“The Deliverer…” Jesan began.
“Chose loyalty to a khaffit over loyalty to me,” Hasik said. “And soon after was cast down by the Par’chin. His heir was an idiot who treated me as a dog. Chin threw him down, as well.”
“Prince Asome is Shar’Dama Ka now,” Jesan said. “He slaughtered the Damaji and killed Ashan for the Skull Throne.”
“To the abyss with them, and Asome, besides. All of them turned their backs to me.” Hasik bent in close. “Even you, ajin’pal.”
Jesan did not flinch. “Your answer is no, then?”
Hasik relaxed, leaning back with a grin. “I never said that. I tire of sleeping in tents. I think a walled fortress would suit the Eunuchs much better.”
He looked to Orman. “Send scouts to the monastery. See how much of this tale you can verify.”
Orman punched a fist to his chest, getting immediately to his feet. “Immediately, Eunuch Ka.”
“Your deserter army will not follow you as you spit upon the Skull Throne,” Jesan said.
“My men are loyal, as you will soon see.” Hasik’s grin widened as he drew the sharp, curved blade from his belt. “Be honored, nightfather. As you brought me into the ranks of Sharum, I welcome you into the ranks of the Eunuchs. You will be given a place of honor. I have need of more kai.”
Jesan’s calm finally shattered. He screamed and fought, but in the end it made no difference as the men held him down and yanked off his pantaloons.
—
It would be days before Orman’s scouts returned, but Hasik ordered them to break camp immediately. Everything save the tents was packed by dawn, slaves pulling up the stakes even as Hasik raised his hammer.
The target was Abban’s smallest toe. Each night, Hasik healed it with alagai ichor, and each morning he broke it again. The appendage was a gnarled, misshapen thing now, more grotesque each day.
And try as Abban might, there was no getting used to the pain.
“Bottom feeders!” he shouted.
Hasik paused. “What?”
“The chin lake is so wide and deep, it is filled with armored fish,” Abban said. “Bottom feeders.”
“What of it?” Hasik said.
“Meats forbidden by the Evejah,” Abban teased. “But I have tasted them, Eunuch Ka. Spiced and dipped in fat and lemon, they tear like flesh but melt in the mouth. Even bacon pales in comparison.”
Hasik crossed his arms. “Bold words, khaffit. And an easy lie to test.”
“And if it proves no lie?” Abban asked.
“Then I will break one of Dawn’s bones, instead of your own, to buy back the one I break today.”
It was a horrifying thought, but after a moment Abban decided it was progress he could live with. “I will prepare the feast myself, when you take the monastery. You will see.”
“Perhaps,” Hasik raised the hammer and quickly brought it down, too fast for Abban to prepare himself.
He screamed.
—
Soon after, the caravan was on the move, crawling at a snail’s pace down the Old Hill Road toward the Monastery of Dawn. It would be a week or more before they arrived, but riding hard, the five hundred men in Hasik’s cavalry could cover the distance in less than a day.
“You ride with us.” Hasik held out the reins to a strong Krasian charger.
Abban looked dubiously at the animal. “I am not one for horses, Hasik. Now, if you have a camel…”
“I once shared your dislike of horses,” Hasik said. “They were a liability in the Maze, and it wasn’t until we invaded the green lands that I knew the pain of a day in the saddle.” He smiled. “But you will find it easier to ride without balls.”
“No doubt,” Abban said. “But surely I would only slow you. Would it not make more sense for me to remain with the caravan, to rejoin you after the walls are secured?”
“Your crippled legs will not slow you atop a charger,” Hasik said. “I am not such a fool as to let you out of my sight, khaffit. If I am brought down in battle, you will walk the lonely path at my side.”
“Everam grant me such fortune.” Abban clambered painfully atop the beast, where he strapped himself into the saddle. As Hasik promised, the riding was easier on his crotch than he remembered.
“Small blessings,” he breathed as they moved south, the light-footed chargers quickly leaving the caravan behind. Late in the day they caught up to one of Orman’s returning scouts.
