure. Magic of her discretion.
The twenty was almost complete, with but three more symbols to carve. In the past, she had done it slowly, running her etching tool gently over the precise spot, barely scratching the surface as she drew a symbol so shallow it could be polished away in moments. Then, after running her fingers over it, she would trace it again, this time slightly deeper. And again. And again. A hundred times if necessary, until the lines were deep and unmistakable.
But not this day. This day she felt Everam’s power in her fingers, and she dug deep with her tool, etching the first symbol in a single smooth motion. It was reckless—foolish, but she could not help herself, turning the die and going right into the next tiny symbol, and after that the third, accomplishing in seconds what had taken weeks with the other sides. Her hands shook as she took her polishing cloth and buffed away the shavings, afraid to run her fingers over the symbols. Had she made a mistake? Had she ruined the die? It would be a year’s work if she did, and no third chance. Not without a burning.
At last she found her center and dared touch the surface, marveling at its perfection. Without a moment’s hesitation, she took her sharpest carving tool and sliced the web of flesh between her thumb and forefinger, letting her blood mingle with the dice, settling into the ward grooves. As she did, she prayed.
“Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your children are dying. We fight among ourselves when we should band together, throw away lives when we should succor them. How can we return to your favor and be saved from passing from this world?”
As she whispered the words, she shook the dice gently in her cupped hands, feeling them warm to her touch as the magic activated. Light peeked through her fingers, making her hands glow red and sending thin beams to dance along the walls of the chamber.
It was forbidden to test the dice alone. The law was clear that she ring the chime for a testing before trusting in her dice, but Inevera did not care. She felt the power building in her hands, and could wait no longer.
She threw.
The dice scattered on the floor, flaring with magic. Inevera watched as they turned unnaturally, the pattern dictated by the wards rather than laws of physics and geometry. Then they lay still, some symbols throbbing dully, others glowing brightly, and still more dark. Reading them was an art as much as a science, but to Inevera, their meaning was as clear as words on parchment.
—A boy will weep in the Maze on the 1,077th dawn. Make him a man to start the path to Shar’Dama Ka.—
Inevera felt her face flush, and breathed deeply to find her center. She was to find the Shar’Dama Ka reborn? Did this mean she truly was the Damajah, as Qeva had scoffed? She would never know, for the dice could read the fortunes of others, but never the thrower.
“Make him a man,” she whispered. The symbols here were vague. Did they represent the traditional veiling ceremony all Sharum went through? Sexual deflowering? Education and training? Marriage? The dice did not say.
She shook again. “Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, what must I do to make this boy a man?”
Again the symbols spoke to her, though their answer was no clearer, and only filled her with new dread.
—Sharak Ka is near. The Deliverer must have every advantage.—
Sharak Ka. The First War. Without the Deliverer, the well of humanity would dry out for good, the last of Everam’s light extinguished from the Ala.
The Deliverer must have every advantage.
Quickly she gathered the bones, holding them aloft. Using her fingers to manipulate the symbols, she cast bright light over a chamber she had spent countless hours in, yet never truly seen. The light reflected off a tiny nook cut into the rock wall where the silver chimes lay.
Gone were her days of living in darkness. From now on, the dice would light her way.
The test for the veil came and went in moments. Inevera had no doubts, and answered instantly, even though Kenevah asked far more questions of her than she had of Melan, or indeed any of the girls who had taken the veil since.
The Damaji’ting threaded her questions with tricks and half-truths, trying again and again to confound Inevera. Around the chamber Bride and Betrothed alike began to murmur at this, wondering if Inevera had made an error early on that Kenevah was testing against. The dice were subjective, and errors did occur. One might be permitted, but never two.
But though she sensed the speculation, to Inevera it was only wind. She felt Everam’s wisdom flowing through the dice, and spoke with the assurance of His voice. There were no wrong answers, and both she and Kenevah knew it. At last the aged woman nodded. “Welcome, sister.”
The true dama’ting held their composure, though their quiet chatter halted instantly. There was a cheer from some of the nie’dama’ting, but not all. Inevera’s eyes passed over them, meeting Melan’s, staring back hard.
The girl gave an almost imperceptible nod of respect, but her eyes were hard. It was difficult to tell if she was humbled or vengeful. Inevera supposed it did not matter.
Right there in the Chamber of Shadows, with all watching, Inevera was stripped from her robes and bido wrap, making her oaths to Everam.
