The Daylight War

16

333 AR Summer

28 Dawns Before Waning

Inevera tugged at the thick cloth, stifling in the humid greenland summer. Every breath into the veil seemed to add a blast of steam into the hood. It clung to her hair, matting it with sweat. It had been years since she had been forced to wear even the robes and veil of dama’ting, so white the brightest sun slid off them and so fine her skin could breathe as if bare. Save for these few excursions, she had never been forced to wear the blacks of dal’ting, and wondered how women could bear them.

She took a breath. It is only wind. There is nothing other women can bear that you cannot.

The disguise was necessary, and worth any discomfort, for it allowed her to escape the palace and move through the New Bazaar unmolested. She did not fear for herself — few would dare attack her, and more would leap to her defence if any was needed — but the Damajah could not travel without an entourage, and would draw a gawking crowd like scattered crumbs did birds, risking her most precious secret.

Without her dice, she needed her mother’s counsel more than ever, a respite from the wind threatening to snap even the most supple palm.

The New Bazaar of Everam’s Bounty wasn’t yet as big as the Great Bazaar in Krasia, but it grew daily, and would soon rival even that monument of commerce. Abban had put up the first pavilion in the chin village just outside the city proper when Everam’s Bounty first fell to the Deliverer’s forces. Six months later, the New Bazaar had swallowed the village and spilled out into the lands beyond, a focal point for merchants, traders, and farmers throughout the land.

The merchants and their dama masters had spared no expense protecting their wares, laying out the streets in the shape of a greatward, much like the Hollow tribe to the north, with low walls to add strength to the warding, and guards to patrol and keep the streets clear when night fell. In the day, however, goods filled every inch of free space, with dal’ting, khaffit, and chin loudly hawking their wares.

Inevera made her way along the wending streets, occasionally stopping in this stall or that kiosk to add to her basket, looking like nothing more than a simple Jiwah Sen shopping for her family’s evening meal. She fell into the role, haggling over bits of produce and a small block of salt as if she, like most women, had to make every draki stretch. She remembered what it had been like for Manvah, trying to feed four on barely enough money for three. It was strangely relaxing — Inevera knew every woman in the Bounty envied the Damajah, but some days she longed to have her greatest worry be convincing merchants to sell items below market value.

She was almost to her destination when a Sharum guardsman pawed at her behind. It took every bit of her self-control not to break his arm, and several steadying breaths as he and his fellow warriors strode off laughing to keep from killing the lot of them with her bare hands. If she had been in white, she would not have hesitated, and would have been well within her rights. In black, well, who would take the word of a dal’ting over a Sharum?

I should come to the bazaar more often, she thought. I have lost touch with the common people.

Her father stood at the entrance to her mother’s pavilion, calling to prospective buyers in a loud voice. Though there was grey at his temples, the years had been kind to Kasaad. His peg leg was gone, replaced with a fine limb of polished wood, jointed and sprung. He still carried a cane, but used it more to wave at onlookers and gesture to his wares than for support.

Still sober, she marvelled, and when he laughed, a rich booming sound that carried far, it warmed her heart. This was not the jackal laugh he used to share with the other Sharum when they were deep into the couzi. This was the laugh of a man happy and at peace.

So different was he to the man she knew, it seemed impossible this could be her father — the man who had murdered Soli.

Inevera could have breathed away the tears in her eyes, but she let them fall, hidden by the sweat on her face and the thick black dal’ting veil. Why should she hold back tears for her brother, or her father? It seemed both men had died that night, and Manvah had gained a new husband, one more worthy of her, if without a Sharum’s honour.

Her mother’s pavilion had continued to grow over the years, booming into a diversified business that went far beyond simple basket weaving. This was well, as the palm trees that had given her material were now hundreds of miles to the south. There were carpets and tapestries instead, and weavings of greenland material, wicker and corn husk. There was pottery, bolts of cloth, incense burners, and a hundred other things.

Inevera had offered the dice to Manvah more than once, to use as Dama Baden did to keep ahead of his rivals, but her mother always refused. ‘It would be a sin against Everam to use dama’ting magic to fill my purse,’ she had said, adding with a wink, ‘and it would take away all the fun.’

‘Blessings of Everam upon you, honoured mother,’ a boy said as she entered the pavilion. ‘May I assist you in finding anything?’

Inevera looked at him, and her heart clenched. He still wore the tan of a boy not yet called to Hannu Pash, but it seemed she was looking at Soli, or the boy he had once been. Instinctively, she reached out, tousling his hair the way her brother used to do to her. It was an overly familiar gesture, and the boy seemed taken aback by it.

‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘You remind me of my brother, taken by the night long ago.’ When the boy looked at her blankly, she rubbed his hair again. ‘I will look first, but I will call you when I am ready to buy.’ The boy nodded, all too happy to run off.

‘All Kasaad’s sons have that look, no matter the wife,’ a voice said, and Inevera turned to see her mother standing before her. Black robes or no, the two of them could never fail to recognize each other. ‘It makes me wonder if Everam in His wisdom has sent back the soul of my firstborn, taken from me too early.’

Inevera nodded. ‘Your family is blessed with many fine children.’

‘You are the clay seller?’ Manvah asked. When Inevera nodded, she went on. ‘As I told your messenger, your price is too high.’

Inevera bowed. ‘Perhaps we can discuss the matter privately?’

