Renna sighed. ‘Don’t like you healing.’
Arlen stiffened. ‘What? Why? I should leave folk laid up? Crippled? Dying?’
Renna wanted nothing more than to stay in his arms, but she shook them off, rounding to face him. ‘Ent that. Just think it ent safe. You call me reckless, but you near kill yourself every time you heal. Too stubborn to know when to stop. So ay. I’d rather some nit broke his leg heal the old-fashioned way than have you pass out tryin’ to fix it.’
She expected him to shout at her, but Arlen only nodded. ‘Still getting the hang of it. But I got the greatward to draw on, and I’ll be careful, Ren. I promise.’
6
The Earring
333 AR Summer
29 Dawns Before Waning
‘Ah! Aaaaah!’
Inevera fell into her breath as the cries of the Northern whore emanated from her earring.
The ring seemed a simple silver bauble, but it was etched with tiny wards and powered by a half pebble of demon bone at its centre. The other half of that pebble rode in the ring’s mate, which she had given to Jardir on their wedding day, its true nature unknown even to him.
As you love me, you will never remove it, she told him that day.
The wards were normally out of alignment, but with a twist Inevera could activate them, and the bit of hora would resonate with its twin, sound carrying through to her like a child’s toy of cups and string.
Including the sound of Leesha Paper moaning pleasure into her husband’s ear.
I am the palm, Inevera told herself, and this is only wind. I will bend, but I will not break.
Her eyes flicked to Melan and Asavi, her closest advisors. They could not hear the ring – its magic tuned to the wearer alone – but it made little difference. Ahmann and Leesha played their lovegames openly now, at least inside the palace. Inevera was forced to smile and act unbothered, even as it eroded her power among the dama’ting and the men in Jardir’s court.
She clenched her fist. There was little she could do to oppose them. Ahmann was Shar’Dama Ka, and by any accepted interpretation of the Evejah, it was his right to have any woman he desired. Inevera had worked for years to ensure his needs were met by her personally, or women she had carefully selected – ones that brought him power and children, but whom she could easily dominate or eliminate.
Leesha Paper was neither. She could indeed bring Ahmann power, but she was cagey with it, and haughty as an Andrah’s First Wife. She would not be dominated, and Inevera had failed to eliminate her twice. The first time Inevera had commanded her eldest daughter Amanvah, betrothed to the red-haired Northerner Rojer, to poison Leesha. The girl was loyal but inexperienced, and bungled the job badly.
Leesha could have gone to Jardir then, making their fight public and ugly. Jardir would have been furious. Perhaps uncontrollably so.
But Leesha had said nothing, and even allowed Amanvah to remain in her presence. Inevera had been forced to concede her a measure of respect for that, and when she had her eunuch Watchers break into Leesha’s bedchamber soon after, she had foolishly tried to bully the woman off rather than simply killing her. That same night she had been forced to save Leesha’s life, that they might face the mind demon attempting to kill Jardir together.
Of course, if she hadn’t, the demon might well have taken Jardir’s life, and hers as well. Much as Inevera hated to admit it, the Northern hedge witch was formidable, and her power had only increased that night. Inevera had been unable to stop her from taking powerful alagai hora from the mind demon – much as Inevera herself had. She had sent eunuchs to retrieve the bones, but they returned beaten and empty-handed. Leesha would not be taken off guard again.
So Inevera listened. Listened and tried not to feel replaced. Supplanted. Humiliated.
She breathed, restoring her calm. The woman would be returning to her barbarian village soon enough, and good riddance. Inevera would reclaim her rightful place in Jardir’s bed, and all would be as it was.
Perhaps.
The moans and cries of passion faded, replaced by gentle murmuring. Inevera strained her ears, trying to make out the muffled words. This was worse than the cries of passion and the slapping of flesh. Inevera had watched her husband with other women many times, and knew well the sounds he made, and those he drew from women. Confident in her pillow dancing, Inevera had no fear of anything Leesha could do in love. It was the quiet moments, when he and Leesha lay intertwined, that Inevera loathed.
‘Marry me,’ Jardir said.
