The Daylight War

17

326 — 329 AR

— He will hear a voice from his past, and first meet his zahven-

Inevera pondered the throw for a long time. Some of the symbols of foretelling were direct and easy to understand, regardless of context. Most were not. Inevera was more skilled at deciphering them than any woman alive, but even she found more confusion than truth in the alagai hora.

Zahven was an ancient symbol that had taken many meanings over the years, and none could be taken lightly. It could mean ‘brother’ or just as easily ‘rival’, ‘counterpart’, or ‘nemesis’. Men referred to those of other tribes with equal standing in the social hierarchy as their zahven, but Everam was also considered zahven to Nie.

But who could be zahven to Ahmann? He had no brothers or even cousins of blood, and his ajin’pal was Hasik, someone Ahmann had already met. Was there another Deliverer in the making? A challenger? Or was he to meet Nie’s representative on Ala? It was Waning, when the alagai were strongest, and Alagai Ka was said to rise from the seventh layer of the abyss. Was the prince of demons to come to the Maze this night?

Inevera breathed deeply, letting the fear and anxiety blow over her like wind, maintaining serenity.

But even safe within her breath, another part of the foretelling continued to niggle her. What voice from Ahmann’s past, and why did she not know of it?

The past calls when its debts are due, the Evejah’ting taught. Inevera remembered the night Soli and Kasaad had entered the dama’ting pavilion, and could not disagree.

It was just before dawn on the first day of Waning, when debts were paid and oaths fulfilled. Sharum would be sent home with their wages, and sons released from sharaj to see their families.

Inevera put the dice away, breathing until she had her centre, then stood smoothly and went to the pillow chamber where Ahmann slept. Most nights he returned to the palace once the Maze was free of alagai — usually still hours before dawn. He would sleep until the sun was high, rising at noon to begin his day.

But on Wanings, he rose at dawn, that he might have as much time as possible with his sons.

She slipped from her robes and crawled into the pillows to wake him.

Inevera leaned against a marble pillar, watching Ahmann with Jayan and Asome. The elder boys were closest to their father, and he stood with them in the centre of the room before a practice dummy hanging suspended in the air, giving them lessons in spearwork and sharusahk.

Her sister-wives were in attendance of course, along with their sons, who knelt in a ring around the room, a small army in and of themselves. Inevera had taken to calling the Jiwah Sen her ‘little sisters’, much as Kenevah had with her. The diminutive did not please them — women in line to hold sway over their respective tribes — but none dared protest its use. It was Waning, and Ahmann would give each of his wives and sons his attention in turn before the great meal.

‘One day, I will be Sharum Ka!’ Jayan shouted, thrusting his spear at the practice dummy.

Inevera looked sadly at her firstborn, now twelve. He had been bright, once. Not clever like his brother Asome, but inquisitive enough. Three years in sharaj had burned the brightness from his eyes, leaving him with the dead look of all Sharum — that of a brutal, unthinking animal. One that looked upon life and death and saw more value in the latter. Jayan was first in his class at fighting, but struggled with simple sums and texts that Asome, a year his junior, had advanced beyond years since. He was more apt to wipe himself with paper than read the words upon it.

She sighed. If only Ahmann had let her put him among the dama, but no, he wanted Sharum sons. Only second sons were allowed to take the white. The rest were sent to sharaj.

But as she watched Ahmann with the boys and saw the love in his eyes, she could not fault him.

As if reading her mind, Ahmann turned and met her gaze. ‘It would please me if my daughters could return home for Waning each month, as well.’

You would spend them like spare coin on men not worthy of them, Inevera thought, but gave only a slight shake of her head. ‘Their training must not be disturbed, husband. The Hannu Pash of the nie’dama’ting is … rigorous.’ Indeed, she had been training them since birth.

‘Surely they cannot all become dama’ting,’ Ahmann said. ‘I must have daughters to marry to my loyal men.’

‘And so you shall,’ Inevera replied. ‘Daughters no man dare harm, who are loyal to you over even their husbands.’

‘And to Everam, over even their father,’ Ahmann muttered.

And to you, most of all, she heard Kenevah say. ‘Of course.’