Manvah nodded, then led her through the pavilion to a stone door. A large building backed the pavilion; there the family lived and the most valuable goods were stored. Manvah led the way to a private office with a desk piled with ledgers and writing implements, two greenland chairs, and a small private space for weaving.

Manvah turned, holding out her arms, and Inevera fell into them gladly, sharing a crushing embrace.

‘It’s been years since you visited,’ Manvah said. ‘I was beginning to think the Damajah had forgotten her mother.’

‘Never that,’ Inevera said. ‘If you but say the word …’

Manvah held up a hand to forestall her. ‘The Deliverer’s court does not need to know the Damajah’s father is khaffit, and I have no interest in tea politics and poison tasters. My sister-wives have given me children and grandchildren, and I see my daughter and her sons often enough, even if I must watch from the crowd.’

Manvah clapped her hands outside the flap, and soon a young girl brought in a fine silver tea service, the pot steaming. They ignored the chairs, moving to the pillows in the weaving area and setting the tea tray on the floor. Manvah poured, and the two of them, alone in the office, removed their veils and hoods that they might look upon each other. Manvah’s face was more lined than it had been, and there were streaks of grey in her long hair, bound in gold. She was still beautiful, and radiated strength. Inevera felt something in her relax. Here was the one place in the world she could truly be herself.

Manvah gestured with the spout of the teapot at a pile of pliable wicker strips. ‘It’s not quite the same as weaving palm, but we must all adapt to the new path the Deliverer has taken us on.’

Inevera nodded, watching for a moment as Manvah took strips and began to work a weave. After a moment, she reached into the pile and began her own basket, her strong fingers growing in confidence as she felt the peace of weaving flow over her once more. ‘Some adaptations are harder than others.’

Manvah chuckled. ‘And how is dear Kajivah?’

Inevera hissed as a splinter lodged into her finger. ‘My honoured mother-in-law is well. Still dim as a guttering candle, and still wasting everyone’s time with her inane prattle.’

‘Still no luck finding her a husband?’ Manvah asked.

Inevera shook her head. ‘She wants no man to come between her and her son, and Ahmann thinks no one worthy of her in any event.’

‘And your dice have no answers?’ Manvah asked.

I have no dice, Inevera thought, and needed to breathe and calm herself. ‘I consulted the dice once. They told me Ahmann would accept Dama Khevat as his father-in-law, and that Kajivah could not refuse if he were to ask Ahmann for her hand. Unfortunately, Khevat’s response to the suggestion was that he would rather marry a donkey.’

Manvah cackled, and Inevera laughed with her. It felt good to laugh. She could not remember the last time she had done it.

‘If you cannot find her a husband, assign her a task, like any Jiwah Sen,’ Manvah said.

‘This is the mother of the Deliverer,’ Inevera said. ‘I can hardly set her to carrying jugs of water, and any real task would be beyond her.’

‘Then give her a false one,’ Manvah said. Her fingers continued to work, but her lips pursed as she stared off at the wall for a moment. ‘Ask her if she will plan the Shar’Dama Ka’s monthly Waxing Party.’

‘There is no-’ Inevera began.

‘Invent one,’ Manvah cut her off. ‘Convince Kajivah it is a great honour, and will please her son and keep him in Everam’s favour. Assign her a dozen assistants to help her plan food, decorations, music, ceremonies, and guest lists. You’ll hardly ever see her again.’

Inevera smiled. ‘This is why I come to you, Mother.’

Manvah finished the base of her basket, and began creating the frame for its walls. ‘Everyone in the city knows the deeds of my grandsons, but there has been no word of my granddaughters. Are they well? Progressing in their studies?’

Inevera nodded. ‘Your granddaughters are all well, and will soon be dama’ting. Amanvah has already taken the veil and married.’

‘And who is the lucky suitor?’ Manvah asked.

‘A chin from the Hollow tribe,’ Inevera said. ‘He is nothing to look at — small, weak, and dressed in more colours than a colour-blind khaffit — but Everam speaks to him.’

‘The boy who charms alagai with his music?’ Manvah asked. Inevera raised an eyebrow, but Manvah dismissed her with a wave. ‘Everyone in the city speaks of the chin in the Deliverer’s court. The boy, the giant, the woman warrior,’ she looked pointedly at Inevera, ‘and the greenland princess.’

Inevera turned and spat on the floor.

Manvah tsked. ‘That bad?’

‘I forbade him to marry her,’ Inevera said, not bothering for once to mask the venom in her voice.

‘There was your first mistake,’ Manvah said. ‘Never forbid a man anything. Even Kasaad, meek as he is since you stripped him of his blacks, can be stubborn as a mule when forbidden, and your husband is Shar’Dama Ka.’

Inevera nodded. ‘It is written in the Evejah’ting: Forbid a man something, and he shall desire it tenfold. But my heart spoke before my mind.’

‘And how did the Deliverer react?’ Manvah asked.

Inevera felt her spittle gather again, but swallowed it, breathing deeply. ‘He told me I did not have the right. He said he would make her his greenland Jiwah Ka, with dominion over his Northern wives.’

Manvah paused her weave, looking up to meet Inevera’s eyes. ‘Did you expect that he would keep his wedding vows when you have not?’

The words stung, and part of Inevera regretted telling her mother of her infidelity with the Andrah, but she breathed deeply and let the feeling blow by.

— She will tell you truths you do not wish to hear-

‘I at least had the decency to do it in private.’ Inevera bit the words off. ‘He flaunts her, taking her in my own pillow chamber and shaming me before the entire court.’

