With that, she turned and walked away, her steady glide belying the emotions roiling inside her like a sandstorm. She had purposely enraged the dama so that he would be determined to keep the boy’s honour intact, if only to spite her. There was only one place Khevat could do that: Sharik Hora.
Ahmann was old to be called as nie’dama, and ill suited in any event, but perfect for kai training. So far as Inevera knew, no nie’Sharum had ever been called before taking the black, but the Evejah did not forbid it. In Sharik Hora, Ahmann would learn letters and mathematics, philosophy and strategy, warding, history, and higher forms of sharusahk.
Knowledge a Shar’Dama Ka would need.
I must seize for him every advantage, Inevera thought.
As Inevera had hoped, Ahmann was sent to Sharik Hora the very next day. Dama Khevat smirked the next time they met, believing he had outmanoeuvred her. Inevera allowed him the notion.
She watched Ahmann’s progress often, lurking in the shadowed alcoves of the undertemple where the nie’dama trained. The boy was woefully behind in many regards, and took special resentment to his early lessons, believing he had already learned all there was to know in sharaj.
He was quickly disabused of this notion, and the resentment beaten out of him. Before long he applied himself fully to his studies, and progressed quickly from there on.
Almost seven years to the day after her burning, Melan rang the chimes once more. Inevera watched her testing calmly, though she knew there were many who would flock to Melan if she passed.
Kenevah’s voice was sharp, her examination of the dice scrutinous, and her questions complex. Melan passed all without flaw, gathering the dice with her good hand and casting with the claw.
Later that day, Inevera was walking through the long hall of the underpalace to her personal chambers when she found Melan waiting by her door. She was newly robed and veiled, but even if the older woman’s stance were not already familiar, the twisted hand, nails long and sharp like alagai talons, marked her.
Melan pointed one of those claws at Inevera, the rest curling back stiffly. ‘You tricked me.’
There was no one else in the passageway, but Inevera did not back away. The dice had not warned her to expect an attack, but that did not mean one would not come. The hora revealed mysteries beyond what a woman could discern on her own. They might warn her of a hidden poison, but an attack that she saw coming was her own concern. Everam had no sympathy for the weak.
She shook her head. ‘No, Melan, you tricked yourself. All I had to do was nudge, and you were off running. If you’d kept your centre, you’d have finished your dice a year before me. But you let your pride and your jealousy rule you, and were fool enough to treat carving the sacred dice like a camel race. You didn’t deserve the veil.’
Melan’s eyes darkened. ‘And do I deserve it now?’
‘It must have been crushing to fall as you did,’ Inevera said. ‘The pain, the humiliation, and the scars – a constant reminder. Most girls would have been broken by that and left the Dama’ting Palace. Even a failed nie’dama’ting is a sought-after bride. Wealthy dama would have happily overlooked the scarred hand for your training at pillow dancing alone, not to mention knowledge of healing and sharusahk and hora magic. You could have arranged a marriage and secured yourself a comfortable position as Jiwah Ka to a worthy husband.’
Melan breathed hard, causing her veil to suck in, then billow.
‘But it didn’t break you,’ Inevera went on. ‘It took incredible courage to ignore the stares and derision and return to the chamber day after day these long years, and indomitable will to keep centred enough to carve a perfect seven. You deserve the veil.’
Inevera flicked her eyes to Melan’s clawed hand for an instant. Not in fear, just a reminder to Melan of her stance, attempting to menace Inevera like a bully in the bazaar.
Melan looked at her hand and shook her head, as if coming out of a reverie. She breathed again and took a half step back, dropping her arm.
Without giving any indication, Inevera readied herself. If an attack was to come, it would come now. ‘We can end this right here, Melan. I bear you no ill will. Whatever our motives, I needed the lessons you gave me, as you, I think, needed mine. Now we are reborn as Brides of Everam, and should leave the feud between us in the Vault where it belongs.’
Inevera held out her arms. ‘Welcome, sister-wife.’
