He saw them in the bandshell as the coach pulled into the Corelings’ Graveyard, stretching in the gentle—yet strenuous—movements of sharusahk. In the square, nearly a thousand women, men, and children practiced with them.
They slipped into scorpion, a pose even Rojer, a professional acrobat, had trouble with. Rojer saw shaking limbs as many struggled to hold the pose—or their closest approximation of the impossible thing—but their faces were all serene, their breathing even. They would hold as long as they could, and every day, they would get stronger.
More and more dropped out. First the men, and then the children. Soon the women began to drop off, as well. And then there were but a few, including Kendall, Rojer’s favorite apprentice. And then none. Still Amanvah and Sikvah held the pose effortlessly, like marble statues.
Rojer called them Jiwah Ka and Jiwah Sen, and he loved them so. Arrick had taught Rojer to fear marriage like a plague, but what the three of them had was unlike anything Rojer ever dreamed.
Sikvah seemed to sense when he wanted to be alone and would vanish, reappearing as if by magic the moment he needed something. It was uncanny, and amazing. She was warm and inviting, caressing him and giving his every word and wish—not to mention every twitch in his motley pants—her utmost attention and effort. He confided in her as they lay in the pillows, knowing full well it would get back to Amanvah.
Sikvah was the heart of their little family, and Amanvah, of course, was the head. Always serious, always in control, even in lovemaking. And usually, Rojer had learned, right. Amanvah demanded surrender in all things, and Rojer had learned it was best to give it to her.
Unless the fiddle demanded it. Since the night they first used their music to kill corelings, his wives had known that in this, he led. Amanvah was the head and Sikvah the heart, but Rojer was the art, and art must be free.
They finished the session at rest position on their backs, then kicked themselves upright. Their students remained on their backs, treating Rojer to a chorus of panting and groans while he approached the bandshell, kissing his wives as they came down the steps from the stage, their breathing calm.
Kendall was the first of the Hollowers on her feet, coming over to them. Amanvah and Sikvah treated his other apprentices like servants, but Kendall they had taken to. She was the most skilled of the lot, turning their musical trio into a quartet, and limber enough to have a real chance at even the most difficult sharusahk moves one day. Her breathing was deep and even, but it was quick with exertion.
“You did well today, Kendall am’Hollow,” Amanvah said in Krasian, giving that rare, dignified nod that meant more from his Jiwah Ka than the loudest praise. Kendall had been included in the Krasian lessons they gave Rojer, which was a great help to him, allowing him a practice partner who struggled as much as he.
Kendall beamed, pulling her loose motley pants into an impressive curtsy. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
Her practice robe fell open a bit as she rose, and Rojer’s eyes dipped, catching sight of the line of thick scars on her chest.
Kendall caught him looking, smiling at first until she glanced down and realized he was staring at the scars and not her exposed cleavage. Suddenly the girl blushed, pulling the robe to cover herself. Rojer quickly looked away. The shame in her eyes made him wish he was cored.
Amanvah picked up on the discomfort in the air immediately. She tilted her head slightly at Kendall, and immediately Sikvah took the girl’s arm.
“You are ready for more advanced sharukin,” Sikvah said, “if you can perfect your scorpion pose.”
“Thought I had that one,” Kendall said.
“Better than any of the chin, perhaps,” Sikvah said, “but you must reach a greater standard if you are to be instructed in higher forms. Come.”
Kendall glanced at Rojer, but allowed herself to be led a short distance away to practice. Amanvah watched the women go, then turned back to Rojer the moment they were out of earshot. “Husband, explain. You often lament at how your people behave at the sight of your alagai scars, yet you do the same to your apprentice.”
Rojer swallowed. Amanvah had a way of cutting right to the heart of a matter. He was more than a little afraid of her sometimes.
“It’s my fault she got them,” he said. “I wanted to show off how good she was at charming demons with her fiddle. Pushed her to solo before she was ready, then wandered too far from her side. She made a mistake, and I wasn’t there to keep her from being cored.”