‘I didn’t think I had raised a fool,’ Manvah said, breaking off a long end of wicker with a snap, ‘but it must be so, if you think the distinction matters a whit to a cuckold. You hurt him, and he is returning it on you threefold. This was a bill you should long have expected to come due. But in truth, what difference does it make if he bent some Northern whore? Great men are expected to conquer women, and you remain Jiwah Ka.’

‘In title, but no longer in truth,’ Inevera said. ‘I have not taken his seed in almost two Waxings.’

Manvah snorted. ‘If that is what defines a Jiwah Ka, I stopped being Kasaad’s decades ago. I have not had him since Soli.’

‘Kasaad is not the Deliverer,’ Inevera said.

‘Then stop your posturing and go to his bed,’ Manvah said. ‘Show him you remember he is Shar’Dama Ka,’ her eyes flicked to meet Inevera’s, ‘and remind him you are his Damajah. The woman is gone, I hear, and without accepting his proposal. Make him forget her.’

Inevera sighed. ‘It is not so simple. The Northern witch brought more than just her gates of Heaven to Ahmann. She has whispered poison in his ear.’

‘Poison?’ Manvah asked.

‘It was bad enough she and her harlot mother walked the palace unveiled,’ Inevera said, ‘but now they have brought the notion that our women should fight alagai’sharak like the Northern savages. To please her, Ahmann has decreed that any woman to take an alagai in battle will be Sharum’ting, and accorded all a warrior’s rights.’

Manvah shrugged. ‘What of it?’

Inevera gaped. ‘You cannot possibly approve.’

‘Why not?’ Manvah asked. She picked at her blacks. ‘You think I like having to wear these? I look at the Northern women and dream of being so free. Of owning my own pavilion, instead of running Kasaad’s. And why should I not? Because Kaji’s clerics saw women as cattle, and worked oppression into the holy verses? It is easy for you to cast a dim eye. You get to strut about the palace in the nude.’

‘I am hardly nude, Mother,’ Inevera said. Manvah looked at her, and she cast her eyes down, knowing dissembling did not work with her mother. Inevera dressed as she did to tweak the noses of the Damaji and remind them of her power, but there was no point denying that she gloried in it, as well.

‘You never approved of alagai’sharak when it was Soli at risk,’ Inevera said. ‘Should we add our daughters to the fight as well as our sons?’

‘I hated alagai’sharak when it was a meaningless sacrifice of our men to the Andrah’s pride,’ Manvah said. ‘But have not your precious dice told you Ahmann is the Deliverer, sent by Everam to lead us through Sharak Ka?’

‘They said he might be,’ Inevera reminded her.

Manvah levelled a look at her. ‘You’d best pray he is, or you have wasted the last quarter century of your life. And did they not say Sharak Ka was coming in any event? Alagai kill women as well as men, daughter. Do not let the fact that allowing us to defend ourselves is a Northern notion blind you to its power. You remember Krisha and her ugly sister-wives beating your father. There are women built to fight. Let them. Nie, encourage them. Make the Northern custom your own and you will steal the fruit from this mistress of the Hollow’s tree.’

‘There will be uproar,’ Inevera said.

Manvah nodded. ‘There will be shouting in public, and cold anger in private. A handful of idiots with flaccid cocks will pick a few women at random to vent their rage upon. But none will dare oppose the Shar’Dama Ka publicly, and soon enough it will become accepted.’ She smirked. ‘As when you began baring your sex in public.’

Inevera feigned a shocked look, and Manvah winked at her. ‘But the women of Krasia worship you for it, even if they dare not admit it aloud. Give them this, and you will own their hearts forever.’

Inevera moved quickly through the bazaar after her meeting with her mother. She hated leaving Manvah. Each time it hurt anew, knowing it might be months before she could visit again. But she had been gone too long already, and did not wish to raise suspicion that might lead back here. Manvah and Kasaad were secrets even Ahmann was not privy to. Qeva might remember, but the dice had said the Kaji Damaji’ting would never betray her.

But then, in a coincidence so great it was hard to believe it occurred without the aid of her dice, she saw him, strutting her way through the bazaar in his familiar sleeveless robe and black steel breastplate with its sunburst of hammered gold.

Cashiv.

He looked no different than he had all those years ago, which said much for his prowess in battle. His face had the immortal look of the Spears of the Deliverer, so charged with magic each night that they moved a few hours back towards their prime, though their eyes and expressions remained those of older men. In the older warriors like Kaval it took longer for the signs to tell, but the younger ones moved quickly and stayed there. Cashiv was close to fifty, but he had the look of a man in his thirties, still strong and full of fight.

A step behind, he was flanked by two other Sharum, both young and beautiful of body and old of eye. Inevera recognized them both, and for a moment almost expected to see Soli among them.

It had been years since she had thought of the warrior. Dama Baden was a strong voice in the Deliverer’s court, but Inevera had not seen his favourite kai’Sharum since he had cursed her for sparing Kasaad’s life. Had he ever forgiven her?

She froze. Inevera was a common name, and she did not know if Cashiv even knew his dead lover’s sister was now the Damajah. But if he were to see her here …

Dama Baden was not a man she wanted to know where the Deliverer’s mother-in-law was hidden. He might not be foolish enough to threaten her openly, but it was a weakness Inevera could not afford.