Melan stood there, eyes wide, for a long moment. Stiffly, she moved into Inevera’s arms, meaning a token embrace, but Inevera held her tightly, in part to cement the moment, and in part to keep a lock on that dangerous, clawed hand.
Slowly, and then more powerfully, as if a dam were cracking and then finally gave way, Melan began to cry.
On the day Jardir took the black – the first ever to do so with a white veil – Inevera strode through the halls of the Dama’ting Palace to the Damaji’ting’s wing.
She encountered a group of Brides, and they made a show of stepping from her path in a precise, orderly flow that reminded Inevera of a flock of birds. The first to clear her path were the youngest and least influential, the last the oldest and most powerful.
Tea politics. Kenevah served Waxing Tea each month without fail, controlling the seating precisely to show the women their place in her regard. The places closest to the Damaji’ting seldom shifted, but those farther out did often, and there was a constant struggle for a rise in status. The dama’ting wasted endless hours fretting over every opportunity to impress the Damaji’ting and her closest advisors.
Inevera suppressed her derision. Over the years, she had moved up the table to sit at Kenevah’s left hand, second only to Qeva at her right. The concerns of the other Brides meant nothing to her. Sharak Ka was coming, and she had little patience for petty feuds over imagined slights, talk of who had which dama by the bido, whether he had the Andrah’s ear, how much gold was in his purse or how many wives in his harem.
To some, her refusal to play at tea politics only made her seem more powerful. What secrets did she hide, that let her rise above the intrigues of the palace? Most gave her a wide berth, believing – rightfully – that she knew something they did not.
But others saw weakness in her lack of involvement in palace intrigues. Kenevah was an expert at playing the Brides against one another, and by keeping Inevera at her left, her veil still white rather than black, she signalled that Inevera had not been formally named her heir. This led some to speculate that Kenevah was not convinced Inevera was fit to lead the tribe and might have her killed and name Qeva Damaji’ting until the dice called another.
Already, there had been attempts on Inevera’s life. Three times, her food and drink were poisoned. Once, there was a tunnel asp in her bed, and another time a passing eunuch whirled on her with a knife.
Each time, the dice had warned her. The viper she caught and boxed, and the poisons she pretended to ingest with no sign of ill effect. The eunuch she killed, offering no explanation save that he gave her insult. Nothing more was required of a sister.
Never once did Inevera retaliate, or seek the identity of her attackers. It was irrelevant whether the attempts came from the Damaji’ting herself or simply other sisters sensing weakness. She’d no time to waste preparing poisons or planting rumours in return. If the dice were giving warning, she was in Everam’s favour, and there was nothing to fear. What was her sister-wives’ regard in comparison with that?
Ahmann was her only concern. Making sure he was safe, and ready to grasp at power when it passed his way. Planting the seeds of that power. If he was allowed to come into his full, all the politics in Krasia would be obsolete. And if not, her people would destroy themselves in a generation.
But today, with his veiling, matters had changed. So long as he slept in Sharik Hora, Ahmann had been protected. Few had known he was even there, and there was no alagai’sharak beneath the temple of bones; no rival who would strike at him.
But now he was kai’Sharum and would lead m
en into nightly battle. She feared little for his safety against the alagai, but with his skill and prowess, he would quickly come to the notice of the other kai’Sharum and the Sharum Ka. The dama might not – yet – fear so promising a warrior, trained as one of their own, but the more powerful Sharum would see him as a threat to their status. Sharum did not do their business with poison and hidden knives, but at any sign of weakness they would challenge him like wolves.
She needed to be by his side, to cast for him daily and keep death at bay. Krasia needed him, and he needed her. The Deliverer could not go unbridled.
– Make him a man—
The words had echoed in her mind as she pressured him into betrothal, and the thrill she felt upon his acceptance was not all in duty to Everam. Illiterate and barely more than a savage just a few short years ago, Jardir could now debate tactics, strategy, and philosophy with the wisest dama, and break any that faced him in sharusahk.