There was a stirring of the guard, and Ashan came into the room. As personal dama to the Sharum Ka, he was seldom seen on Wanings, off giving services and blessings. Asukaji entered with him, and the boy immediately went to stand beside Asome. They looked more like brothers than cousins, far more similar than Asome and Jayan.

Ashan bowed. ‘Sharum Ka, there is a matter the kai’Sharum wish you to settle.’

Inevera felt every muscle in her body clench. This is it.

Ahmann raised an eyebrow as she rose to accompany him, but he made no move to stop her — not that he could have. They left the palace and descended the great stone stairs to the courtyard, which faced the Sharum training grounds. At the far end was Sharik Hora, and on the long sides between were the pavilions of the tribes.

Near the base of his steps, well inside the palace walls, a group of Sharum and dama surrounded two men. One was khaffit, grossly fat and dressed in brighter silks than a pillow wife. He wore the tan vest and cap of khaffit, but his shirt and pantaloons were of bright multicoloured silk, and the cap was wrapped in a turban of red silk with a gem set at the centre. His belt and slippers were of snakeskin. He leaned on an ivory crutch, carved in the likeness of a camel, with his armpit resting between its humps.

The other was a Northern chin, dressed in worn clothes faded and dusty enough to be taken for a khaffit’s tan, but he carried a spear, something khaffit were forbidden to touch, and had nothing of the deference any sane khaffit would have when surrounded by so many warriors. A Messenger from the green lands. Inevera had seen them in the bazaar, but never spoken to one.

Inevera watched Ahmann, seeing recognition in his eyes as they took in the khaffit.

The voice from his past.

Inevera looked closer, studying the man’s face. She had to look past the thick jowls and cast back years, but at last recalled the boy who had carried Ahmann to the dama’ting pavilion all those years ago. A boy who had visited the pavilion himself years later, and left with a limp the dama’ting were not sure would ever heal. Abban, son of Chabin, the merchant who used to sell couzi to her father. That was reason enough to dislike him.

‘What makes you think you are worthy to stand here among men?’ Ahmann demanded. The anger in his tone surprised her. Perhaps the debt of his past was to be collected, rather than paid. Why else would a khaffit come to the First Warrior’s palace and risk his wrath?

‘Apologies, great one.’ Abban dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead into the dirt.

‘Look at you,’ Ahmann snarled. ‘You dress like a woman and flaunt your tainted wealth as if it is not an insult to everything we believe. I should have let you fall.’

Fall? Inevera wondered.

‘Please, great master,’ Abban said. ‘I mean no insult. I am only here to translate.’

‘Translate?’ Ahmann glanced up and noticed the Northerner for the first time. ‘A chin?’ Ahmann turned to Ashan. ‘You called me here to speak to a chin?’

‘Listen to his words,’ Ashan urged. ‘You will see.’

Ahmann studied the greenlander a long time, then shrugged. ‘Speak, and be quick about it,’ he told Abban. ‘Your presence offends me.’

‘This is Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook,’ Abban said, gesturing to the Messenger. ‘Late out of Fort Rizon to the north, he brings you greetings, and begs to fight alongside the men of Krasia tonight in alagai’sharak.’

Ahmann gasped, and Inevera, too, felt a wave of shock. A Northerner who wished to fight was like a fish asking to swim in hot sand.

The men began to argue over whether the man’s wish should be granted, but Inevera ignored them. ‘Husband,’ she said quietly, touching Ahmann’s arm. ‘If the chin wishes to stand in the Maze like a Sharum, then he must have a foretelling.’

Inevera led the greenlander to a casting chamber. Ahmann insisted on accompanying her, and she could think of no easy way to deny him. He was naïve at times, but her husband was no fool. He sensed her interest in the man, and if the Northerner were indeed his zahven, he could likely sense that, too.

‘Hold out your arm, Arlen, son of Jeph,’ he told the Northerner when she drew her knife. The chin frowned but didn’t hesitate to roll up his sleeve and hold out his arm.

Brave, Inevera thought as she made the cut. The dice seemed to hum in her hands as she shook and threw.

A chill ran down her spine as she read the result.

No …

She pressed her thumb into the chin’s wound. He grunted but did not resist. Inevera wet the dice afresh and threw them again.