I will have to kill him, she realized. Quickly, before he can tell the others …

She readied herself, only to have Cashiv and the others pass by without taking the slightest notice of her. One of the warriors said something, and Cashiv brayed a laugh as they turned a corner.

Inevera blew out a breath. They had not seen her.

Of course not, idiot, she realized. You’re all in black.

Inevera waited in Ahmann’s bedchamber for his return. She wore her pillow dancing silks and jewellery, including a new circlet of white-gold coins, adding wards copied from Ahmann’s crown to protect her from a mind demon’s intrusion to those that gave her wardsight and enhanced senses. She could see the glow of magic as it drifted in whorls across the floor like sand devils, drawn by the many wardings around the room.

She had her own chambers, of course. Finest among all Ahmann’s wives, though each had her own private receiving rooms and a richly appointed pillow chamber for sleeping and entertaining the Deliverer, should whim take him to her door. All were freshly shaved and oiled at all times, ready in an instant for his pleasure.

The magic men absorbed during alagai’sharak — leached as they thrust their warded spears into demon flesh — did more than keep them young, more than give them night strength and heal their wounds. It awakened animal passion — to hunt, to kill, to breed. Even before he had tasted the magic, Ahmann had been a man of great lust. Now his desires were endless, and left many of his wives easing soreness in the bath under the massaging touch of the eunuchs.

But while each wife had fine rooms, none could match Ahmann’s own, and it was there he most often took his ease. His Jiwah Sen took it in turns to await him there with bath and refreshment, clad in bright, diaphanous silk.

The schedule was managed by Inevera herself, one of her many duties as Jiwah Ka. Occasionally she used the dice to adjust the schedule to ensure women were kept with child, but even that was at her discretion. Much like Kenevah’s Waxing Tea, Inevera used the schedule to show favour to those who most pleased her, and disfavour to those who did not.

Those selected would wait upon her as well, and have the Shar’Dama Ka’s touch only when she allowed it, which was seldom. Inevera suffered other women to touch Ahmann for the good of her people — that his ties to each tribe remain strong, and his lust be sated when there were other matters for her to attend — but she took him to the pillows personally more than all his other wives combined. Her near-constant use of hora magic had kept her body young and strong, and her own passions were formidable. Ahmann could seldom relax without a woman to put him down, and she, too, felt her patience thinning when it had been too long since she had taken her pleasure. The other women had her leavings, and thanked Everam for them.

But none of his wives had serviced the Shar’Dama Ka since he took Leesha Paper to bed. Inevera had refused to see him in her ire, and his other wives had been turned away as a man with a new stallion will turn down a ride on camelback.

Despite her mother’s words, Inevera still had to fight to hold her centre at the thought of the Northern whore. When she threw the dice for Ahmann’s first trip to Deliverer’s Hollow and the bones told her he would fall in love with a chin woman and get a child on her, she had scarcely believed them. It was the first time in years she had doubted a throw. Not since the coming of the Par’chin.

Inevera prayed nightly while he was gone that her husband’s heart would hold true, for the dice told only what might be, and not necessarily what would.

But her mother spoke true. Ahmann had not forgotten the Andrah. Killing the man had brought him little peace. She hadn’t touched another since, not even her Jiwah Sen, but it did not matter. She could sense the distrust in her husband like a gap in her wards.

Bedding Leesha Paper and shaming his Jiwah Ka would prove no better balm, but that was something Ahmann would have to learn for himself. Surely the man who allowed Hasik to live — to wed his sister, even — could learn to forgive his First Wife.

Everything has its price, the Evejah’ting taught. Ahmann needed her to win Sharak Ka, and she needed him to give her the powers to do it. As Damajah, she could seize advantages for him that would otherwise be beyond her reach. They must reconcile, and quickly, before the schism became insurmountable.

It was because of that she waited for him this night.

That, and not the ache in her heart.

There was a soft vibration in one of her many rings, and she knew the outer doors to her husband’s chambers had opened. She’d left orders not to be disturbed, so it could be none other than Ahmann himself who approached.

Inevera felt the wind of fear. Would he turn her away as he had the others? Even Qasha and Belina, his previous favourite Jiwah Sen in the pillows, had been cast aside in favour of the greenland woman. Was he bewitched by white flesh as Melan and Asavi had warned? What would become of their people’s unity if it were so? The Damaji and Damaji’ting might suffer his taking a chin woman as a well prize and pillow wife, but to put her on his dais would enrage them beyond reason. Her Jiwah Sen would look to her for a solution, and if Inevera had none, their respect and her power would dissolve like smoke.

But fear had no place in the decisions of an ordered mind. She bent and let it pass over her, falling into her breath and finding her centre. She would confront the problem and repair the damage now, before it was too late.

The doors opened, and Ahmann entered. His breathing was even, but there was the scent of sweat and blood on him, as well as the stink of demon ichor. It was the scent of a man returning from alagai’sharak, and she knew her husband had been at the front of the line, leading men where other leaders commanded from safely behind.

The smell intoxicated her. Countless times he had taken her like that, his lust roaring with the magic that flowed in his veins. She would dance for him, and he would forget bath or sweat room until he had bent her over the nearest bit of furniture and had his way. The memory sent a shiver through her.

All about the room items of hora magic glowed dimly, their power contained by the metal shells that protected their demon bone cores from light. There were wards as well, glowing to heat the water in the bath, to cool the summer air, and to protect the chamber from intrusion and spying.