“It is everything the kai told you, and more,” the Bajin said, nodding at Jesan. Hasik kept his former ajin’pal close—as he did Abban—as if daring the man to attempt vengeance.
“The monastery is under renewed assault, even now,” the Bajin said. “The chin have laid siege to the main gate, even as their ships crowd the harbor. If they do not take the city today, it will surely fall tomorrow.”
“Nie’s black heart,” Hasik growled. “Signal the men. We ride hard.”
Abban was thankful for his lack of balls by the time Hasik called a halt. The horses were lathered in sweat, but they had a high vantage, giving clear view of the monastery in the distance.
With the sun setting, battle had ended, the chin retreating to their tents and ward circles.
They could afford to wait. Thousands of men choked the narrow road that climbed the great bluff, the only means by which a land force could make the gate. At the base of the hill they made camp, one prepared to remain as long as necessary.
“They know the defenders are weak,” Orman said.
“And that help from Everam’s Reservoir is not forthcoming,” Hasik agreed. “Their rear defenses are pitiful.”
Jesan nodded. “We can take them at dawn.”
“Dawn?” Hasik asked.
“The sun is setting,” Jesan said. “We cannot attack men in the night.”
“I have no master,” Hasik said. “None to tell me what I cannot do. It is no less than the fish men did to us at Waning.”
“We need not fall into all the infidel ways of the chin,” Jesan said.
“There are no infidel ways anymore. We are free.” Hasik turned to Orman. “Give the men an hour to rest their mounts, then we move in.”
—
In the dark of night, with the chin all in their tents or huddled around fires for warmth, unarmed and unarmored, five hundred of Hasik’s best men struck.
The enemy camp was destroyed in the slaughter that followed, but Hasik was wiser than Prince Jayan had been, keeping the fires and carnage away from the enemy stores.
They cut a swath through the fish men, never slowing as they broke through their lines and ascended the hill. The chin had built progressive fortifications, but all were aimed at an assault from the monastery walls, not one from behind. Soon the Eunuchs controlled the road fully, guarding Hasik’s back as he, Jesan, Orman, and Abban rode up to the gate.
Hasik drew a breath, but it was unnecessary. With a great clatter of chain and counterweight, the portcullis was raised to admit Hasik’s forces.
Dama Khevat and Kai Icha were waiting in the courtyard. Both were bloodied, the dama’s white robes stained red. If the old cleric had been drawn into the fighting, things were dire, indeed.
Khevat gave the shallow, superior bow of a dama to a Sharum. “Everam sent you in our darkest hour, son of Reklan…”
Hasik ignored him, turning to Orman and pointing. “Put a hundred fresh men on the walls. Another fifty to secure the courtyard.”
“I need men in the basements, as well,” Icha said. “There are chin gathered in the caverns below, forcing at the door…”
“Another fifty to the basement,” Hasik told Orman, not sparing him a glance. “Ready the rest to ride out again now that we control the gate.”
Icha clenched a fist. “We will crush them at dawn.”
Hasik deigned to look at him. “No, boy, we will crush them now, while they are scattered and bloody. Now, before they can flee with their supply, or dig in and hinder our rear guard.”
“It is
night…” Khevat began.
Abban rolled his eyes. “Dama, please. You’ve already lost this argument once.”
Khevat’s eyes flicked to Abban, quivering with rage. “Why is this piece of offal still alive? I would have expected you to kill him long ago.”
“You have always been low in your expectations,” Hasik said.
“He cut off your cock,” Khevat growled.
“And I ate his,” Hasik agreed. “And then I cut the cocks from all my men, that none might think himself my better.”
Khevat paled. “That is an abomination…”
Hasik smiled, drawing his curved knife. “Pray to Everam you get used to it, Dama.”
CHAPTER 9
THE MAJAH
334 AR
“The blood, Damajah.”
Inevera took the uncorked vial Ashia offered, decanting a few precious drops onto the dice in her palm. She closed her fingers, rolling the smooth, polished bones with practiced skill to coat them evenly.