And a third time.

The fate of Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook spread out before her, the same on the third throw as it had on the first. Inevera had cast the bones for countless warriors, but never since Ahmann had she seen the like.

Could he be the Deliverer? She glanced at the greenlander. He was not much to look at, neither short nor tall, his hair the colour of sand and his face bare like a khaffit. He wasn’t uncomely, but neither was he as handsome as Ahmann.

But his eyes were hard like her husband’s, and the same potentials buzzed around him like insects drawn to a lamp — futures where men called him Deliverer, where he was martyred, or died alone, or failed, driving humanity into extinction.

If only I could take husbands like Ahmann takes wives. Her mind ran through the possibilities, but in the end it was impossible. Her powers were not infinite, and even a dama’ting could not take two mortal husbands. Just one pushed the boundaries. This greenlander, for all his potential, could not be the leader her people followed, and there could not be two such men, north and south. The land was not big enough for both. They would tear it asunder, losing Sharak Ka in the process.

And so it must be Ahmann.

‘He can fight.’ She put away her dice and daubed the cut, soaking up the welling blood. She administered a salve and bound the chin’s wound with fresh cloth, pocketing the bloody one.

Ahmann and the chin left the chamber immediately, and she could hear her husband shouting orders in the hall. She knelt and drew her dice once more, squeezing the bloody cloth over them.

‘How can Ahmann take the son of Jeph’s power for his own?’ she asked as she threw.

— When the zahven finds power, he will share the secret with his true friends, but die before giving it up.-

Inevera quickly scooped the dice back into the pouch, getting to her feet and exiting the casting chamber. Ahmann was down the hall, about to leave for the training grounds. She caught his arm.

‘The chin will be instrumental in your rise to Shar’Dama Ka,’ she whispered. ‘Embrace him as a brother, but keep him within reach of your spear. One day you must kill him, if you are to be hailed as Deliverer.’

Alarms burned in the city that night, echoed by bells and the screams of women throughout the Undercity. The first wall had been breached.

It was unthinkable. Unheard of.

And yet it was Waning, and the dice had said Ahmann was to meet his zahven. Had the greenlander killed him? What if they had not been speaking of the greenlander? What if Alagai Ka had indeed risen this night and Ahmann was facing him this very moment? Was he ready if Sharak Ka began tonight?

It seemed the next morning that it had, and he was. A rock demon had smashed open the great gate, slaughtering warriors by the score and clearing the way for hundreds of other alagai. Such a thing had not occurred in the history of the Desert Spear, a calamity great enough to chill the blood of the bravest man.

But Ahmann had beaten them back, resealing the gates and rescuing countless warriors. He and the greenlander had faced the rock demon together on the Maze floor and trapped it for the sun. It was only by sheer luck it had escaped.

But the price had been high. Over a third of Krasia’s warriors dead in one night, and the demon, it happened, was a personal foe of the greenlander. The Andrah had wanted him dead, and Ahmann had put his reputation on the line to save the man in open defiance of his leader, calling him Par’chin, the brave outsider. It was only the broad support of the Sharum and key dama that had saved the Northerner and kept Ahmann’s head on his shoulders.

‘I will need more of the Par’chin’s blood,’ Inevera said.

Ahmann laughed. ‘Easily done. The Par’chin bleeds often in the Maze, but always at great cost to the alagai.’ The next time he brought her a rag so soaked in the greenlander’s blood that it filled an entire vial when squeezed. Inevera had attached a piece of hora to the glass under layers of opaque glaze and warded it for cold to preserve its essence.

Inevera herself served the Par’chin tea the night he brought the spear. Ahmann looked at her incredulously, but she wanted to get as close to the item as possible. The greenlander said nothing of its origins as the other Sharum gazed at the spear in wonder, but he had privately admitted to Ahmann that he had taken it from the ruins of the holy city of Anoch Sun.

The heavy curtains of the dining chamber were pulled tight, and she wore her warded circlet. It was years since she last served tea, but the precise movements of the ritual had been ingrained in her as nie’dama’ting, letting her focus on the spear. It glowed like the sun itself in Everam’s light — power that could only come from a demon bone core. The hundreds of interconnected wards were beauty beyond belief, and the metal was something she had never seen before.