None of it glowed as brightly as Ahmann himself. The ward scars she had cut into his skin shone with the power he had absorbed in the night’s battle, his crown flared even brighter, and the Spear of Kaji shone like the sun itself.

But for all that he was brimming with power, Ahmann’s shoulders slumped as if weary of a burden.

Inevera waved her hand, activating a ruby ring on her littlest finger that contained a tiny bit of flame demon bone. Candles flared to life around the room, and his favourite incense began to burn.

It was then Ahmann noticed her. He sighed, setting his shoulders and straightening his back, eyeing her warily. ‘I did not expect to see you tonight, wife.’

‘I am your Jiwah Ka, Ahmann,’ Inevera said. ‘This is my place.’

Ahmann nodded, not relaxing at all. ‘It is also your place to facilitate my acquisition of new brides. Yet you made no effort to come to a term with Leesha Paper, despite her obvious value.’

‘I serve Everam and Sharak Ka before you, husband,’ Inevera replied. ‘As should you before me. Whether you choose to see it or not, half your Damaji would have been enraged had you named Leesha Paper your Jiwah Ka of the North.’

‘Let them rage,’ Ahmann said. ‘I am Shar’Dama Ka. I do not need their love, only their loyalty.’

‘You might be Shar’Dama Ka.’ Inevera made the word a lash. ‘Or you might be only what I have made of you. And yet you would halve my power as casually as you tear a loaf of bread, all for a woman you know nothing of. The dice told me to seize you every advantage, but I cannot do that for a fool who pisses on those who would die for him and showers his enemies with gold.’

‘It would never have come to that, had you not refused to take her as Jiwah Sen,’ Ahmann said. ‘Where was the wisdom in that? I came home with a woman to honourably marry, one who could bring thousands of warriors to Sharak Ka and wards spells even you cannot. Abban had already negotiated the dower with her mother, and it was a pittance. Some lands, some gold, a meaningless Northern title, and recognition of her tribe. Yet you dismissed it out of hand. Why? Do you fear her?’

‘I fear what the witch has done to your mind,’ Inevera said. ‘You value her far beyond her worth. She should have been carried off like a well prize, arriving slung over your saddle, not brought to court and given a palace.’

‘The Damajah of old feared no woman,’ Ahmann said. ‘The true Damajah would have dominated her. So tell me, did the dice tell you that you were the Damajah, or that you might be?’

Inevera felt as if he had slapped her. She breathed to remain calm.

‘You did not see her people, or spend weeks with her on the road,’ Ahmann said. ‘The Northerners are strong, Inevera. If the cost of securing their alliance is that there be a single woman in all the world who need not bow to you, is that too high a price?’

‘Is it for you?’ Inevera asked. ‘The Painted Man, the one the Northerners call Deliverer, is the key to Sharak Sun, Ahmann. Even a blind fool can see it! And your precious Leesha Paper is protecting him, keeping him safe to put a spear in your back.’

Ahmann’s face darkened and Inevera feared she had pushed him too far, but he did not lash at her. ‘I am not such a fool. We have agents in the Hollow now. If this Painted Man appears I will hear of it, and kill him if he does not bow to me.’

‘And I will bring you the daughter of Erny, or proof of her disloyalty to Everam,’ Inevera promised. She rose from the pillows, rolling her hips and turning so the candles behind her made the vaporous silks she wore seem to disappear, revealing her every curve. The incense was heavy in the air as she came to him, and Ahmann held his breath as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

‘I believe that you are the Deliverer, beloved,’ she said. ‘I believe with all my heart that Ahmann Jardir is the man to lead our people to victory in Sharak Ka.’ She lifted her veil boldly and kissed him. ‘But you must have every advantage if you are to defeat Nie on Ala. We must stay unified.’

‘Unity is worth any price in blood,’ Ahmann said, a quote from the Evejah. He kissed her in return, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She felt his tension, and knew where it was building. In an instant she had him out of his robes, leading him to the bath. As he stepped down to soak in the hot water, Inevera slipped her fingers into the cymbals hanging from her belt and began to dance in the smoke and candlelight, twirling in her diaphanous silk.

‘I mean to attack Lakton in less than three months,’ Ahmann said quietly, as they lay together. He held her close, his muscular body nude save for his crown, which he seldom removed now, and never at night. Inevera wore only her jewellery. ‘Thirty days after equinox, the day the greenlanders call first snow.’

‘Why that date?’ she asked. ‘Have the Damaji ascribed some significance to it in their star charts?’ She did little to hide the derision in her tone. The dama’s art of reading omens in the Heavens was primitive nonsense compared with the alagai hora.

Ahmann shook his head. ‘Abban’s spies report that is the day the greenlanders bring their harvest tithe to the capital. A precise strike will leave them unsupplied through the winter while we wait out the snows in plenty.’

‘You take your military advice from a khaffit now?’ Inevera asked.

‘You know Abban’s value as well as I,’ Ahmann said. ‘His prophecies of profit are nearly as accurate as your hora.’

‘Perhaps,’ Inevera said, ‘but I would not gamble the fate of all men on them.’

Ahmann nodded. ‘And so I come to you, to confirm his information. Cast the bones.’

Inevera felt her jaw tighten. Ahmann had been fighting the demon prince’s bodyguard, and had not seen the mind demon drain the magic from her bones, collapsing them into dust. Thus far, she had kept the loss a secret to all, even him.

‘The alagai hora tell what they will, beloved,’ she said. ‘I cannot simply demand they verify information.’

