Melan grimaced, but she bowed deeply. ‘Yes, Grandmother.’
The Vault was not in any of the seven wings of the palace. It was set below, in the underpalace.
Like almost every other great structure in the Desert Spear, the Palace of the Dama’ting had as many levels below as above. The underpalace was colder in both temperature and décor than the structure above. There was no hint of the paint, gilding, and polish of the palace proper. Away from the sun, the Undercity was no place for garish displays of luxury. No place to be too comfortable.
But the underpalace still offered more splendour than the few adobe rooms Inevera and her family called home. The soaring ceilings, great columns, and archways gave even the bare stone grandeur, and the wards carved into their faces were works of art. Even away from the sun it was comfortably warm, with soft rugs running along the stone floors, wards stitched into the edges. If alagai somehow entered this most sacred of places, the Brides of Everam were secure.
Dama’ting patrolled the halls, occasionally passing them by. These nodded at Qeva and walked past, but Inevera could feel their eyes boring into her as they went.
They descended a stairwell, continuing through several more passages. The air grew warmer, and moist. Carpets vanished, and the marble floor became tiled and slick with condensation. A burly dama’ting stood watch over a portal, staring openly at Inevera as a cat stares at a mouse. Inevera shuddered as they passed into a wide chamber with dozens of pegs along the walls. Most held a robe and a long strip of white silk. Up ahead, Inevera could hear the sound of laughter and splashing.
‘Take off your dress and leave it on the floor to be burned,’ Qeva said.
Inevera quickly removed her tan dress and bido – a wide strip of cloth that kept the ever-present sand and dust of the bazaar from her nethers. Manvah wore one of black, and had taught Inevera to tie it in a quick, efficient knot.
Melan undressed, and Inevera saw that under her robe and silk pants she, too, wore a bido, but one far more intricate, woven many times over from a strip of silk less than an inch wide. Her head was wrapped in silk as well, covering her hair, ears, and neck. Her face remained bare.
Melan untied a small knot at her chin and began undoing her headwrap. Her hands moved with quick, practised efficiency, reversing what Inevera could see was an intensely complicated weave. As she worked, her hands twisted continually to wrap the silk neatly about them, keeping it taut.
Inevera was shocked to see that the girl’s head was shaved bare, olive skin smooth and shiny like polished stone.
The headwrap ended in the tight braid of silk that ran down Melan’s spine. The girl’s hands continued their dance behind her head, undoing dozens of crossings in the silk until two separate strands reached her bido. Still the acolyte’s hands worked.
It’s all one piece, Inevera realized, staring in awe as Melan slowly unwove her bido. The air of a dance only increased as Melan began to step over the uncrossing strands, her bare feet tamping a steady rhythm. The silk crossed her thighs and between her legs dozens of times, layering weaves one atop another.
Inevera had made enough baskets to know good weaving when she saw it, and this was a masterwork. Something so intricately woven could be worn all day and never come loose, and someone unskilled would likely make a botch of it and never get the weave undone.
‘The woven bido is like the web of flesh that safeguards your virginity,’ Qeva said, tossing Inevera a great roll of thin white silk. ‘You will wear it at all times, save for ablutions and necessaries, done here in the lowest chamber of the Vault. You will not leave the Vault under any circumstances without it, and you will be punished if it is woven improperly. Melan will teach you the weave. It should be simple enough for a basket weaver’s daughter to master.’
Melan snorted at that, and Inevera swallowed hard and tried not to stare at the girl’s bald head as she came over. She was a few years Inevera’s senior, and very pretty without her headwrap. She held out her hands, each wrapped in at least ten feet of silk. Inevera mimicked her, and they stepped over the strip of silk between their hands, bringing it to rest across their buttocks.
‘The first weave is called Everam’s Guardian,’ Melan said, pulling the silk taut and crossing it over her sex. ‘It crosses seven times, one for each pillar in Heaven.’ Inevera copied her, and managed to keep up for some time before Qeva cut in.
‘There is a twist in the silk, begin again,’ the dama’ting said.