‘You honour me, Dama’ting,’ the Par’chin said when she bent to fill his cup. His Krasian was flawless, his manners impeccable. His smile was without guile. Either he was a master thief, every expression sheer artistry, or he did not realize what her people did to grave robbers.

‘The honour is ours, Par’chin,’ she said. ‘You are the only Northerner ever to add your spear to ours.’ And to dare look us in the eye as you attempt to steal from us, she added silently.

She looked back to the spear. She longed to examine it properly, but dama’ting were expressly forbidden to touch weapons. A great irony, as this spear had unquestionably been made by one.

That it was a genuine Sunian artefact with a demon bone core was already beyond doubt. Regardless of its origin, the spear would bite the alagai like no weapon in millennia. But in the time of the Shar’Dama Ka there had been many such weapons, carried by the sons and lieutenants of Kaji. Was this one of those, or was it truly the Spear of Kaji, made from the sacred metal by the Damajah herself? There was one way to be sure.

It took only the slightest flick of her arm to hook the flowing white silk of her sleeve on the point of the spear. It came up with her as she straightened, then tore the cloth.

Inevera gasped and pretended to stumble, spilling the tea. Around the low table, kneeling Sharum averted their gazes that they not witness her embarrassment, but the Par’chin was quick, catching the teapot with one hand and steadying her with the other.

‘Thank you, Par’chin.’ Inevera looked to where the spear had rolled on the floor, seeing what she had hoped. Along its length was a thin, almost imperceptible seam. Without her wardsight, it might have been invisible.

The seam where the Damajah had rolled the thin sheet of sacred metal about the core.

The Par’chin had brought back the Spear of Kaji.

‘Tonight is the night,’ Inevera said, pacing in excitement. She had known the Par’chin would find power, but this was beyond her wildest dreams. ‘Long have I foreseen this. Kill him and take the spear. At dawn, you will declare yourself Shar’Dama Ka, and a month from now you will rule all Krasia.’

She was already plotting his ascent. The Andrah would move to have him stopped or killed, but the Sharum were already more loyal to Jardir. If the warriors witnessed Ahmann killing alagai on the Maze floor, they would flock to him in droves, starting with those most beholden to him.

‘No,’ Ahmann said.

It took a moment for the word to register. ‘The Krevakh and the Sharach will declare for you immediately, but the Kaji and Majah will take a hard line against … Eh?’ She turned back to face him. ‘The prophecy …’

‘The prophecy be damned,’ Ahmann said. ‘I will not murder my friend, no matter what the demon bones tell you. I will not rob him. I am the Sharum Ka, not a thief in the night.’

Inevera’s flash of anger was more than even she could bend against. She slapped him, the retort echoing off the stone walls. ‘A fool is what you are! Now is the moment of divergence, when what might be becomes what will. By dawn, one of you will be declared Deliverer. It is up to you to decide if it will be the Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, or a grave-robbing chin from the North.’

‘I tire of your prophecies and divergences,’ Ahmann said, ‘you and all the dama’ting! All just guesses meant to manipulate men to your will. But I will not betray my friend for you, no matter what you pretend to see in those warded lumps of alagai shit!’

Inevera felt as if everything she had built for over twenty years was crashing down around her. Had she come so far only to fail because her fool husband had not the spine to kill a man who had defiled the grave of Kaji? She shrieked and raised her hand to strike him again, but Ahmann caught her wrist and lifted it high. She struggled for a moment, but he was stronger than her by far.

‘Do not force me to hurt you,’ he warned.

Now he dared threaten her? The words brought Inevera back to herself. A lifetime of training with Enkido had taught her strength could be taken with a touch. She twisted, driving stiffened fingers to break the line of energy in his shoulder. The arm holding her went limp and she twisted out of his grasp, slipping back a step to straighten her robes as she breathed back to centre.

‘You keep thinking the dama’ting defenceless, my husband, though you of all people should know better.’ She took his numb hand in hers, twisting the arm out straight as she pressed her other thumb into the pressure point in his shoulder, restoring the line of energy.

‘You are no thief if you are only reclaiming what is already yours by right.’