“I, Inevera vah Kasaad am’Damaj am’Kaji, Betrothed of Everam, take Him as my first husband, His wishes above all others, His love my greatest desire, His will my greatest command, for He is the Creator of all things great and true, and all other men are but pale shadows of His perfection. I do this for now and all eternity, for on my death I will join my sister-wives in the Celestial Harem, and there know His sacred touch.”
“I hear this oath, and hold you to it,” Kenevah said, lifting her dice in the air and causing them to flare with magic.
“I hear,” Qeva said, lifting her own brightly glowing dice.
“I hear,” the other dama’ting echoed one by one, each lifting her dice in turn.
Inevera was led to a marble table and made to kneel, putting her hands down flat in front of her and pressing her forehead down. Worn depressions in the stone marked where countless knees, hands, and foreheads had been placed before her.
Kenevah produced a large piece of marble that looked as if it had once been shaped like a man’s organ, but centuries of use had worn the bulbous head down to little different from the shaft.
Qeva took a chalice of blessed water, pouring it over the phallus, whispering prayers as she did. Then she produced a vial of sacred kanis oil, dribbling it over the marble and stroking it in a circular pumping motion as if pleasuring a man. All seven sacred strokes were used, spreading the oil evenly over every inch.
Kenevah took the shaft from her, moving behind Inevera, who clenched her thighs in spite of herself, knowing it was the worst thing she could do.
“Fear and pain …” Kenevah said.
“… are only wind,” Inevera finished. She followed her breath, finding her center, and let her thighs relax, opening herself.
“With this, I consummate your union to Everam,” Kenevah said, and did not hesitate as she thrust the phallus into Inevera, making her gasp. Kenevah pumped repeatedly, twisting it as she did. Pain blew over Inevera, but she bent as the palm, reveling instead in the elation of her wedding to Everam. He was her true husband, and spoke to her through the hora. Finally, she understood what it meant to be one of Everam’s Brides. She would never be alone again. Always, He would guide her.
At last Kenevah withdrew. “It is over, Bride of Everam.”
Inevera nodded, getting slowly to her feet, cognizant of the pain and the blood running down her thighs. Her legs buckled as she stood, but she kept her feet as she turned to Kenevah, who produced a cloth of smooth white silk, tying it around Inevera’s face.
She bowed. “Thank you, Damaji’ting.” Kenevah bowed in return, and Inevera turned and strode, nude save for the hora pouch about her waist, past the other women and out of the chamber. Her back was straight. Her bearing proud.
* * *
She was given her own chambers in both the palace and the underpalace. They were huge, opulent things full of expensive carpets, silk bedclothes, and thick, velvet curtains; with services of silver, gold, and delicate porcelain. Lit by wardlights she could brighten or dim, there was a private marble bath, surrounded by heat wards that could warm or chill the water or her rooms as needed. A Damaji’s ransom in magic for her simple comfort, all controlled by one of the stone pedestals she had learned to manipulate while still in the bido.
As soon as she was alone, Inevera went to the closet where a dozen sets of pure white silk robes hung. She selected two. The first she laid out on the wide, four-poster bed. The second she took her knife to.
The eunuchs had already warmed the bath. She slipped into the deliciously hot water and scrubbed herself carefully. She felt the barest stubble on her bald head and smiled. She would never need to shave it again, but continued her daily shaving of her legs and nethers.
Smooth, she took brush and ink, painting wards around her womanhood. The blood had ceased to flow, its crust washed away, but Inevera could still feel the ache of her consummation with Everam.
She shut the thick curtains, calling wardlight from the room’s walls, and knelt on the floor, breathing to find her center as she prayed. Then she reached into her hora pouch and drew forth her eighth bone. It was rough, like a chunk of obsidian hacked free of the ala with a pick.
It was a priceless gift—magic of her own discretion. The ichorous slurry that ran through the palace walls like blood was limited in its uses, but there were countless spells this bone could power. It would be a year before she could have another to use for anything outside the healing pavilion. No doubt there was already speculation about what Inevera would do with the bone, perhaps warding it as a weapon or defensive shield, as many dama’ting kept about their person.
But Inevera did not hesitate, touching it to the wards she had painted on her skin, feeling them warm and activate, flaring with power in the dim wardlight. She felt her thighs clench, and she shivered in something that was not quite pleasure, not quite pain.