‘How many times must I refuse you, before you stop asking?’ Leesha replied, feigning ignorance of the incredible honour she was being paid.
‘If you refuse me ten thousand times,’ Jardir said, ‘I will ask ten thousand more. Come, there is still time. I am Shar’Dama Ka, and can marry us with a wave of my hand. Wed me now, in secret. Your mother and Abban can bear witness and sign the contracts. No one else need know until we deem otherwise, but we would know.’
Abban. Inevera’s lip curled. He was wrapped up in this, making his own plays for power and Jardir’s ear. He would need to be dealt with, as well.
‘Ask me ten thousand times, or twenty thousand,’ Leesha said, ‘the answer is still no. You have enough wives.’
‘I will deny them all my bed,’ Jardir said, and Inevera bristled. ‘All save Inevera,’ he amended, and she found her breath again, still stunned at his foolishness. It was said Sharum could not haggle, and Jardir was Sharum to his bones.
‘So I would only have to share you with one other woman instead of fourteen?’ Leesha asked.
‘You share me now,’ Jardir growled, and Inevera bit her lip at the sound of their renewed kissing.
‘We are alone, Ahmann,’ Leesha said, and Jardir gasped in pleasure. ‘For the next few hours, I am not sharing you with anyone.’
‘Damajah!’ Melan cried. ‘Your hands!’
Inevera looked down and saw blood running from her clenched fists. Her long painted nails were sharp, and had cut hard into the heels of her hands. Numb, she hadn’t even realized it. Even now, they seemed someone else’s hands as Melan and Asavi took them, carefully cleaning and bandaging the wounds.
How had it come to this? How had she failed Ahmann, that he shamed her so? She had seen him trained and educated before the Sharum could beat the potential from him or see him killed in waste. She had handed him a unified Krasia, and given him the tools to drive the alagai all the way back to Nie’s abyss. She had given him four sons and three daughters, and selected Jiwah Sen to keep his bed warm and provide him with yet more children.
‘Perhaps I should have selected Northern whores for him to slake his lust for white skin upon,’ she muttered.
‘Men are predictable creatures,’ Melan said.
‘The first thing they do when they overpower something is hump it like a dog,’ Asavi agreed. ‘Many of the Sharum are developing a taste for pale skin.’
Still lovers after all these years, Melan and Asavi shared quarters and were always at each other’s side. They had no personal interest in men beyond their seed, and had long since used the dice to choose a father for their daughter heirs, both doing the deed in one night and never seeing him again.
But for all their bias, the words rang true enough, and Inevera should have anticipated it. Now, because she hadn’t, her husband was bewitched by an infidel whore in the perfumed chamber where they had lain so many times.
Already Leesha’s whispered advice had begun to change Ahmann, making him rethink centuries of culture and tradition. Some of his resulting decrees were innocuous enough, but others were dangerous, alienating his own people for the sake of Northern sensibilities, forgetting they were meant to be his subjects, not allies.
They did not have years to treat with the chin. Sharak Ka was coming. In some ways, it had already begun.
7
Training
300 AR
Inevera always hated when her father brought Sharum to their home. She and her
mother did all the cooking and serving while her father shouted and swatted at them, making a great show before his friends as they grew increasingly drunk and rowdy, playing Sharak with clay dice. Even before he took the black, Kasaad had forbidden Soli to do work of any kind. ‘You’re a warrior, my son, not some khaffit or woman!’
When she was younger, the men had ignored Inevera and leered at Manvah, but as she approached womanhood some of those leers had turned Inevera’s way. One Sharum, a disgusting man named Cemal, had even tried to paw at her.
But though he could not cook or carry, Soli was always there to protect. Cemal’s hand had barely begun to squeeze before her brother put a hard knee between the man’s legs and broke his nose.
Kasaad had laughed, mocking Cemal and congratulating his son, but he hadn’t so much as glanced at Inevera to see if she was all right. Worse, he had continued to invite Cemal into their home, and did nothing to stop the leering. Inevera knew the Sharum were only waiting for Soli’s attention to lapse.