Inevera nodded, and both girls undid the weave and started afresh. Inevera knitted her brows, doing her best to mimic the weave perfectly. Kenevah had said Melan would bear the weight of her mistakes, and she did not want the girl punished for her clumsy hands. She managed to keep up all the way to the headwrap before the dama’ting broke in.
‘Not so tight,’ Qeva said. ‘You’re tying a bido, not trying to keep a Sharum’s broken skull together. Do it again.’
Melan gave Inevera a look of annoyance that made her face flush, but again they reversed course, undoing their bidos entirely before beginning anew.
By the third repetition, Inevera had the feel of the weave. Its flow came naturally to her, and soon she and Melan stood in identical silk bidos.
Qeva clapped her hands. ‘There might be something to you after all, girl. It took Melan months to master the bido weave, and she was one of the quicker studies. Isn’t that so, Melan?’
‘As the dama’ting says.’ Melan gave a stiff bow, and Inevera got the sense that Qeva was taunting her.
‘Into the bath with you,’ Qeva said. ‘The day grows long and the kitchens will soon open.’
Inevera’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. It had been many hours since she had eaten.
‘You’ll eat soon enough.’ Qeva smiled. ‘Once you and the other girls finish serving supper and scrubbing out the crockery.’
She gave a laugh and pointed towards the source of the steam and splashing sounds. Melan undid her bido quickly and headed that way. Inevera took longer, trying not to tangle the silk, then followed, her bare feet slapping the tile.
The passage opened up into a great pool, its water hot and the air thick with steam. There were dozens of girls inside, all of them as bald as Melan. Some were Inevera’s age, but many were older, some grown almost fully to womanhood. All stood washing in the stone bath, or lounged on the slick stone steps at its edges, shaving and paring nails.
Inevera thought of the bucket of warm water she and her mother shared to wash. Their ration let them change it only sparingly. She waded out in wonder, the hot water caressing her thighs, running her fingertips through the surface as if through silk in the market.
Everyone looked up as they entered. The loungers sat up like hissing snakes, every eye in the misty room focused on the two girls. They moved in swiftly, surrounding them.
Inevera turned back, but the way was already closed, the ring of girls tightening, barring any escape and blocking them from outside view.
‘This is her?’ one girl asked.
‘The one the dice called?’ asked another. The questioners were lost in the steam as the girls began to circle, eyeing Inevera from every angle in much the same way Qeva had studied her dice.
Melan nodded, and the ring tightened further. Inevera felt crushed under the weight of their collective stare.
‘Melan, what …?’ Inevera reached out, her heart pounding.
Melan caught her wrist, twisting and pulling hard. Inevera fell towards her, and Melan caught a fistful of her thick hair, using the momentum of her fall to push her head under the water.
There was a burble, then all she could hear was the rushing of water. Inevera reflexively inhaled water and choked, but she could not cough underwater, and her insides spasmed as she resisted the urge to breathe in. The hot water burned her face and she struggled violently, but Melan kept her hold and Inevera was helpless against it. She thrashed as her lungs began to burn, but like Soli in the kiosk, Melan was using sharusahk, her movemen
ts swift and precise. Inevera could do nothing to resist.
Melan was shouting something at her, but the sound was muffled by the water, and Inevera couldn’t make out any of it. She realized then that she was going to drown. It seemed so absurd. Inevera had never stood in water past her knees. Water was precious in the Desert Spear, both currency and merchandise in the bazaar. Gold shines, but water is divine, the saying went. Only the wealthiest of Krasia’s citizens could even afford to drown.
She was losing hope when Melan gave a jerk and pulled her upright with a splash. Inevera’s hair was plastered to her face, and she coughed, gasping breaths of thick, steamy air.
‘—just walk in here,’ Melan was shouting, ‘speaking to the Damaji’ting like she was your pillow friend, and learning the bido weave in three tries!’
‘Three tries?’ a girl asked.
‘We should kill her just for that,’ another added.
‘Thinks she’s better than us,’ a third said.