And he was handsome. All those hours spent watching him in his bido as he grew into manhood had put a longing in her. She ached to unwrap her bido weave for the last time on their wedding night and never tie the cursed thing again.
Inevera reached Kenevah’s chamber and saw Enkido standing watch without. The Sharum eunuch had a touch of grey in his hair now, but he was still strong and dangerous, the only man in the world privy to the fighting secrets of the Kaji dama’ting. He allowed women to defeat him at practice to show how a move should be correctly applied, but Inevera had watched him closely, seeing how he was always in control. Any dama’ting who underestimated Enkido was a fool.
She signalled him in the secret hand code of eunuchs, her nimble fingers speaking quickly, her stance conveying respect but not deference.
He was still a eunuch, after all.
I must speak with the Damaji’ting, her hands said.
Enkido bowed. I will inform her, mistress, his hands replied. He knocked at the door, and entered upon a call from Kenevah. A moment later he re-emerged.
The Damaji’ting bids you wait here in the vestibule. He gestured towards a silken divan. May I provide you some refreshment?
Inevera shook her head, dismissing him with a whisk of her hand. The eunuch resumed his marble-like stance outside Kenevah’s door. Inevera was left waiting – in comfort, but full view of any passerby – for almost an hour.
Inevera gritted her teeth. More useless tea politics. Kenevah was not in audience with anyone. She was simply making Inevera wait, publicly, to illustrate that she could.
At last there was a ringing of bells, and Enkido signalled her to enter. Inevera moved through the portal, and the eunuch closed it behind her. Inevera bowed deeply. The Damaji’ting’s office windows were covered in thick velvet curtains, allowing no natural light. Wardlight kept the room aglow.
‘You do not often grace my doorway, little sister.’ Kenevah regarded her with unreadable eyes.
‘There have been pressing matters to attend, Damaji’ting,’ Inevera said, ‘and your time is too valuable to waste.’
‘Pressing matters,’ Kenevah grunted. ‘May I ask what those are? Your skills are second to none, and yet you spend little time in the palace, or at court. Even in the healing pavilion, you give only the time required of you and not an instant more. My informants have spotted you all over the city, even in territory controlled by other tribes.’
I’ve been blooding boys, searching for more like Ahmann, Inevera thought.
– Deliverers are made, not born—
She shrugged. ‘I would know the Desert Spear and its people, that I might better serve them.’
‘It gives poor appearances,’ Kenevah said, ‘and it is dangerous to set foot in the territory of other dama’ting.’
‘More dangerous than walking these very halls?’ Inevera asked.
Kenevah pursed her lips. It was not a signal that she had ordered the attempts on Inevera’s life, but it was a clear sign that she was aware of them. ‘If my time is so precious, what brings you to me now?’
Inevera bowed. ‘I have decided to marry.’
Kenevah raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Have you, now? And who is this fortunate dama? Khevat, perhaps? Or will you marry Baden, since you seem to have no real interest in male company?’
Inevera’s throat tightened. Kenevah did indeed have spies everywhere, but how much had she guessed? Her spell to restore her maidenhead was likely still a secret, but Inevera could not hide the fact that no eunuchs were allowed in her chamber save those too old to use their spears. Nie’dama’ting did most of her attendance. It had given her a reputation for liking young girls abed.
‘It is not a cleric, Damaji’ting,’ Inevera said. ‘He is Sharum.’
‘Sharum?’ Kenevah asked in surprise. ‘Curiouser still. The boy you had shuttled into Sharik Hora?’
For an instant Inevera’s dama’ting calm slipped, and she feared her eyes had told Kenevah much when the old woman laughed. ‘Do you think me a fool, girl? Even if you hadn’t caused one holy stench in the Kaji palace after refusing the boy the black, your hours spent haunting the catacombs to observe his training were obvious to all.’
Kenevah held up her hand, holding an ancient set of dice. ‘And I have bones of my own.’
Inevera’s fingers itched to reach for her hora pouch. Her most powerful bones could send a blast of magic at the old woman, killing her instantly. Black veil or no, with no other called by the dice, Inevera could immediately lay claim to the Damaji’ting’s throne, though she would likely have to kill Qeva and a few others to hold it.