Serving her father and half a dozen drunken Sharum terrified Inevera, but not half so much as serving Waxing Tea to the dama’ting.
A semicircle of velvet pillows was spread on the thick carpet of the dining chamber. Kenevah sat first at the centre, and was immediately served a steaming cup of tea by Melan. The girl was like a wisp of smoke, appearing to fill the cup and then vanishing again.
‘Qeva, sit at my right,’ Kenevah bade, gesturing at the pillow there. ‘Favah, my left.’
Qeva sat as she was bade, as did Favah, a venerable Bride who looked older even than Kenevah. Asavi and another nie’dama’ting stepped forward to serve them.
Kenevah lifted her cup, and the three women drank. Then Kenevah invited two more Brides to sit, one on each side. They were served hot tea, and all five drank.
The tea for the next pair of women, served from the same pots, was barely hot. For the next pair, it was merely warm. By the time the last Bride sat and all of them drank, it was cold.
Food was served in the same order, with Kenevah’s most favoured getting the choicest cuts of meat, though all dined on food finer than Inevera knew existed. The smell of it made her dizzy with hunger.
After these rituals, the dama’ting relaxed, talking quite amiably among themselves. Their handsome eunuchs did the cooking and most of the carrying, but it was up to the Betrothed to attend the Brides directly.
The dama’ting before Inevera finished her tea and set the empty cup before her. When Inevera did not immediately move to refill it, she glanced back with a raised eyebrow. Inevera hurried forward with the pot, spilling a single drop on the table. The dama’ting to her other side glanced at it, sniffing disdainfully.
When she returned to the service, Melan pinched her and it was all Inevera could do not to cry out. ‘Idiot,’ the girl whispered. ‘We’ll all pay for that. Spill again and next time you bathe we’ll hold you under until you meet Everam.’
Even in such exclusive company, the dama’ting kept their veils in place, leaning over their bowls and using a pair of smooth sticks to quickly bring morsels to their mouths. Occasionally Inevera caught a glimpse of a mouth or nose, and immediately averted her eyes. The sight felt more obscene than watching Kasaad bend Manvah over a pile of baskets.
When the dama’ting had finished their supper, the Betrothed served themselves from the remains in the kitchen. Melan and the other girls shoved Inevera to the back of the line, and there was little food remaining when they were through. She managed to scrape a bowl’s worth from what clung to the sides of the cookpots, but even then the other girls sat in tight circles, deliberately shutting her out. She ate alone, and followed numbly as Qeva ushered them back to the Vault at sunset.
The nie’dama’ting slept in a communal chamber, lit by a ceiling that glowed with clear wardlight. Inevera’s eyes drifted up and stared at the magical symbols with unbridled wonder.
‘You’ll learn your warding soon enough,’ Qeva said, noting her stare. ‘Melan, where is your cot?’
There were several neat rows of cots at the centre of the room. Melan pointed to a corner spot, well away from the door.
Qeva nodded. ‘Who sleeps there?’ She gestured to the cot next to Melan’s.
‘Asavi,’ Melan said, and the girl stepped quickly forward.
Qeva grunted. ‘Your pillow sister will have to find a new place. Inevera will sleep next to you for the next twelve Wanings, that you may better instruct her.’
Melan gave an almost imperceptible hiss as Asavi moved to collect her possessions – books and writing implements, mostly. She glared at Inevera as she passed, and the look might as well have been knives.
‘You have your liberty until the wardlight fades,’ Qeva said, and left the room.
Inevera held her breath, waiting for the girls to come at her, but again they ignored her, breaking into small, tight circles, locking her out. Inevera went to her cot, took out the Evejah’ting, and began to read.
It was hours before the wardlight faded, but she had barely made a dent in the thick book. She set the ribbon on her page and passed into a fitful sleep.
Inevera woke to find someone hovering over her in the darkness. Her eyes were adjusted to the darkness, but it was still little more than a silhouette, moving cautiously to keep quiet. She caught her breath a moment, then remembered herself and began an even breathing to feign sleep. She let herself snore softly, as her mother often did.