His vision blurred with tears. “It was Gared who saved her. Waded right into a pack of demons and carried her out. She nearly died as Leesha operated. I gave blood till I felt I might pass out, but it was barely enough.”
Amanvah looked at him sharply. “You gave her your blood?”
The tone pulled Rojer up short like a bucket of cold water. Krasians had a thousand laws and customs when it came to blood, but Rojer had never grasped more than the rudiments. Giving Kendall his blood might make her his sister, or it might mean she and Sikvah needed to have a knife fight. Creator only knew.
Amanvah lifted a finger toward Sikvah. She and Kendall had barely done anything at all, but immediately Sikvah began complimenting Kendall’s improvement. In moments, they rejoined Rojer and Amanvah. Kendall looked confused, but she, like Rojer, had learned it best to simply ride along when his wives began acting strangely.
“You must join us for lunch.” Amanvah’s words were as much command as invitation, an honor that could not easily be refused.
Kendall dipped another curtsy. “Be honored, Your Highness.”
They all climbed into the motley coach, riding to Shamavah’s restaurant. The count had forbidden the Krasians from owning property, but that had done little to slow Shamavah when she saw the building, a large ranch house not far from the center of town. Abban’s First Wife had deep pockets filled with gold, and it had taken her only one session of haggling with the owner to walk away with a century lease that would stand in any magistrate’s court in Thesa. Craftsmen had been at work night and day, adding extensions and additional floors. Already it was unrecognizable as the more modest building it had been before.
First to be finished were luxury quarters for visiting Krasian dignitaries. His wives, finding their room at Smitt’s Inn unacceptable, had transferred their things immediately. Rojer had not been consulted, but could hardly complain. Shamavah showered them in splendor while they waited on construction of Rojer’s manse.
Manse. He shook his head at the thought. He’d never truly had a home at all, and since Arrick died, he’d never had more than a single room to lay his head. Soon he’d be able to house an entire acting troupe with room to spare.
A crowd was forming outside Shamavah’s, waiting for tables at the bustling establishment. Many of the Hollowers had developed a taste for spicy Krasian cooking, and no sooner did one backside lift from the pillowed floor than another took its place.
But Amanvah was Krasian royalty, and Shamavah never failed to greet her—or even Rojer—personally. “Your usual table, Highness?”
“Inevera,” Amanvah said. It meant “If Everam wills,” but as with Kendall, all knew it was a command. “But first, a bath to wash away the sweat of sharusahk.”
Rojer had neither seen nor smelled a hint of sweat on his wives, but he shrugged. Those two bathed more than every noble in Angiers. He had plenty of papers to review in the meantime.
He escorted the women to the large bathing chamber, where Shamavah’s people were already carrying in steaming buckets to heat the water. “I’ll be in the—”
“—bath with us,” Amanvah said, her tone pleasant and relaxed, as if his refusal was unimaginable.
Rojer and Kendall exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “I bathed just this morning …”
“A clean body is Everam’s temple,” Amanvah said, her grip on his arm like a steel vise as she led him into the steamy, wood-floored room. Sikvah had a similar hold on Kendall. Both of them resisted as the women began to pu
ll at their clothes.
Amanvah clicked her tongue. “I will never understand you greenlanders. You bare flesh enough on the streets to bring a flush to the cheeks of a pillow wife, yet you balk at the thought of seeing one another in the bath.”
“Thought men ent supposed to see women naked unless they’re married,” Kendall said.
Amanvah waved a hand dismissively. “You are unbetrothed, Kendall am’Hollow. How would you ever find a husband if men were not allowed to inspect you?”
Sikvah began unbuttoning Kendall’s vest. “The dama’ting will ensure your honor remains intact, sister.”
Kendall relaxed, letting herself be undressed, but Rojer felt something akin to panic rising as Amanvah did the same for him. Her quiet tone was gently scolding. “You will wrap your apprentice in the intimacy of your music, but not share hot water with her?”
“She can have all the water she wants,” Rojer replied quietly. “Don’t need to see her bare bottom for that.”