I have bones of my own, Kenevah said. It was a reminder of her ability to foretell, but a threat as well. Inevera had a handful of hora she had collected since taking the veil. Kenevah likely had hundreds. No doubt she was protected in ways Inevera could not see, and a failed assassination attempt could have only one result.
She relaxed, and Kenevah nodded, slipping her dice back into their pouch. ‘You did not consult me on the match.’
‘I consulted the dice,’ Inevera replied.
A flash of anger crossed Kenevah’s eyes, though it never touched her face. ‘You did not consult me. What if you read the dice wrong? No Damaji’ting has married in a thousand years. Everam is our husband. Do you truly have no interest in my office?’
‘There is nothing in the Evejah’ting that says I cannot take the black headscarf if I marry,’ Inevera said. ‘That it is rare is irrelevant. The dice have instructed me to bear him sons, and I shall, in accordance with Evejan law.’
‘Why?’ Kenevah demanded. ‘What makes this man so special?’
Inevera shrugged and gave a slow smile. ‘The Evejah’ting says that the right wife is what makes a man special.’
Kenevah’s eyes darkened. ‘Off with you then, if my counsel means so little. I’d thought to guide you in your role as heir, but I can see my time is better spent looking for poison in my tea … or preparing my own.’
Inevera felt stung, but there was nothing for it. That the Damaji’ting was aware of Ahmann at all was a danger. She could say nothing without risking further scrutiny of the man.
Ahmann gripped Inevera’s hand tightly as he led the way to their wedding chamber. She went willingly, but it seemed he would drag her if she did not keep his frantic pace. He moved like a wolf that knew it was being stalked as it brought a kill back to the den.
The men saw this as eagerness, cheering him on as he drew his new bride to the bedchamber and shouting crude suggestions. Warriors loved to boast their sexual exploits, thinking themselves djinn simply for being able to make a woman grunt.
But countless pillow dancing classes had taught Inevera to see and exploit inexperience in a man. Ahmann was still a boy in that regard. He had never so much as seen a woman unclad, much less shared a kiss or caress. He was terrified.
It was adorable.
They were both virgins of a sort, but while Ahmann had no idea what to expect in the pillows, Inevera knew they were going to her place of power. She knew the
seven strokes and the seventy and seven positions. She would dance and weave him into her spell, coaching him on to glory without ever letting on that he was not in control.
– Make him a man—
They reached the perfumed and pillowed chamber, carefully prepared by the Brides. Incense smoke scented and thickened the air, and candles cast a dim, flickering glow. There was a broad area of floor for her to dance in, surrounding a pile of pillows on all sides. She would toss him into those pillows, and he would be hers, caught like a fly in a spider’s web.
Inevera smiled beneath her veil as she drew the heavy curtains behind them. ‘You seem ill at ease.’
‘Should I be another way?’ Ahmann asked. ‘You are my Jiwah Ka, and I do not even know your name.’
Inevera laughed. She did not mean it cruelly, but it was clear from the look on Ahmann’s face that he took it as such, and she immediately regretted it.
‘Do you not?’ she asked, slipping off her veil and hood. Since becoming a dama’ting she had regrown her hair, which hung long and thick in ebony waves, banded with gold. Her bido wrap was now secured at her waist alone.
Ahmann’s eyes widened. ‘Inevera.’
She felt her heart skip at his recognition. He had seen her face but once, and been dulled by pain at the time, but even after all these years he remembered. The terror left his eyes, replaced by a smoulder that seemed to burn through her. Suddenly it became harder to draw a full breath in the perfumed air.
‘The night we met,’ Inevera said, ‘I finished carving my first alagai hora. It was fate; Everam’s will, like my name. I needed a question to ask. A test to see if the dice held the power of fate. But what question? Then I remembered the boy I had met that day, with the bold eyes and brash manner, and as I shook the demon dice, I asked, “Will I ever see Ahmann Jardir again?” ’