Inevera had no possessions save for her Evejah’ting and hora pouch, nothing to use as a weapon, if such would even do her good against a room full of girls who despised her. Could they kill her here, in the dark, and get away with it? She tensed to run, though there was nowhere she could run to. Even if she could find the door in the blackness, it was barred from the outside.
But the silhouette moved past, shuffling to Melan’s bed. There was a rustle as the blanket was thrown back.
‘I think she might have heard me,’ Asavi whispered.
There was a pause. ‘She’s asleep. I can hear her snoring,’ Melan said. ‘And who cares what the bad throw thinks?’
Inevera lay in her cot, trying to keep the rhythm of her snoring steady as she listened to the sounds of kissing and whispers of love from Melan’s cot. She had never kissed another girl, never even considered it, but she did envy them. Inevera had never felt so alone.
Inevera woke again, this time to a stabbing pain in her side. She cried out, half sitting, and saw Melan drawing back her foot for another kick. ‘Up with you, bad throw.’
The wardlights were active again, and most of the other girls had already woven their bidos. Aching to make water, Inevera moved quickly for the privy curtain, but Melan caught her arm. ‘You should have woken sooner if you wanted time for that. The dama’ting will come at any moment, and if your bido isn’t fully woven when she arrives, a full bladder will be the least of your worries.’
Inevera’s face went cold, and in an instant she was leaping for a fresh silk, her discomfort forgotten. The other girls watched her with scowls on their faces as she quickly wove her bido.
Asavi spat at Inevera’s feet. ‘So she’s a weaver’s daughter. It proves nothing.’
Barely a moment after Inevera finished tying, the heavy doors to the sleeping chamber opened and Qeva stood waiting. The girls lined up in only their bidos, and Inevera followed them out of the Vault and into another great chamber of the underpalace.
‘We begin each day with sharusahk,’ Melan advised. ‘You will not speak. Do exactly as the dama’ting does.’
Inevera nodded as the girls lined up in neat rows, each standing two paces apart. Qeva strode to a small dais at the front of the room, reaching to unfasten her robe. The silk fell away in a whisper, and she stood nude before the assembled girls, save for her veil and headscarf.
Slowly, she began doing a series of stretches. The other girls copied her, and Inevera struggled to do the same. Qeva’s flesh was smooth and muscled, soon coated in a sheen of sweat and scented o
il. Inevera wondered how such slow movement could make the woman sweat as if she had run in the hot sun for an hour.
The movements were gentle and precise – nothing like the broad, brutal motions Soli had practised. But though gentle in appearance, the poses proved far more complex than Soli’s. Inevera was forced to attain positions she hadn’t known possible and hold them for extended periods of time. Never-before-used muscles screamed at the strain, and she broke into a heavy sweat, heart thumping as she struggled for air. It seemed no amount of gasping could pull in a full breath, and she feared that at any moment she would lose control of her water.
Qeva leaned forward on her left leg until her body was perpendicular to the floor, arms out before her as if to embrace. Her right foot raised high into the air and curled back over, toes nearly touching her tailbone.
Inevera attempted the pose, but lost her balance, pitching forward onto her hands.
‘Hold pose,’ Qeva said, and the other girls were left balanced in that precarious position as she stepped down from the dais.
‘Stand up straight,’ the dama’ting commanded. Inevera got quickly to her feet, and Qeva put one hand on her bare chest and the other in the hollow where her shoulders met. ‘Breathe in through your nostrils. Deeply.’ She squeezed, and Inevera had to overcome the resistance to inflate her chest.
The dama’ting grunted. ‘Out. Slow.’ She continued to squeeze as Inevera slowly let the air out at an even pace.
‘Again,’ Qeva said. ‘Breath is life. If you have breath, you have your centre. If you have your centre, nothing can truly touch you. You will not feel hunger or pain. Not love nor hate. No fear. No anxiety. Only the breath.’
Already, Inevera felt herself calming. The insistent cries of her full bladder and empty stomach faded as she followed the path of her breath from her nose to her belly and out again. Around her, the girls began to wobble, strain telling on their faces as they held the difficult pose.