“It’s not her bottom you fear,” Amanvah said. “And that cannot stand. You will face her scars and make your peace with them, son of Jessum, or by Everam, I will—”
“Ay, ay,” Rojer said, not even wanting to know the rest of the threat. “I get it.” He let her finish stripping him and moved to the bath.
Rojer’s wives never failed to tend him in the bath, and normally by this point he was fully aroused. Don’t want her thinking I’m trying to stick her.
Never stick your apprentices, Master Arrick used to say. No good can come of it.
Thankfully, Rojer’s nerves were taut and fraying, and he remained slack. But then Kendall gave him an appraising look, and he was suddenly nervous about that, as well.
“A woman will forgive a small cock sooner than a limp one,” Arrick taught. Rojer turned to angle his crotch from her as he hurriedly slipped into the water. His wives followed, and Kendall was the last to join them.
Rojer had spent so much time looking away from his apprentice, he had never truly seen her. She was young, yes, but not the child he thought of her as.
And her scars …
“They’re beautiful.” Rojer had not meant to say the words aloud.
Kendall looked down. Rojer realized she was once again unsure what he was staring at. He made a show of dropping his eyes lower for a moment, then looked up, meeting hers with a grin. “Those are beautiful, too, but I meant your scars.”
“Then how come you ent looked at me for more than a second since I got them?” Kendall demanded. “All of a sudden you put a river between us.”
Rojer dropped his eyes. “My fault you got them.”
Kendall gave him an incredulous look. “I’m the one that screwed up. I’m the one so busy trying to impress you I didn’t keep my mind on the strings.”
“I never should have pushed you to solo,” Rojer said.
“I never should have pretended to be ready when I knew I wasn’t,” Kendall countered.
Amanvah tsked. “The water will grow cold before you finish this argument. What does it matter? It was inevera.”
Sikvah nodded. “Nie sent the alagai, husband, not you. And Kendall lives, while they were shown the sun.”
Rojer held up his three-fingered hand, the crippled thing that had earned him the name Halfgrip. “My wives’ people understand the beauty of scars, Kendall. The missing part of my hand is where my mother gave her life for me. I treasure it every bit as much as my thumb.”
He nodded to the raised scars that ran across Kendall’s chest from the demon’s claws and the puckered half-moon on her shoulder from its bite. “Seen a lot of people get cored, Kendall. Hundreds. Thousands. Seen the ones who live to tell the tale, and the ones who don’t. But I ent seen many that get it like that and make it through. They’re a portrait of your strength and will to live, and I have never seen anything so beautiful.”
Kendall’s lip quivered. Water ran down her face, not all of it from the steam in the air. Sikvah moved to hold her. “He’s right, sister. You should be proud.”
“Sister?” Kendall asked.
“Our husband gave you his blood the night you received these.” Amanvah traced a finger along Kendall’s scars. “We are family, now. If you wish it, I will accept you as Sikvah’s Jiwah Sen.”
“Ay, what?!” Rojer had relaxed into the hot water, but now he sat up with a splash.
Sikvah bowed to Kendall, her breasts dipping into the water. “I would be honored to accept you, Kendall am’Hollow, as my sister-wife.”
“Hold on, now,” Rojer said.
Kendall snorted uncomfortably. “Doubt we’ll find a Tender willing to perform that ceremony.”
“Inquisitor Hayes won’t even acknowledge Sikvah,” Rojer noted.
Amanvah shrugged, not taking her eyes from Kendall. “The heathen Holy Men are irrelevant. I am a Bride of Everam and the daughter of the Deliverer. If you swear the marriage oath before me, you will be wed.”
Like I’m not even here, Rojer thought, as the bathing women negotiated his third marriage. He knew he should protest further, but words failed him. He never set foot in a Holy House any time he didn’t absolutely have to, and a Tender’s words had never meant a corespawned thing to him. Creator knew he, and his master before him, had led many a wife to forget her marriage vows. For a few hours, at least.
But that kind of thing always led to trouble. The Creator might not care, but maybe the Tenders had a bit of wisdom in their dogma.