Inevera glanced around desperately through her matted hair, but the other girls watched impassively, their eyes dead. None of them looked like she might lift a finger to help.
‘Melan, please, I—’ Inevera sputtered, but Melan tightened her grip and thrust Inevera back under the water. She managed to hold her breath, but that soon ran out, and she was thrashing wildly again by the time Melan let her up to gasp another breath.
‘Do not speak to me,’ Melan said. ‘I may be bound to you for one year, but we are not friends. You think you can come in and take Kenevah’s place overnight? Over my mother? Over me? I am Kenevah’s blood! You are just a … bad throw.’
She produced a sharp knife from somewhere, and Inevera flinched in terror as Melan slashed it through her hair, cutting off thick locks. ‘You are nothing.’ She flipped the knife in her fingers, catching the blade and handing it hilt-first to the next girl who approached.
‘You are nothing,’ the girl echoed, grabbing another lock of Inevera’s hair and slicing it off.
Each girl came forward and took the knife, cutting at Inevera’s hair until all that remained was a ragged and uneven shadow, patched and bloody. ‘You are nothing,’ they said in turn.
By the time the last of the girls drew back, Inevera was on her knees in the water, limp and weeping. Again and again she broke out coughing, the convulsions tearing hot fire through her throat. It was as if there was some last bit of water in her lungs they were determined to expel.
Kenevah was right. The Dama’ting Palace and the Great Bazaar weren’t so different after all, but here there was no Soli to defend her.
Inevera thought about Manvah, and her final words about Krisha. If she could not match sharusahk with Melan and the other girls, she would deal as her mother had done. She would keep her eyes down and do as she was told. Work hard. Listen. Learn.
And then, when no one was looking, she would find Melan’s storage tent and put vermin in it.
1
Arlen
333 AR Summer
30 Dawns Before New Moon
Renna kissed Arlen again. A gentle breeze swept across the thin sheen of sweat on their bodies, cooling them as they panted on the hot night.
‘Been wonderin’ if you were tattooed under that cloth nappy,’ she said, nestling in next to him and putting her head on his bare chest, listening to his heart.
Arlen laughed and put his arm around her. ‘It’s called a bido. And even my obsession has limits.’
Renna lifted her head, putting her lips to his ear. ‘Maybe you just need a Warder you trust. It’s a wife’s duty to take good care of what’s in her husband’s bido. I could paint you with blackstem …’
Arlen swallowed, and she could see his skin flush. ‘The wards would distort even as you drew them.’
Renna laughed, wrapping him in her arms and dropping her head back to his chest.
‘Wonder sometimes if I’m cracked,’ she said.
‘How’s that?’ Arlen asked.
‘Like I’m still sitting in Selia Barren’s spinning room, staring off into space. Everything since has been like a dream. Wonder if my mind just took me to a sunny place and left me there.’
‘You’ve a poor imagination if this is your sunny place,’ Arlen said.
‘Why?’ Renna asked. ‘I’m rid of Harl and that corespawned farm, stronger than I ever imagined, and dancing in the naked night.’ She swept a hand around her. ‘Everything’s awash in colour and glow.’ She looked at him. ‘And I’m with Arlen Bales. How could my sunny place be anywhere else?’
Renna bit her lip as the words rushed to them. Words she had thought to herself many times, but never dared say aloud. Part of her hesitation was fear of Arlen’s reaction, but much of it was her own doubt. All the Tanner sisters had been willing to run to the bed of the first decent man they met, but had any of them ever been in love?
Renna had thought she loved Arlen when they were children, but she only knew him from afar, and understood now that much of what she cherished had been her imagination of what he was like in close, rather than the boy himself.
Renna had convinced herself that she loved Cobie Fisher this past spring, but she saw the lie of that now. Cobie hadn’t been a bad sort, but if any other man had come to Harl’s farm, Renna knew she would likely have seduced him, too. Anything to get away, because anywhere was better than that farm, and any man in creation was better than her da.
But Renna was done lying. And done biting her tongue.
‘Love you, Arlen Bales,’ she said.
