The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 5 KAJIVAH 333 AR AUTUMN

Ashia looked up in shock as wardlight flooded the room where she wept. How long since someone had been able to sneak past her guard? Had she forgotten everything her master taught?

Enkido would be ashamed of you, Micha said, and it was true. How could she lead the Sharum’ting when she could not even lead herself?

She turned to the doorway expecting to see Kajivah, but her heart sank farther at the sight of her husband. Perhaps it was inevera that Asome should find her so, eyes puffed and wet, as much a failure at motherhood as she was in alagai’sharak. He would tell her now, as so many times before, that she should give up her spear. And perhaps he was right.

“Tikka was having one of her fits.” Asome produced a spotless white cloth from his sleeve, handing it to her to dry her eyes. “But I wore her down with patience, though Everam knows, a mountain does not have enough.”

Ashia laughed, sniffing into the cloth.

“Word of your exploits in the night has already reached the palace, jiwah,” Asome said.

Ashia looked at him weakly. He knew. Everam damn him, he already knew of her loss on control out beyond the Maze. Would he have her stripped of her spear, now that the Deliverer was not there to stop him? Asome and her father had both argued long and hard to keep her from alagai’sharak. With Ashan on the Skull Throne, this was all they needed. Even the Damajah could not stop them.

“Those men were foolish to leave their unit behind,” Asome went on. “It was only by Everam’s infinite mercy that you should have been there to save them from themselves. You have done well, jiwah.”

Relief flooded Ashia, though it was mixed in a sickening swirl of guilt. Was she less a fool?

Even more confusing was the source of the praise. Had Asome ever spared a compliment for her? Words failed as she watched him, waiting for the twist.

Asome crossed the room to the greenland bed in her pillow chamber. He sat, sinking into the feathered mattress, then immediately stood back up.

“Everam’s beard,” he said. “Do you actually sleep on that?”

Ashia realized her husband had never even seen her sleeping chambers before. She shook her head. “I fear it will swallow me. I sleep on the floor.”

Asome nodded. “The greenland ways threaten to make us as soft as they.”

“Some, perhaps,” Ashia said. “The weak of will. But it is to us, the blood of the Deliverer, to show them a better way.”

Asome looked at her a long time, then began to pace the room, arms crossed behind his back, hands thrust into his sleeves.

“I have failed you as a husband,” he said. “I knew I would never be good at it, but I did not realize what it would drive you to.”

“My path was laid down by Everam before you took me to wife,” Ashia said. “I am what the Damajah made me, a spear sister of Everam. She knew this, and advised against the match, but our fathers would not listen.”

Asome nodded. “Nor Asukaji, who pressed for the match at every turn. But perhaps it is inevera. My mother told me on Waning that a great man does not fear his wife will steal his glory. He uses her support to reach even higher.”

He moved over to her, offering a hand to pull her to her feet, mindless of the greasy black ichor that stained her fingers. “It seems I am not a great man, but perhaps, with your help, it is not too late.”

Ashia’s eyes narrowed. She ignored the hand, curling her legs and kicking herself to standing. “What are you saying, husband? You must forgive me if I require plain words, but we have had many misunderstandings. What support do you wish from me?”

Asome bowed. Not so long and deep as to show deference, but still a sign of respect that surprised her. Her husband had not bowed to her since their wedding day. “This night? Nothing save a peace between us, and a renewed hope to preserve our marriage, as the Deliverer has commanded. Tomorrow …” He shrugged. “We shall see what the dawn brings.”

Ashia shook her head. “If by ‘preserving our marriage’ you mean I submit to your touch again and bear you further sons …”

Asome held up a hand. “I have eleven nie’dama brothers, and dozens more among the nie’Sharum. Soon I shall have nephews in the hundreds. The house of Jardir, nearly extinct a generation ago, is thriving once again. I have done my duty and produced a son and heir. I need no further children. What child could be greater than our Kaji?”

Asome cast his gaze to the floor. “We both know I am push’ting, jiwah. I do not crave a woman’s touch. That night was …” He shook his head vigorously, as if to throw the image from his mind. Then he looked up, meeting her eyes. “But I am proud of you, my Jiwah Ka. And I can still love you in my way, if you will allow it.”