Kept sealed and cold, away from sunlight, the thick fluid still held a touch of magic, a fragrance of the owner’s soul. Enough to focus her dice and perhaps pry a few secrets from Everam, helping put order to the swirling chaos of futures before her.
It was a ritual Inevera performed daily, in the full dark before sunrise. Some futures were unknowable, too many convergences and divergences for her to glean a sense of likelihood. Others cut off abruptly, signifying her own death.
“May I ask a question, Damajah?” Ashia asked.
Inevera’s eyes flicked to the girl in annoyance. Ashia had changed in the weeks since Prince Asome’s coup—the Night of Hora. Having her own brother try to strangle her while her husband watched was enough to change any woman’s perspective on the world.
Even standing guard in her mistress’ pillow chamber, the Sharum’ting Ka wore her infant son, Kaji, slung across her belly. She would not be parted from the child for any reason, even in her sacred duty.
It was no great hindrance to performance, Inevera had learned. The bodies Ashia left in her wake during the coup attested to that. Like his mother, Kaji could be preternaturally silent when he wished. Inevera had looked into his aura and seen how the slowing of his mother’s heart affected his own. He would be a great Watcher one day.
At times of his choosing, though, Kaji could make his voice known throughout the Damajah’s chambers. His laughter made feet laden with duty step lighter, and his screams could jar even Inevera from her center.
But even as he took on some of his mother’s traits, she was taking on his. Ashia would never have dared interrupt Inevera’s casting ritual before.
“Ask,” Inevera said. Ashia had risked everything in bringing Kaji and his grandmother Kajivah to her on the Night of Hora. Inevera’s eunuchs and spear sisters were perhaps the only people in Krasia she trusted completely, and Ashia knew it. With her child’s fate tied to her own, it was not surprising she had begun to assert a voice in it.
“Why do you waste time seeking the khaffit when enemies mount in this very palace?” Ashia asked.
Because my husband is dead, Inevera thought, but didn’t say. Nie had piled many stones atop her, but all of them came from the foundation broken by Ahmann’s fall. The Par’chin’s unforeseen challenge had created such a divergence as to throw decades of careful planning to the dogs. Inevera had tied her fate too closely to Ahmann, certain that he was the Deliverer. Certain that, in the end, he could not fail. Together, their power had been absolute.
Now he was dead, along with so many others. Now there were spears everywhere, pointing at her heart, the heart of everything she and Ahmann had built.
Even her Jiwah Sen could no longer be trusted. All save Belina now had their sons in direct control of their respective tribes. They had their own wealth, their own power. They had become willful, and Inevera’s tools to bring them in line were few.
—Your fates are intertwined— the dice said of Inevera and Abban. They needed to pool their strength to bend with the wind of Ahmann’s passing.
“Because Everam does not care what weights we bear,” Inevera said. “Everam cares about one thing, and one thing only.”
Ashia nodded. “Sharak Ka.”
“Something your husband has forgotten,” Inevera said. “His efforts in the night were for political gain. He has the throne, but no strategy in the First War. Someone must keep focus on that. The khaffit is an advantage, and every advantage must be seized. If Abban does not return soon, I fear he will find his nephew has taken everything from him and given it to Asome.”
And with that, she closed her eyes and whispered her prayer to Everam, feeling the alagai hora warm her fingers as their power was called forth, tuned to Abban’s aura.
She threw, watching the wards of prophecy flare, twisting the dice into a glimpse into the unknowable.
—The man who is not a man has him.—
Inevera breathed, keeping her center. If Hasik had Abban, the khaffit’s prospects were grim, but Hasik took no greater pleasure than in the suffering of others. He would not want to kill Abban right away. He would hurt him, over and over, until Abban bled out from a thousand cuts.
Perhaps there was time.
“Hasik,” Inevera said. Ashia needed no further instruction, moving quickly to the cold room where Inevera stored the blood of almost every man, woman, and child of note in Krasia.
Normally, Inevera would cleanse the dice between throws, but since Abban’s and Hasik’s fates were now tied, she left his essence to help the spell. Ashia returned with Hasik’s blood, and Inevera fell into her breath, relaxing as she freshly coated the sticky dice.