Healing was the strongest of magics, the most draining. The eighth bone crumbled away to dust in her hand, and she reached between her legs, probing. It had done its work.
Her hymen was restored.
If there is even a chance I am to marry the Deliverer, I should come to him a proper bride, unknown to man.
She reached for the silk robe she had cut into one long, continuous strip, and fell into the familiar weave, retying her bido.
The familiar kiosk was gone, replaced with one much larger and finer.
“Baskets!” a call came, and Inevera’s head snapped up in surprise, seeing her father, dressed in khaffit tan and leaning on a cane as he walked on a peg leg. “The finest baskets in all of Krasia!”
Inevera waited until a customer entered the kiosk, drawing Kasaad’s attention, then slipped around behind him, gliding behind the counter and through the curtain in back.
Her mother was there, unchanged by time as she held a hoop between her feet, weaving. She was surrounded by a dozen other weavers, some young with bare faces, and others of middle years or venerable. There was a hiss as Inevera passed through the curtain, and all of them looked up sharply. Only Manvah returned to her work.
“Leave us,” Inevera said quietly, and the weavers dropped their hoops and scrambled to their feet, hurrying past. Even veiled, Inevera thought she recognized a few of them.
“You’ve cost me an afternoon’s work, at least,” Manvah said. “Likely more, since those crows will caw about nothing else for days.”
Inevera loosened her veil, letting it fall from her face. “Mother, it’s me. Inevera.”
Manvah looked up, but there was no surprise or recognition in her eyes. “I was given to understand dama’ting had no family.”
“They would not be pleased to know I’m here,” Inevera admitted. “But I am still your daughter.”
Manvah snorted, going back to her work. “My daughter would not stand around with so much weaving to be done.” She glanced up. “Unless you’ve forgotten how?”
Inevera gave a snort so like her mother’s, it gave her a moment’s pause. Then she smiled, replacing her veil and slipping off her sandals. She sat on a clean blanket and took a half-finished hoop between her feet, tsking. “You’ve prospered to have Krisha and her sisters weaving for you,” she removed several strands before reaching for the pile of fresh fronds, “but their work is still sloppy.”
Manvah grunted. “Much has changed since your father became khaffit, but not that much.”
“Do you know the truth of how it happened?” Inevera asked.
Manvah nodded. “He confessed to all. At first I wanted to kill him myself, but Kasaad hasn’t touched a couzi bottle or dicing cup since, and turned out to be a better haggler than a warrior. I’ve even managed to purchase sister-wives.” She sighed. “Ironic we should all be more proud married to a khaffit than a Sharum, but your father chose well when he named you. Everam wills as Everam will.”
As they wove, Inevera related the events of her last few years. She held nothing back, up to and including her first throw of the dice, and what they said—something she had told no one else.
Manvah looked at her curiously. “These demon dice you say speak for Everam. Did you consult them about coming here today?”
“Yes,” she said. “But it was always my intent to see you again once I took the veil.”
“What if the dice had told you not to?” Manvah asked.
Inevera looked at her, and for a moment considered lying.
“Then I would not have come,” she said at last.
Manvah nodded. “What did they tell you? About today?”
“That you will always speak true to me,” Inevera said, “even when I do not wish to hear.”
The flesh around Manvah’s eyes crinkled, and Inevera knew she was smiling. “A mother’s duty.”
“What should I do?” Inevera pressed. “What did the dice mean?”
Manvah shrugged. “That you should go to the Maze on the one thousand and seventy-seventh dawn.”
Inevera was astonished. “That’s it? That’s your advice? I may meet the Deliverer in three years, and you want me to just … not think on it?”
“Fret over it if you prefer,” Manvah said. “But the years will pass no faster.” She looked pointedly at Inevera. “I’m certain you can find a way to be productive in the meantime. If not, I have plenty of weaving to be done.”
Inevera finished her basket. “You’re right, of course.” She stood to add it to the pile, noting as she did that even the cloth she sat upon had left dust on the posterior of her pristine robes. “But I accept your invitation to come weave with you again,” she brushed at herself, sending dust flying, “provided you can arrange a cleaner place to sit.”
“I’ll purchase white silk for your precious dama’ting bottom,” Manvah said, “but you’ll weave till the cost is off the ledger.”
Inevera smiled. “At three draki a basket, that could take years.”
Manvah’s eyes crinkled. “A lifetime, if I buy fresh silk each visit. A dama’ting should have no less.”