“Ay,” Kendall said, looking down at the water, and Rojer felt a thrill run through him. She raised her eyes and met Amanvah’s. “Ay, all right. I do. I will.”
Amanvah nodded, smiling, but Kendall held up a hand. “But I ent swearing any oaths in the bath. Want to know more about this Jiwah Sen business, and I’ll need to tell my mum.”
“Of course,” Amanvah said. “No doubt your mother will wish to negotiate your dower, and seek the blessing of your patriarch.”
Rojer relaxed a bit at that, and Kendall seemed to settle as well.
“Ent got a patriarch,” Kendall said. “Corelings took everyone but my mum.”
“Now that you are intended, she, too, will have a man to care for her,” Amanvah promised. “Rooms for you both will be added to our husband’s new manse.”
“Ay, wait,” Rojer said. “Don’t I get a say in this? All a sudden I’m intended, and have to live with my new mother-in-law?”
“What’s wrong with my mum?” Kendall demanded.
“Nothing,” Rojer said.
“Corespawned right,” Kendall said.
“A grandparent will be a great assistance when the children begin to come, husband,” Amanvah said.
“What happened to my needing to be free?” Rojer asked. The words sounded like a mouse squeak, and all the women, even Kendall, laughed.
“May I make a confession, sister?” Sikvah asked.
“Of course,” Kendall said.
Sikvah’s demure smile curled just a touch. “I lay with my husband in the bath before we were wed.”
Rojer expected Kendall to be scandalized, but instead she, too, gave a sly smile, turning to meet his eyes. “Ay? Honest word?”
Leesha glanced at the water clock, shocked to find it was nearly dusk. She had been working for hours, but it seemed only moments had passed since she went down into her cellar laboratory. Working hora magic had a similar effect to what happened to warriors who fought the corelings with warded weapons. She felt energized, strong despite all the time spent hunched over her workbench.
For the past year she’d used the cellar almost exclusively for brewing flamework and dissecting demons, but since her return from Everam’s Bounty it had become a warding chamber. She had learned many things in her travels, but none more compelling than the secret of hora magic. In the past, she had been able to do her warding in sunlight, needing dark and demons only to power its effects. Now, thanks to Arlen and Inevera, she understood far more.
A dark, ventilated shed had been built on
her land, far enough from her cottage to keep the stench away, where the bodies of slain demons, rich with magic, slowly desiccated. The ichor was collected in special opaque bottles for powering spells, and the polished bones and mummified remains were warded and coated in silver or gold to give permanent, rechargeable powers to weapons and other items. Some few even worked in daylight.
It was an incredible advancement, one that could change the course of the war with demons. Leesha could heal wounds once thought beyond repair, and blast corelings from a distance without ever having to risk a life. Already her apron needed more pockets for her growing assortment of wardings. Some of the Hollowers called her the ward witch, though never to her face.
But for all the power of the discovery, warding and hora magic was too much work for her to make a difference alone. She needed allies. More ward witches to help with the making, and to spread word and make sure these powers were never lost again.
She went up the stairs, careful to close the thick curtain before lifting the trap and coming into her cottage. There was still a bit of light left in the windows, but Wonda had already lit the lamps.
Leesha had just enough time to wash and put on a fresh dress before women began to arrive for the Gathering. Her tendons twisted like a tourniquet in those few minutes. She felt as if she might snap as the first coach came up the warded road.
But then Wonda opened the door, and Leesha saw Mistress Jizell, a heavyset woman now in her fifties, with great streaks of gray in her hair and deep smile lines on her face.
“Jizell!” Leesha cried. “When you never wrote back, I assumed …”
“That I was too coward to brave a few nights on the road with the demons to come when family calls?” Jizell demanded. She swept Leesha into one of her crushing hugs, stealing her breath and making her feel as safe and protected. “Love you like my own daughter, Leesha Paper. I know you wouldn’t have asked us to come if you didn’t truly need us.”
Leesha nodded, but she did not loosen her hold, keeping her head on Jizell’s comforting bosom just a moment longer. She shivered, and suddenly she was weeping.