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.’
9
Ahmann
308–313 AR
Inevera strode through the darkened streets of the Desert Spear, feeling none of the apprehension she’d once experienced at being on the surface at night. Even if the dice had not already promised she would see the boy at dawn, three years had passed. Inevera’s hora pouch now contained bones enough to defend her from almost any assailant, demonic or otherwise, and only Qeva was still considered Inevera’s match at sharusahk.
It was peaceful, the ancient city at night. Beautiful. Inevera tried to peel back the years to a time when the paint and gilding had been fresh, the pillars and moulding unworn. To visualize what Krasia had been like before the Return, just three hundred years ago.
The image came readily, sweeping Inevera away in its wonder. The Desert Spear had been the seat of a vast empire at the height of its power, the city proper containing people in the millions. Aqueducts made the desert bloom, and there were great universities of medicine and science. Machines did the work of a hundred dal’ting. Sharik Hora was still Everam’s greatest temple, but hundreds of others dotted the city and surrounding lands in praise of the Creator.
And there had been peace. The closest thing to war had been nomadic tribes outside the walls raiding one another for women or wells.
But then came the demons, and the fool Andrah who called for alagai’sharak even after it became clear the fighting wards were lost.
Inevera shivered and returned to herself. The empty city seemed no longer peaceful, no longer beautiful. It was a tomb, like the lost city of Anoch Sun, claimed by the sands thousands of years past. That would be the fate of all Krasia if the tide of attrition was not turned. Sharak Ka was coming, and if it came tomorrow, all humanity would lose.
‘But that will not happen,’ she promised the empty streets. ‘I will not allow it.’
Inevera quickened her pace. Dawn was approaching, and she must perform her foretelling before the sun crested the horizon.
Drillmaster Qeran nodded as she approached, making no comment about her wandering unescorted in the dark. She had been expected, and Sharum did not question dama’ting in any event.
She had consulted the dice about this day many times over the years, but no matter how many ways she posed her questions, the hora were evasive, full of might-bes and unknown conditions. The future was a living thing, and could never be truly known. It rippled with change whenever someone used free will to make a choice.
But there had been pillars even among the ripples. Bits of truth she could glean. Numbers of steps and turns, given randomly, that enabled Inevera – after weeks spent poring over maps of the Maze – to calculate precisely where the boy would be found.
– You will know him on sight – the dice had told her, but that was no great revelation. How many boys could there be, alone and weeping in the Maze?
– You will bear him many sons—
This had given Inevera pause. Dama’ting could take a man and bear his daughters in secret, but sons were forbidden outside marriage vows. The dice had told her she was fated to marry this boy. Perhaps he was not the Deliverer himself, but that one’s father. Perhaps the Shar’Dama Ka was meant to come from her own womb.
It was a thought so full of honour and power that her mind could hardly grasp it, but there was disappointment as well. The mother of Kaji was blessed above all, but it was the Damajah who whispered wisdom in the Deliverer’s ear and guided his way. It could be that another woman would share his bed and have his ear.
The thought grated on Inevera, and for a moment she lost her centre. Had she been insincere in her prayers? What was more important to her, saving her people, or taking the mantle of her namesake?
She inhaled slowly, feeling her breath, her life’s force, and letting it lead her back to her centre. With no hubris, she knew of no woman more worthy than herself to guide the Deliverer. Should she find such a woman, she would step aside. If not, she would marry him no matter the cost, even if it meant divorcing her husband, or marrying her own son.
– The Deliverer must have every advantage—
She heard cries ahead, the sound of violence, and forced herself to slow. She would not be in time to make a difference. When the dice spoke clear, they marked a fixed point, like a large stone jutting from time’s river. She was to find the boy alone and weeping. In effect, it had already happened, and it was pointless to resist such wind.
A Sharum appeared, laughing as he retied his pantaloons. His night veil hung loose about his neck, and there was blood on his lips. He stopped short, paling at the sight of her. Inevera said nothing, making note of his face as she raised an eyebrow and tilted her head back the way she had come. The warrior bowed and quickly shuffled past her, then turned and ran as fast as he could.
Inevera resumed her approach, hearing the boy’s sobbing. She kept her breath a steady rhythm, walking at her normal, steady glide. Turning the last corner she saw the boy shuddering on the ground. His bido was around his knees, and his shoulder bled where the Sharum had obviously bitten him when his lust reached its climax. There were other bruises and abrasions, but if they came from this assault or alagai’sharak, she could not say.
He noticed her approach and looked up, tears glittering on his face in the starlight. And as foretold, she knew him.
The nie’Sharum she had met years ago, the night she finished her dice. Ahmann Jardir, who had embraced his pain and watched wordlessly as the dama’ting set his broken arm. Ahmann Jardir, who at twelve had somehow killed his first alagai and survived a night in the Maze. It seemed to be a glimpse of Everam’s holy plan.