Ahmann looked at her. ‘I’ve seen you do it a thousand times.’

‘The conditions are not-’ Inevera began, but a flare of magic from one of the gems on Ahmann’s crown cut her off.

‘You’re lying,’ Ahmann said, his voice hard and sure. ‘You’re hiding something from me. What is it?’ The crown continued to brighten as his eyes bored into her, and Inevera felt powerless before them.

‘The demon prince destroyed my dice,’ she blurted, hating the admission, but afraid to dissemble further until she understood what was happening. He was using one of the hidden powers of the crown.

According to the Evejah’ting, the sacred metal was etched with wards on both sides around the demon bone core. Inevera hungered for the secrets of those wards, but she could not unravel them without taking the precious artefact apart, and even she would not dare such sacrilege.

Ahmann’s look was sour. ‘You could have simply told me.’

Inevera ignored the comment. ‘I have begun carving a new set. I will be able to cast the bones again soon.’

‘Perhaps one of your Jiwah Sen should cast in the meantime,’ Ahmann said. ‘This cannot wait.’

‘It can,’ Inevera said. ‘First snow is three months away, and you have more immediate concerns.’

Ahmann nodded. ‘Waning.’

Inevera woke with Ahmann’s arms clutching at her possessively, even as he slept.

Careful not to wake him, she put her thumb into a pressure point on Ahmann’s arm, numbing it long enough for her to slip free of the bed. Her bare feet sank into the rich carpet, and she padded so softly across the floor that the belled anklets she still wore did not make a sound.

Ahmann grew more powerful every day, sleeping less and less, but even the Deliverer needed to close his eyes for an hour or three, and she had seen to it that he was relaxed. His seed ran slowly down her leg as she strode to the terrace. She wondered if a child would come of their union. Without the dice she could not know for sure, but their loving had been powerful, and it was too long since she had borne him a son.

Eunuch guards opened the great glass doors. Inevera paid them no mind as she strode past, relishing the warm breeze and the feel of sunlight on her skin. The guards who shadowed Ahmann’s wives had neither stones nor spears, and would not dare so much as glance at her bottom.

Inevera leaned on the marble railing looking out over Everam’s Bounty, the green land once known as Rizon. There was a rush of power as she surveyed the land, tingling like the sun on her skin and the seed on her thigh.

Ahmann’s greenland palace was a paltry thing. Its previous owner, Duke Edon of Fort Rizon, had been a weak ruler, coming from a long line of such. Surrounded by vast riches, they had been unable to squeeze forth more than a trickle of gold from their subjects. With such abundance, Edon could have had a palace to make an Andrah sigh with envy. Instead his seat stood a mere four storeys and had but two wings, its walls thin and low. Inevera knew a dozen dama who held better back in Krasia. It was hardly fit for Shar’Dama Ka, though still preferable to the pavilions they had used on their journey through the desert.

Already her finest artisans were drawing plans to tear this ‘manse’ down and build in its place a palace so grand its spires would touch the bottom of Heaven itself, and an underpalace reaching so deep into the Ala that the mother of demons would tremble in the abyss.

But while the line of Edon was weak, they had not been utter fools. The hill they had chosen for their seat had an incomparable view. Everam’s Bounty spread out before her, blooming as far as the eye could see, full of rich soil and an abundance of rivers and streams. Neat rows of crops and trees, cut into straight edges by wide dirt roads, fanned out from the inner city like the spokes in a wheel, here a cornfield, there an orchard. A hundred tributary villages, easily divided among the tribes to sate their lust for plunder after the difficult passage through the desert and hard winter’s march.

The greenlanders outnumbered her people greatly, but they were not warriors. Between Inevera’s foretellings and Ahmann’s Sharum, they had taken the duchy as easily as a cat takes a mouse. Their wealth had made the chin soft.

It was fitting that Ahmann build a seat of power here, but it would not do for their people to grow too comfortable in this land of plenty. She had cast the dice while red blood was still wet on the warriors’ spears, and seen the same fate awaiting her own people if they did not press on to further conquest in the green lands. The desert had made them hard, and that hardness was sorely needed in the war to come.

Much as she hated to admit it, there was merit in the khaffit’s plan to strike Lakton before winter.

Inevera went back inside, signalling her servants for hot water and scented oil. They clad her in translucent red silk. Another woman might have felt vulnerable leaving her pillow chamber in so little, but Inevera was the Damajah, and none would dare molest her.

Silently, she descended the stair her slaves had cut deep into the rock of the hill, leading down into a great natural cavern. Eunuch guards drifted in her van and wake, though Inevera felt no threat as she approached her place of power. She was blind without her dice, unable to foretell danger, but even if a mad assailant or rogue alagai got past her guards, she was not without defences of her own.

At last she reached a great stone door, and the guards took places to the sides as she produced the only key from a pouch at her waist. The key itself was a fake, turning with a meaningless click, but as her hand drew near the locks, the gold-plated hora on her bracelet warmed, specially warded to matching bones within the locks, sliding the heavy bolts free. Even if a thief skilled at warding guessed the trick, the bracelet would be impossible to duplicate, and Inevera kept it on her person at all times. Though it weighed tons, the door swung inward silently at a touch, and closed just as smoothly behind her.

Within, she drifted through passages never touched by Everam’s light. She carried no lamp in the blackness, but the chain of thin warded gold coins around her head warmed slightly, opening her senses to the magic all around her. The power of the abyss hummed in the walls and drifted in the air like smoke, lighting her way as if she strode in clear day.

