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 fitted 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.’
‘You speak,’ the boy croaked.
‘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 centre 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 honour, 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 centre and dared touch the surface, marvelling 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 succour them. How can we return to your favour 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 centre. 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 o
ut 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.
‘I hear. I hear.’
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 centre, 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, revelling 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 centre 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 s
crambled 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.’