The Daylight War

9

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 cover 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.

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.’

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 men 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?” ’

‘And from that night on, I knew I would find you in the Maze after your first alagai’sharak, and more, that I would marry you and bear you many children.’

Inevera had rehearsed the tale so many times that she spoke with utter conviction, despite the lies and half-truths. But in the end, her words did not matter. Their union had been destined by Everam. They were meant for each other. That was why he was looking at her that way, making her face heat and her dama’ting calm slip. She was caught in his wind.

She almost broke and told him everything. Looking into his honest eyes, she had little fear this one would grow into a monster. He was chosen by Everam. If any could shoulder the burden, it was he.

But how does one tell someone he might be the Deliverer? It was too much, and this night was too important. It must be perfect.

She shrugged her shoulders, and her white robes fell away with a sigh of silk. She was clad only in her bido now, finger cymbals tucked into its weave. She rubbed her thumbs over the smooth tips of her index fingers, limbering them. She would step into him, allowing him to caress her until his breathing laboured; then she would use sharusahk to break the line of power in his leg, a whisper touch that would send him stumbling back onto the pillows. Then she would slide her fingers into the cymbals and beat a rhythm to set his loins ablaze.

And then she would dance, slowly unweaving her bido for the last time. The dance, like the speech, had been rehearsed so carefully every move was a part of her.

When Ahmann was firmly under her control, she would fall into the pillows and ruin him so utterly that every woman to come after her would prove a disappointment.

But he was still staring at her, and the smoulder in his eyes was brightening into fire. She felt its heat, and flushed. The incense hung heavy in the air as she tried to breathe, making her dizzy, her centre elusive. She knew she should act, but the thought came as if from outside her body.

She watched helplessly as Ahmann stripped his outer robe and went to her bare-chested, crushing her to him and running his hands over her body. He inhaled the perfume at her throat and let out a growl that seemed to resonate between her legs. He held her close to him, kissing her and stealing her breath, her centre. She felt the stiffness in his pantaloons, and knew all her plans might be undone if she allowed him to take her like a common jiwah, but somehow he had broken the lines of power in her limbs, and she was helpless as he threw her down to the pillows.

He was on her in an instant, hands and mouth roaming her body, kissing here and biting there, squeezing so hard in places that she squirmed. His hands found their way between her legs, caressing the silk of her bido weave. Inevera groaned, grinding into him further.

I must take control, she thought desperately, or he will ever have of me as he will.

She twisted and rolled atop him, undoing the laces at his waist and untying his bido. There was oil in the chamber, and she wet her hands in it, taking him in the first of the seven strokes.

Ahmann grunted and fell back, caught in ecstasy, and Inevera began to breathe again.

I have him now.

But she didn’t have him for long. The strokes were designed to take a man’s arousal to a steady pace and hold him there, but Ahmann only became more incensed. She altered her strokes, but still they were not enough for him. He took her in his powerful arms and reached down, sticking fingers into her bido and attempting to yank it off.

But the nie’dama’ting bido wrap was made of stronger stuff, and thwarted him. He grunted and yanked harder. Inevera gasped.

Ahmann growled, fumbling at the weave for its ends and failing to find them. He locked his fingers into the weave and tried to snap the silk, but it resisted even when he ground his teeth in strain.

‘You will not get through until I unweave it,’ Inevera told him, pushing him back into the pillows. ‘I will dance …’

‘Later.’ Ahmann grabbed her arm hard, pulling her back down with him. He reached into his pantaloons and pulled forth a knife.

‘You cannot …’ she gasped.

‘I am your husband,’ he said. ‘I have been dreaming of you for years, and now you are in my arms. It is inevera, and I will not wait a moment longer.’

She could have stopped him. Could have numbed his knife arm, or twisted away, but she hesitated. In an instant the silk was cut and he was inside her.

None of Inevera’s lessons had prepared her for the rush of pleasure as her husband took her. She might have been overwhelmed, but for the countless hours spent practising the pillow dance. Her hips moved of their own accord, twisting as her thighs gripped him, pulling him into her more forcefully at times, and holding him at bay at others.

But Ahmann was no meek eunuch, and she found the practised poses harder to hold when her own senses were aflame. Ahmann made up for his lack of experience in passion, and they wrestled in the pillows for control. Inevera felt her own climax building and against all wisdom let it take hold, racking her from skin to centre. She howled, and Ahmann began to thrust with abandon. She tightened, her nails digging into his hard buttocks until he roared and they both collapsed panting and spent.

They slept for a time, and then Inevera woke to Ahmann caressing her again. His breathing was deep and even.

Even in his sleep, my wolf paws me, she thought with pride, and wriggled her hips back into him, feeling his night stiffness.

But Ahmann was not quite as asleep as he seemed. He pushed her onto her stomach and mounted her like a dog mounts a bitch, grunting softly as he ground into her.

When you control a man’s cock, you control him, Qeva had taught, but Inevera felt no control here. In some ways, she wanted none. How was this possible?

Because he’s not just a man, a voice within her said. He’s the Deliverer.

She groaned into the pillows.

You have the Deliverer’s cock in you.

Her groans became a cry. She thrust back at him hard, and soon he was spent as well, and fell into a deep sleep.

But Inevera did not sleep again. She lay awake through the rest of the night.

The dice were tricky, giving only half-truths at times.

She had known she was to make him a man, but she hadn’t expected him to make her a woman as well.