She wondered for a moment if he would recognize her as well, but she was veiled now, and he had been dull with pain when they last met. The boy remained frozen for a moment, then remembered himself, quickly pulling up his bido as if it could c
over the shame written clearly on his face.
Her heart pounded once, a heavy throb going out to this brave boy who had suffered such humiliation when he should be triumphant. She wanted to go to him and fold him in her arms, but the dice had been clear.
– Make him a man—
She hardened herself and clicked her tongue like the crack of a whip.
‘On your feet, boy!’ she snapped. ‘You stand your ground against alagai, but weep like a woman over this? Everam needs dal’Sharum, not khaffit!’
A look of anguish crossed the boy’s face for an instant, but he embraced it, getting to his feet and palming away his tears.
‘That’s better,’ Inevera said, ‘if late. I would hate to have come all the way out here to foretell the life of a coward.’
The boy snarled, and Inevera smiled inwardly. There was steel in him, if unforged. ‘How did you find me?’
Inevera psshed, dismissing the question with a wave. ‘I knew to find you here years ago.’
He stared at her, unbelieving, but his belief meant nothing to her. ‘Come here, boy, that I may have a better look at you.’
She grabbed his face, turning it this way and that to catch the moonlight. ‘Young and strong. But so are all who get this far. You’re younger than most, but that’s seldom a good thing.’
‘Are you here to foretell my death?’ Ahmann asked.
‘Bold, too,’ she muttered, and again suppressed a smile. ‘There may be hope for you yet. Kneel, boy.’
He did, and she spread a white prayer cloth in the dust of the Maze, kneeling with him.
‘What do I care for your death?’ she asked. ‘I am here to foretell your life. Death is between you and Everam.’
She opened her hora pouch, emptying the precious dice into her hand, throbbing with power. Dawn was approaching quickly. If she were to read him, it must be now.
Ahmann’s eyes widened at the sight, and she lifted the objects towards him. ‘The alagai hora.’
He recoiled. Inevera could not blame him for it, remembering her own reaction the first time she had seen demon bone, but if there was weakness in him, it must be crushed.
‘Back to cowardice?’ she asked mildly. ‘What is the purpose of wards, if not to turn alagai magic to our own ends?’
Ahmann swallowed and leaned back in.
He finds his centre quickly, she thought, and there was a strange pride in it. Had she not first taught him to embrace pain?
‘Hold out your arm,’ she commanded, drawing her curved knife, the jewelled hilt of silver with etched wards on the steel blade.
Ahmann’s arm did not shake as she cut and squeezed the wound, smearing her hand with blood. She took up the alagai hora in both hands, shaking them.
‘Everam, giver of light and life, I beseech you, give this lowly servant knowledge of what is to come. Tell me of Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, last scion of the line of Jardir, the seventh son of Kaji.’
She could feel the dice flaring with power as she shook. ‘Is he the Deliverer reborn?’ she murmured, too low for the boy to hear.
And she threw.
Inevera lost all sense of centre as she leaned in, staring hungrily at the dice as they settled into a pattern in the dust of the Maze. The first symbols made her blood run cold.
– The Deliverer is not born. He is made.—
She hissed, crawling in the dust, mindless of how it clung to her pure white robes as she studied the rest of the pattern.
– This one may be, but if he takes the veil or knows a woman before his time, he will die and his path to Shar’Dama Ka will be lost.—
Made, not born? The boy before her might be the Deliverer? Impossible.
‘These bones must have been exposed to light,’ she muttered, gathering them up and cutting the boy again for a second throw, more vigorous than the first.
But despite the move, the dice fell in precisely the same pattern.
‘This cannot be!’ she cried, snatching up the dice and throwing a third time, putting a spin on the hora as she did.
But still, the pattern remained the same.
‘What is it?’ Ahmann dared to ask. ‘What do you see?’
Inevera looked up at him, and her eyes narrowed. ‘The future is not yours to know, boy.’ He drew back at that, and she returned the bones to her pouch before rising and shaking the dust from her robes. All the while she breathed, reaching for her centre though her heart was pounding in her chest.
She looked at the boy. He was only twelve, uncomprehending of the enormity of the burden that hovered around him in the endless possibilities of the future.
‘Return to the Kaji pavilion and spend the remainder of the night in prayer,’ she ordered, and left without so much as a backward glance.