Her courage fled as the words left her lips and she held her breath, but there was no hesitation as Arlen tightened his arms around her. ‘Love you, Renna Tanner.’
She exhaled, and all the fear and doubt left her.
Charged as she was with magic, Renna found no sleep as they lay, but she would not have wished for any. Warm and safe, she wondered almost idly how she and Arlen could have been fighting a demon prince and its servants on this very spot a few hours before. It seemed a different world. A different life. For a short time, they had escaped.
But as the sweat dried and the glow of passion faded, the real world began to creep back into focus, terrible and frightening. They were surrounded by the bodies of dead corelings, black ichor splattered all over the clearing. One, the shape-shifting demon, still wore her form, its head neatly severed and leaking ichor. Not far off, Twilight Dancer still lay with his legs in splints after nearly being killed by a mimic demon.
‘Going to need to heal Dancer again before he can walk,’ Arlen said. ‘Even then, it might be another night or two before he’s at full strength.’
Renna looked around the clearing. ‘Don’t like the idea of staying here another night.’
‘Me neither,’ Arlen said. ‘Corelings will be drawn here tomorrow like worms to a rain puddle. I have a safehold nearby with a cart big enough to carry Dancer. I can fetch it and be back not long past sunrise.’
‘Still have to wait for nightfall,’ Renna said.
Arlen tilted his head at her. ‘Why?’
‘Horse weighs more’n your da’s house,’ Renna said. ‘How we gonna get him in the cart without night strength? Who’ll pull the thing, for that matter?’
Arlen looked at her, and even through the wards tattooed all over his face, his expression told all. ‘Stop that,’ she snapped.
‘What?’ Arlen asked.
‘Deciding whether or not to lie to me,’ Renna said. ‘We’re promised now, and there oughtn’t be lies ’tween man and wife.’
Arlen looked at her in surprise, then shook his head. ‘Wan’t gonna lie, exactly. Just tryin’ to decide if it’s time to talk about it.’
‘Is if you value your skin,’ Renna said. Arlen squinted at her, but she met his eyes and after a moment he shrugged.
‘Don’t lose all my strength in the day,’ he said. ‘Even under the noon sun I reckon I could pick up a milk cow and throw it farther than you can skip a brook stone.’
‘What makes you s
o special?’ Renna asked.
Arlen gave her that look again, and she scowled, shaking a fist at him only half mockingly.
Arlen laughed. ‘Tell you all once we get to my safehold. Honest word.’
Renna smirked. ‘Kiss on it, and it’s a deal.’
While she waited, Renna took out the warding kit Arlen had given her, placing a clean cloth on the ground and laying the tools out in a neat row. She took out her brook stone necklace and her knife, and slowly, carefully, lovingly, began to clean them.
The necklace was a promise gift from Cobie Fisher, a stout cord strung through dozens of smooth, polished stones. It was so long Renna needed to loop it twice, and it still fell below her breasts.
The knife had belonged to her father, Harl Tanner. He’d always kept it at his belt, sharp as a razor. He’d used it to murder Cobie when she ran away to be with him, and she in turn had used it to kill him.
If that hadn’t happened, Renna and Cobie would have been man and wife when Arlen came back to Tibbet’s Brook. The necklace was a symbol of her failure to be true to Arlen, a promise gift from another man. The knife was a reminder of a man who had kept her in a private Core her entire life.
But Renna could bring herself to part with neither. For better or worse, they were the only things in the world that were truly hers, the only parts of her day life that had come into the night. She had warded them both, the necklace with defensive wards, and the knife with offensive. The necklace could serve as a ward circle in need, but proved an even more effective garrotte. And the knife …
The knife had punched through the chest of a coreling prince. Even now, its magic shone brightly to her warded eyes. Not just the wards – the entire blade had a dull glow to it. It drew blood on her finger at the barest touch.
She knew the power would burn away with the sun, but at the moment, the weapon seemed invincible. Even in the day, it would be stronger. Magic always left things better than it found them. Likewise, the barest brush of the polishing cloth brought the necklace back to a shine, the cord even tougher than when it was made.