‘Mine?’ Ahmann asked.

‘Who is the thief?’ Inevera asked. ‘The chin who robs the grave of Kaji, or you, his blood kin, who takes back what was stolen?’

‘We do not know it is the Spear of Kaji he holds,’ Ahmann said.

Inevera crossed her arms. ‘You know. You knew the moment you laid eyes on it, just as you’ve known all along that this day would come. I never hid this fate from you.’

Ahmann said nothing, and Inevera knew she was reaching him. She touched his arm. ‘If you prefer, I can put a potion in his tea. His passing will be quick.’

‘No!’ Ahmann shouted, pulling away. ‘Always the path of least honour with you! The Par’chin is no khaffit, to be put down like a dog! He deserves a warrior’s death.’

I have him, Inevera thought. ‘Then give him one. Now, before alagai’sharak begins and the power of the spear is known.’

But Ahmann shook his head, and she knew he would not be swayed. ‘If it is to be done, I will do it in the Maze.’

The next morning, Ahmann returned to the Palace of the Sharum Ka triumphant, the Spear of Kaji held high for all to see. Sharum cheered and dama looked on — some in religious fervour, others in terror. Their world was about to change forever, and any with half a mind knew it.

But though he looked every inch the proud, fearless leader, his eyes were haunted. He was surrounded by a crowd of lieutenants and sycophants, but Inevera knew it was imperative she speak to him alone immediately. She gestured, sending her little sisters. No man would impede a dama’ting, and the eleven Jiwah Sen quickly formed an impenetrable ring around Ahmann, cutting him off from the others and guiding him to a private chamber where they might speak freely.

‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘Is the Par’chin-’

‘Gone,’ Ahmann cut her off. ‘I put the spear between his eyes and left his body out on the dunes, far from the city walls.’

‘Thank Everam,’ Inevera exhaled, unclenching muscles she hadn’t even realized were held tight. Even the dice had not been able to say with certainty that he would murder his friend.

And it was murder, despite the honeyed words she’d used to make bitter betrayal easier to swallow. The greenlander was a godless grave robber, but he had not been raised to Everam’s truths, and she would have robbed the grave of Kaji herself had she known where it lay and what it contained. Already she counselled Ahmann to return there as soon as possible.

She reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘I am sorry for your loss, husband. He was an honourable man.’

Ahmann pulled his shoulder roughly from her grasp. ‘What would you know of honour?’

He stormed away from her, going into the small shrine to Everam where he said his private prayers. Inevera did not attempt to follow, but she turned her earring, breathing deeply as she listened to her husband weep.

Was Ahmann the Deliverer? If such a man was made and not born, would she ever know for sure if she had succeeded, short of him killing Alagai’ting Ka, the Mother of All Demons?

Surely Inevera had seized advantages for him, but if it was anyone, it had to be him. He had excelled at every test in his life, and even if he took it by force, the spear had come to him as if by fate. Any other man would have stabbed the greenlander without a second thought, but for all his power and station, Ahmann still wept over the betrayal.

Would he have seized the moment, if she had not commanded it? Even if she had never met him? If he was the strong but illiterate and racist animal that the Kaji’sharaj usually produced, would he have befriended the Par’chin all the same, and killed him when it was time? Was there something divine in Ahmann that would have clawed its way to power no matter how low his station?

She did not know.

‘Today,’ Ahmann said as Inevera helped him into his armoured robes.

It was almost half a year since he took the spear, the last press for the Palace of the Andrah. He could have taken the city sooner if he had wished for vast bloodshed, but Ahmann was content to wait and let men come to him, as more did each day.

‘We have more men inside the palace than he does now,’ Ahmann said. ‘They will open the gates at dawn, killing the last remaining Sharum who hold to the old ways. By noon I will sit the Skull Throne. I will send a runner when it is safe for you and your Jiwah Sen to enter.’

Inevera nodded as if this were great news, though she had listened in on his secret meetings with his generals and confirmed his conclusions with the dice. She had needed to say or do little once the spear was in Ahmann’s hands. She had groomed him to conquer and lead, and he took to those things like a bird to the sky.