Inevera did not fear the power around her. Rather, she gloried in it. Everam had created the Ala, and the power at its centre was His as well. The servants of Nie might exploit the magic at its source, but it was not theirs. Warding was the art of stealing that power back and turning it to Everam’s purposes.

She glided along until she reached a special spot in the rock wall, then knelt, shifting a stone aside to reveal her warding tools, hora pouch, and the rendered bones of the demon prince Ahmann had killed, glowing more fiercely with magic than any hora she had ever known.

Ahmann did not believe it to be Alagai Ka, father of demons, but no doubt the creature was his get, powerful in ways even Inevera did not fully understand. It had taken her hora pouch and absorbed its magic effortlessly, leaving her nothing but ashes in place of her connection to Everam.

But while Inevera was blind, she did not waste time on tears, carving boldly into the demon’s bones. Her skill had increased tenfold since her years as Betrothed, and now she could see her work clearly in the wardlight. Already three of the seven dice were restored to her, more powerful by far than those lost. Would that they could give her even partial seeing, like a man with one eye, but the seven worked in harmony, the parts useless without their full sum.

The sun was nearing its apex when she emerged from the Chamber of Shadows and returned to the palace proper. Melan and Asavi were waiting for her as she approached the throne room, falling in behind her as the Sharum guards bowed and opened the doors to admit her.

‘What word?’ Inevera murmured.

‘The Deliverer is just beginning court, Damajah,’ Asavi said. ‘You have missed only ceremony.’

Inevera nodded. It was a calculated move, excusing herself from the formalities of court, filled with long lists of deeds and tedious prayers. The Damajah was above such things, her time better spent in the Chamber of Shadows until her full power was restored. Prayer was pointless to one used to speaking to Everam directly.

Her eyes flicked to the hora pouches of her companions. Had their own dice informed them their Damajah was blind? Melan and Asavi had served her loyally for many years, but they were still Krasian. If they sensed weakness, they would exploit it, as she would in their place. For a moment Inevera considering confiscating their dice or those of a lesser Bride to regain her sight until she had completed her new set.

She shook her head. It was within her power, but the insult would be too great. She might as soon demand they cut off a hand and give it to her. She must trust that Everam would not inform them of her weakness unless she had lost His favour, and now that she and Ahmann had reconciled, there was no reason to think she had.

With a breath to return to centre, she strode through the doors.

As ever, the throne room was crowded. The twelve Damaji stood council to the Deliverer, clustered to the right of the dais. They were led by the heads of the two strongest tribes, Ahmann’s brother-in-law Ashan of the Kaji and ancient, one-armed Aleverak of the Majah. Each of the Damaji was attended in turn by the second sons of Ahmann’s dama’ting brides — save for Ashan, who was shadowed by both Inevera’s son Asome and her nephew Asukaji.

Ahmann had promised leadership of the Kaji to Ashan’s son, though that left Asome, the second eldest of Ahmann’s seventy-three children, heir to nothing.

But there was no animosity between the cousins. Quite the contrary, they were of an age, and had been pillow friends since they were boys in Sharik Hora.

Inevera didn’t care that they were lovers — but she had been furious when Asome arranged to marry his cousin Ashia, that she might bear him the son her brother could not. It had pained Inevera to give Amanvah away to a greenlander, but better that than risk Ahmann giving her to Asukaji in further incest simply to strengthen his already unbreakable ties to Ashan.

To the left of the dais were the twelve Damaji’ting, led by Qeva. Like the Damaji, these women were followed by their successors — Melan for the Kaji and Ahmann’s dama’ting wives from the other tribes. Both groups of women were extensions of Inevera’s will. While the Damaji argued loudly with one another in open court, the Damaji’ting stood silent.

Hasik was standing inside the doors, and he snapped his feet together at the sight of her, thumping the metal butt of his warded spear loudly on the marble floor. ‘The Damajah!’

Inevera did not spare a glance for her husband’s bodyguard. Hundreds of alagai had fallen to his spear, and he was her brother by marriage, married to Ahmann’s worthless sister Hanya. But Hasik was the one who had attacked and bitten her love that fateful night in the Maze. Ahmann had broken him to heel, but he was still little more than an animal. He knew better than to touch the Deliverer’s youngest sister with anything but the gentlest hand, but he had not grown out of taking pleasure in inflicting pain on others. Hasik had his uses, but he was not worthy of her gaze save when she wished to set him to a task.

Everyone looked up at the announcement, turning like a flock of birds to bow as she approached. The Damaji watched her like raptors, but she ignored them, meeting Ahmann’s eyes and never breaking the gaze as she crossed the room. She set her hips to swaying as if in the pillow dance, and in her vaporous robes it seemed as if she were caressing the entire room on her way to her husband.

She could feel the mix of desire and hatred radiating from the Damaji as she passed them on the way to the dais, and suppressed a smile. It was humiliating enough that a woman sat above them, but the lust she aroused was worse still. She knew that many of the Damaji had pillow wives chosen specifically because they looked like her, and took vigorous delight in dominating them. Inevera secretly encouraged the practice, knowing it only put them further under her spell.

‘Mother.’ Jayan bowed respectfully. Her firstborn waited at the base of the dais, clad in his warrior blacks and the white turban of Sharum Ka.