Inevera walked slowly back out of the Maze. Dama Khevat, Damaji Amadeveram’s liaison to the Kaji Sharum, would be waiting for her. Likely the whole tribe was holding their breath, as they did whenever it was time to read a potential Sharum at the end of his Hannu Pash. But the tribe did not concern her. It was Khevat. The dama was shrewd and powerful, from a family with ties all the way back to the first Deliverer’s advisors. He was in full favour of his Damaji, the Sharum Ka, and the Andrah himself. Even a dama’ting was wise to step carefully about one such as Dama Khevat.
But what could she tell him? Traditionally, there were but two answers to a reading: yes and no. Yes, this boy is worthy to take the black veil of warrior and be called a man. No, this boy is a coward or weakling who will break like brittle steel when struck. The dama’ting saw more in the foretellings, of course, glimpses and possibilities, but these things were not for men to know, not even the dama.
It was possible to give a bit of detail. The dice often showed untapped potential, giving glimpses of futures where they make names for themselves as Warders or marksmen or leading men. These last were watched closely by the dama, and after a year the best of them were sent to Sharik Hora for kai’Sharum training.
Sometimes the dice spoke of failings. Bloodlust. Stupidity. Pride. Every Sharum had his share, and the dama’ting rarely spoke them unless they were apt to bring down others around them with their folly.
But once Inevera gave Ahmann the black, these would be mere hints and suggestions the dama and the Sharum Ka could heed or ignore as they saw fit.
– Make him a man – the dice had said, and even at twelve, there was no doubt in Inevera’s mind that Ahmann Jardir was worthy of the black. But potential Deliverer or no, he was vulnerable now, as proven by the state Inevera had found him in. It was impossible for someone to rise so fast without making enemies. If anyone understood this fact, it was Inevera. And the dice had said if he was given the veil before his time, he would die.
– Deliverers are made, not born – Was she expected to intercede? Was that why the dice had sent her to him, and now? Or were there a hundred other potential Deliverers out there among the tribes, waiting for a chance to be made?
Inevera shook her head. It was too great a risk to take. She had to protect the boy, her husband-to-be. Protect his honour, but, more importantly, his life.
There was only so much she could do, once he took the black. She could not deny him the Maze, or the jiwah’Sharum in the great harem. She could not protect him from every knife and spear aimed at his back.
– Make him a man, but not before his time – But how was she to know when that time came? Would the dice tell her? If she denied him the black, was there a way for him to regain it?
She turned a corner and, as expected, found Khevat waiting. The drillmaster must have fetched him. She found her centre and glided up to him, her eyes a mask of serenity.
‘The blessings of Everam be upon you, holy jiwah.’ Khevat bowed to her, and she acknowledged it with a nod.
‘You have foretold the death of Ahmann Jardir?’ he asked.
Inevera nodded silently, offering nothing more.
‘And?’ The barest hint of irritation entered Khevat’s voice.
&nbs
p; Inevera kept her own voice level. ‘He is too young to take the black.’
‘He is unworthy?’ Khevat asked.
‘He is too young,’ Inevera said again.
Khevat frowned. ‘The boy has enormous promise.’
Inevera met Khevat’s gaze and shrugged. ‘Then you should never have sent him into the Maze so young.’
The dama’s face darkened further. He was powerful, and had the ear of those even more so. Not a man used to being questioned – or dictated to – by anyone, much less a woman. The dama’ting stood below the dama in the city’s hierarchy. ‘The boy netted a demon. Everam’s law is clear …’
‘Nonsense!’ Inevera snapped. ‘There are exceptions to every law, and putting a boy still half a decade from his full growth into the Maze was madness.’
The dama’s voice hardened. ‘That is not for you to decide, Dama’ting.’
Inevera drew in her brows and saw doubt cross the dama’s face. He might outrank her, but where they had sway, the dama’ting’s power was absolute.
‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed, ‘but whether he takes the black is, and he will not, because of your decision.’ She raised her hora pouch, and Khevat flinched. ‘Shall we take the matter to court? Perhaps Damaji Amadeveram will have me read you as well to determine if you are still worthy to run his sharaj after needlessly costing the Kaji a warrior of great promise.’
Khevat’s eyes widened, the muscles in his face trembling with barely contained fury. Inevera was pushing him to his limit. She wondered if he would lose control. It would be regrettable to have to kill him.
‘If the boy returns to the Maze before he is grown, he will die, and I will not abide such waste,’ she said. ‘Send him back to me in five years and I will reconsider.’
‘And what am I to do with him until then?’ Khevat demanded. ‘He cannot go back to sharaj after setting foot in the Maze, nor back to the Kaji pavilion without the black!’
Inevera shrugged as if the boy’s fate meant nothing to her. ‘That is not my concern, Dama. The dice have spoken. Everam has spoken. You created this problem, and you must find a solution. If the boy is as exceptional as you say, I’m sure you can find a place for him. If not, there is no doubt use for a strong back among the khaffit.’