Ahmann left to meet his men, and Inevera called her little sisters. They stripped her of her white silken robes, and she stepped into the steaming bath where Everalia and Thalaja waited to scrub her skin and massage her with scented oil.

‘Bring me my red pillow dancing silks,’ she told Qasha, who hurried to comply.

‘Clever,’ Belina said, smiling. ‘You will wear them under your whites, the quicker to help our husband celebrate his rise.’

Inevera threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh, little sister. I am never wearing my whites again.’

Inevera lay on the pillows beside the Skull Throne of Sharik Hora. The temple of heroes’ bones itself was their palace now, and there was old magic here. Not as flashy as that given by demon bones, but no less potent. Millions of men had died proudly to decorate this place, their spirits bound to the stone.

Knowing their ancestors were watching made her feel all the more wanton, lying on a bed of silk pillows clad only in transparent silk. The pants were slit up each leg, gathered with gold at the cuffs, and would flash long strips of bare leg as she moved. The top was a long strip of silk that barely covered her breasts, and did nothing to hide them. It was tied in a simple knot beneath her shoulder blades, the long ends streaming loose along her arms and fastened to golden bracelets. Her hair was oiled and bound in gold.

But there was power in that, too. Ahmann hated seeing his wife displayed so, but it was good to remind him publicly that even as Shar’Dama Ka, his power was not infinite. Thus, he was forced to pretend it was his choice.

It was an important lesson, and unless she missed her guess, she was about to teach it again. Before them stood Kajivah, Ashan, Imisandre, Hoshvah, and Hanya, along with Ahmann’s nieces Ashia, Shanvah, and Sikvah.

‘Hannu Pash has called my son Asukaji to take the white, Holy Deliverer,’ Ashan was saying, ‘but my daughter Ashia, blood of your blood, has been given blacks by the dama’ting. It is an insult.’

‘You should cherish your daughters, Ashan,’ Ahmann said. ‘If they enter the Dama’ting Palace, you may never see them again. There is no dishonour in being dal’ting.’ He gestured to Kajivah.

Ashan bowed deeply to the woman. ‘I mean no disrespect, Holy Mother.’

Kajivah bowed in return. ‘There is none taken, Damaji.’ She turned to her son, and even though he sat seven steps above her, it seemed she was looking down at him.

‘There is no dishonour in dal’ting, my son, but there is burden. Burden your sisters and I carried for many years. Would you have the law defend a husband who strikes a child of your blood?’

Ahmann turned to Inevera, but she cut him off before he could speak. ‘The dice did not call them.’ The words were quiet, for him alone, a benefit from sitting on high with him. ‘Would you take a cripple as Sharum?’

Ahmann scowled, but kept his voice equally low. ‘Are you saying my nieces are no better than cripples?’

Inevera shook her head. ‘I am saying they were meant for other things. One need not take orders to be great, beloved. Witness yourself. If you wish, I will take the girls into the Dama’ting Palace and train them, as you were trained in Sharik Hora.’

Ahmann looked at her a moment, then nodded, turning back to the others. ‘The girls shall be taken into the Dama’ting Palace as dal’ting, and trained. They shall emerge as kai’ting, and once married wear a white veil with their black headscarves and robes, as shall my mother and sisters from this day forth. As with the dama’ting, any man caught striking a kai’ting will lose either the offending limb or his life.’

‘Deliverer-’ Ashan began.

Ahmann cut him off with a subtle wave of his spear. ‘I have spoken, Ashan.’

Inevera rose as the Damaji fell back, humbled. She clapped once, rubbing her hands together as she took in the three girls, still so young and pliable. In truth, she had no idea what she would do with them, but that was sometimes the way.

Plant the seeds you have, the Evejah’ting said. For they may bear unexpected fruit.

Inevera escorted the girls out of the great chamber through her own personal entrance. There, just inside the door, stood Qeva and Enkido, who would have heard, by way of precise acoustics, every word in the main chamber.

‘The girls will be taught letters, singing, and pillow dancing for four hours each day,’ Inevera told Qeva. ‘The other twenty, they belong to Enkido.’

Ashia gasped at that, and Shanvah clutched at her. Sikvah began to cry.

Inevera ignored them, turning to the eunuch. ‘Make something worthy out of them.’