‘My son.’ Inevera smiled with her nod, wondering at his presence. Jayan had little patience for clerics and politics. He’d claimed one of the greenland manses as his palace and built a new Spear Throne, spending his days holding court with the Sharum. Whatever else she might say about him, Jayan had made a fine First Warrior.

Two steps down the dais to Ahmann’s left knelt the fat khaffit, Abban, dressed in fine colourful silk and ready as ever to whisper in her husband’s ear. His presence offended many, though after a few abject lessons, none dared protest it to the Deliverer’s face.

For her part, Inevera found Abban’s advice to have more sense than that of any other man in the room, but this only made her more cautious of him. Ahmann despised Abban at times, but he trusted him as well. Should it suit the crippled khaffit’s purpose, it would be simple for him to whisper poison instead of wise counsel. The dice had never been clear as to his motives, and she had reason to doubt him.

Inevera let the thought blow over her, bowing before its wind. She would deal with the khaffit in his time. She raised her eyes once more to Ahmann.

He had brought the Skull Throne with him from Krasia, and sat atop it on a seven-step dais, looking every bit the Shar’Dama Ka. He wore the Crown of Kaji as comfortably as another man might wear a worn and faded turban. He used the invincible Spear of Kaji like part of his arm, making even casual gestures with it, his every word a blessing and command.

But there was a new element now, the silken warded cloak given him by the greenland whore on their first meeting. Inevera felt her nostrils flare and breathed, becoming the palm.

The cloak was beautiful, Inevera could not deny. It was pure white, embroidered in silver thread with hundreds of wards that came to life in the night, causing alagai eyes to slide off the wearer like water on oiled cloth. The fabled Cloak of Kaji, sewn by the Damajah herself, had similar powers, but it had been lost to the ravages of time, found in tatters in the sarcophagus where they had found the Deliverer’s spear.

Ahmann caressed the silk with his free hand like a lover, and its place about his shoulders said much to the assembled men and women. By wearing Leesha’s cloak openly, Ahmann was saying that not only was she his intended, but she had a connection to the divine.

As I once did, Inevera thought bitterly. She might have been clad only in vaporous silk, but it was her missing dice that truly left her feeling naked.

Still, she smiled brightly as she presented herself before her husband, slipping into his lap brazenly and lifting her veil to kiss him as she squirmed for all to see. Ahmann was used to this display, but he had never been comfortable with it. She quickly slithered off him and over to the bed of pillows to the right of the throne. As she did, she caught sight of Abban’s stare. There was no lust in it, but there was respect.

Remember that, khaffit, she thought. You tried to follow me into Ahmann’s bed with your Northern whore, but she is gone. She arranged her hair, subtly turning the bottom of her earring to listen to the words Abban whispered to her husband.

‘How have you fared in mustering our forces, my son?’ Ahmann asked.

‘Well,’ Jayan said. ‘We have increased the garrisons in the inner and outer city, and begun organizing patrols.’

‘Excellent,’ Ahmann said.

‘But there has been cost,’ Jayan said, ‘in recalling and conscripting warriors from the chin villages and equipping them in time for the coming Waning.’

‘In decorating his palace, he means,’ Abban said softly. ‘The Sharum Ka’s war tax coffers should have been more than sufficient.’

‘How much?’ Ahmann asked his son.

‘Twenty million draki,’ Jayan said. He paused. ‘Thirty would be better.’

‘Everam’s beard,’ Abban muttered, rubbing his temple as the Damaji began to buzz in agitation. Inevera could not blame them. It was an obscene amount.

‘Do I even have that much to spare?’ Ahmann asked quietly.

‘We could increase the rate we melt and recast the greenlanders’ treasury, and the production yield of your gold mines,’ Abban said, ‘but I think you would be a fool to give the boy a single slip of copper without a full accounting of where the war tax has gone and how the new funds will be spent.’

‘I cannot cost my son such face,’ Ahmann said.

‘The khaffit is correct, beloved,’ Inevera said. ‘Jayan has no concept of the value of money. If you give this to him, he will be back for more in a fortnight.’

Ahmann sighed. He himself had never been particularly good with money, but at least he trusted his advisors. ‘Very well,’ he said to Jayan. ‘As soon as you have your khaffit deliver a full accounting of how you have spent the war tax to Abban, along with your projections for the additional funds.’

Jayan stood frozen, his mouth moving but no sound coming out.

‘Perhaps I can assist, brother,’ Asome said. ‘You have ever been more adept with the spear than the pen.’

‘I need the help of push’ting no more than I do khaffit,’ Jayan growled.

Asome did not rise to the bait, bowing with a smug grin. ‘As you wish.’ He may have been heir to nothing, but it was no secret that both Ahmann’s eldest sons aspired to succeed him, and they were quick to cut at each other’s favour in their father’s eyes.

In the meantime, Asome had asked more than once for his father to reinstate the position of Andrah with him on the throne. Thus far, Ahmann had denied him that honour. Asome was younger than any Andrah in history by a quarter century, and the appointment would put him above his older brother.

Jayan was impulsive where Asome was cautious, quick to anger where Asome was calm and soft-voiced, brutal where Asome was subtle. If Asome were placed above him, there would be blood, and many of the Damaji would support Jayan. The Sharum Ka served the council of Damaji. The Andrah commanded them. It was one thing to take orders from Ahmann, and another entirely to take them from a dama barely a year out of his bido.

‘I will have the ledgers brought to you, Father,’ Jayan said, glaring at his younger brother.

His zahven.