Ashia looked at him a long time, considering. Asome and her brother had been dead in her heart since the wedding night. Was there any return from the lonely path?

“Why are you proud of me?” she asked.

“Eh?” Asome said.

“You said you were proud of me.” Ashia crossed her arms. “Why? A fortnight ago you stood before the Shar’Dama Ka crying shame and demanding divorce.”

Now it was Asome’s turn to stare while he sifted his feelings and chose his words. “And you stood there beside me, fierce and certain of your place in Everam’s plan. I envy that, cousin. Heir to Nothing, they call me. When have I understood my place in it?”

He swept a hand her way. “But you. First of the Sharum’ting, giving glory to Everam in sacred alagai’sharak.”

He paused, and his eyes flicked to the floor. He let out a sigh and raised them again, meeting her eyes and holding them. “I was wrong to try to deny your wishes, jiwah. It was jealousy, and a sin against Everam. I have repented before the Creator, but the sin was against you. I beg that you accept my apology.”

Ashia was stunned. An apology? From Asome, son of Ahmann? She wondered if she were sleeping, and this some bizarre dream.

“Jealousy?” she asked.

“I, too, crave the right to fight in the night,” Asome said. “An honor denied me not by sex, but the color of my robe. I was … bitter, that a woman should be given the right to do what I may not.”

“Traditions change every day, as we approach Sharak Ka,” Ashia said. “The Deliverer was vexed when he forbade you to fight. Perhaps when he returns …”

“And if he does not return?” Asome said. “Your father sits the throne now, but he does not have a warrior’s heart. He will never allow the dama to fight.”

“The same was said of my spear sisters,” Ashia said. “If this is what you want, you should be making peace with the Damajah, not me.”

Asome nodded. “Perhaps. But I do not know how to begin. I always knew Jayan was not worthy to succeed my father, but I did not know until today that I, too, had failed my parents.”

“The Damajah has promised you the succession of the Skull Throne,” Ashia said. “That is no small thing.”

Asome waved his hand. “A meaningless gesture. Ashan is young. Sharak Ka will likely have come and gone before Everam calls him to Heaven, with me left watching from the minarets.”

Ashia laid a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened at the touch but did not pull away. “The Damajah is under more strain than you know, husband. Go to her. She will show you the path to honor.”

Asome reached out, entwining their arms as he, too, reached for her shoulder. Ashia stiffened in return. It was a sign of trust among those who studied sharusahk, both of them giving the other opportunity for leverage and attack.

“I will do what I can,” Asome said. “But her first command was that I make peace with you.”

Ashia squeezed his shoulder. “I have not broken your arm, husband. Nor you, mine. That is peace enough to build upon.”

Inevera lounged in her new robes on her bed of pillows beside the Skull Throne. Still scandalous by Krasian standards, the bright colorful silks were a shock to the eyes in a culture where every decent woman was in black, white, or tan.

But now the thin silk was opaque. No more would men have a glimpse of the flesh beneath, always ready for the Deliverer’s pleasure. She kept her hair uncovered, but now the locks were tightly woven and banded with gold and jewels instead of falling free for the Deliverer to stroke.

She let her gaze slip across the auras of the men in the room. All of them, even Ashan, were afraid of her. He shifted on the throne, uncomfortable.

That, too, was good.

“The Sharum Ka!” the door guard called as Jayan strode into the room and past the Damaji, climbing to stand opposite Asome on the fourth step.

It was an agreement that had only come after hours of negotiation between their camps. The fourth step was high enough to advise quietly, but low enough that their eyes were below sitting Ashan, and level with each other. The dice had predicted blood in the streets should either stand a step higher or lower.

Jayan’s entourage remained on the floor. Hasik, Ahmann’s disgraced eunuch brother-in-law, now heeled Jayan like an attack dog. With him stood kai’Sharum Jurim, who commanded the Spears of the Deliverer in Shanjat’s absence, and Jayan’s half brothers, kai’Sharum Icha and Sharu, eldest sons of Ahmann by Thalaja and Everalia. Both were seventeen, raised to the black mere months earlier, but already they commanded large contingents of Sharum.

“Sharum Ka.” Ashan accorded Jayan a nod of respect. The Andrah had never cared for Inevera’s firstborn, but he was not fool enough to let the rift between them deepen. “How fare the defenses of Everam’s Bounty?”