“Everam, giver of light and life,” she prayed. “Your children need answers. I beg you for knowledge of Hasik asu Reklan am’Kez am’Kaji, former brother-in-law to Shar’Dama Ka. Where can he be found?”
—Spreading like poison in the North.—
—Nie’s power grows in him.—
—He has turned from Sharak Ka.—
—
“Shar’Dama Ka!” The guards stamped their spears as Asome entered the throne room.
Inevera lounged on her bed of pillows atop the dais beside the electrum-coated Skull Throne. Her pose was practiced, artfully appearing relaxed, disinterested, and submissive when she was anything but.
Inevera could not deny her second son looked the part. Like his father, he now wore a warrior’s black under his white outer robe. He carried expert forgeries of the Spear and Crown of Kaji. From a distance, they were indistinguishable from the originals, lost when the Par’chin carried Ahmann into darkness.
The Evejah forbade male clerics from blade weapons, and none save the Deliverer had worn a crown in centuries. They were a message to all that Asome had transcended.
At his back was Inevera’s third son, Hoshkamin the Sharum Ka, followed by their ten Damaji brothers, each fifteen years old and commanding an entire tribe. All of them looked worshipfully at their elder brother.
As he drew closer, Inevera could see his spear and crown didn’t have a fraction of the wardings engraved into the originals, but she had observed them in Everam’s light, and they glowed with power not to be underestimated. Made from electrum and priceless gems with cores of alagai hora, they were covered in the familiar fluid scripts of Melan and Asavi. A betrayal months in the making.
The Damaji wore a single warded gemstone in their black turbans. Gems were effective for conducting and focusing magic, and each had been warded by his Damaji’ting mother to give him some small powers.
But Asome’s crown—like Ahmann’s—had nine horns, each set with a different gemstone. Even Inevera could not guess the full extent of Asome’s magic when he wore it, and she had never seen him outside his wing of the palace without it.
Likely she could still overwhelm him in a battle of magic, but not easily or without risk, and Asome knew it. He was careful not to test his magic against his mother.
Ahmann, confident in his powers and position, had
kept his courtroom shielded from sunlight, that he and Inevera might use magic freely. Asome had torn down the thick fabric blocking the great windows of the Deliverer’s court, bathing it in light from east and west and proclaiming court only be held in Everam’s light.
She wanted to believe it was because he feared her, but in her heart Inevera knew it was wisdom, not fear that guided his actions.
There is too much of me in you, my son, Inevera thought sadly.
“Mother.” Asome reached the top of the steps and gave a slight bow.
“My son.” Inevera extended a hand.
Asome could not in politeness refuse, but he was careful as a snake handler as he took her hand and bent to kiss the air above it, offering her no advantage in grip or balance.
“If I meant to throw you from this dais, I would have done it weeks ago.” Inevera’s voice was too low for others in the court to hear.
Asome gave her a peck and pulled smoothly back. “Unless the dice told you to wait.” He turned and went to his throne. “They have ever been more important to you than blood.”
Below, similar gazes crossed the aisle as the new Damaji and their Damaji’ting mothers met eyes. For centuries, they had been groups of twelve, but since the Night of Hora there remained only ten of each.
Dama Jamere stepped forward from the writing podium Abban had occupied for so long. Since the disappearance of his uncle, the young dama had been left in full command of Abban’s vast holdings and inherited his uncle’s place in the Deliverer’s court.
Jamere knelt before the steps, putting his hands on the floor and his head between them. “You honor the court with your presence, Deliverer.”
Like Abban, Jamere was utterly corrupt. But where his uncle had been corrupt in ways Ahmann and Inevera could use, Jamere’s loyalties were unreadable, even when she peered into his aura in Everam’s light.
And Asome knew Jamere from Sharik Hora. They were of an age, and Inevera hadn’t needed to see his aura to know they had been lovers. Asome and Asukaji were infamous in their class of nie’dama, and there were few boys unwilling to lie with them in hope of finding favor with their powerful families. With Asukaji dead, how long before Asome resumed his ways?