Jayan bowed, but it was a shallow courtesy, showing none of the obeisance due an Andrah from his Sharum Ka. “They are strong … Andrah.” Inevera could almost hear his jaw grinding at the title as he looked up at his uncle. “Not a single demon has been spotted within miles of the throne since Waning. The Sharum must venture far to even wet their spears. We have built new defenses and established additional fire brigades in the chin villages worthy of salvage after the demons burned the fields, and turned others into new Mazes to trap and harry alagai in the night, further culling their forces after their defeat at Waning.”

Defeat. A political choice of word. Even Jayan knew better. The only thing that truly defeated the alagai on Waning was the sun. They would return, as strong as ever.

Ashan nodded. “You have done well, Sharum Ka. Your father will be proud on his return.”

Jayan ignored the compliment. “There is another matter I must bring before the court.” Inevera frowned, though the dice had already told her this was coming.

Jayan clapped his hands, and fourteen muscular young men in black bidos entered the throne room, dropping to one knee in a precise line behind him. All carried shields on their backs and spears in hand. Inevera looked at them, seeing her husband’s handsome features on each of their sixteen-year-old faces. One of them was her third son, Hoshkamin, the others second sons of Everalia and Thalaja, and the firstborn of all the Damaji’ting save Qeva.

“The Andrah no doubt recognizes my brothers, sons of Shar’Dama Ka,” Jayan said. “Their elder brothers,” he indicated Icha and Sharu, “even I, myself, took the black at seventeen. But while young, my brothers have our father’s Sharum heart. When they learned of his absence, all demanded the right to stand in the night. Their training in both sharaj and Sharak Hora has been without flaw, and I saw no reason to refuse. I myself stood as ajin’pal, blooding them in the New Maze. Each has personally sent more than one demon back to the abyss. I ask they be made kai’Sharum, in accordance with Evejan law.”

Ashan glanced to Inevera. Raising new warriors to the black could only be done with the approval of the dama’ting who cast the bones for them, and only Inevera and her Jiwah Sen could cast for the Deliverer’s sons.

Jayan was wilier than Inevera had given him credit for. The dice told her he had been the one to demand the boys fight, but none had been unwilling. The moment they donned black robes with white veils, each of Ahmann’s sons would command great power among their tribe’s warriors, and all would owe their allegiance to Jayan. Raising them would increase her son’s power greatly at a time when he might still try to usurp the throne.

But neither could she easily refuse. Inevera’s power over her sister-wives was great, but even she would be a fool to insult them all in one move. She had cast the bones for all the boys in their birthing blood, and by law, if they had stood in the night and taken alagai, they could claim their birthrights.

She nodded her permission, keeping her face serene.

“It is done,” Ashan said, relieved. “Rise, kai’Sharum. Everam looks upon the Deliverer’s sons with pride.”

The boys rose smoothly, but did not whoop or cheer, bowing to the throne and standing with tight discipline. Jayan, however, could not keep the smug smile from his face.

“These are difficult times for Krasia, with the Deliverer abroad,” Asome said. “Perhaps it is time his dama sons took the white robes, as well.”

It was like a bucket of camel water thrown on the Damaji. They stood shocked a moment, their indignation building, and Inevera savored it. She was well in favor of raising Ahmann’s dama sons. The sooner the boys were given the white, the sooner they could take control of the tribes and spare her the endless grumblings of these old men.

“Ridiculous!” Aleverak snapped. “No boy of fifteen has ever been raised to the white.” If he had been cowed by his defeat the day before, it did not show. Healed by Belina’s magic, the Damaji looked haler than he had in years. But if he felt any debt to Ahmann’s Majah wife, it did not stop him from opposing her son’s advancement. Aleverak stood to lose more than the others if Maji was raised to dama.

A chorus of agreement rose from the other Damaji, and Inevera breathed, holding her center. Everam grant she soon be free of these vile men, more interested in holding their own power than helping their people.

“Many things will happen for the first time before Sharak Ka is upon us,” Asome said. “We should not deny our people leaders when the dama are already stretched thin keeping peace in the chin villages.”

Ashan considered, eyes flicking around the room. As Damaji, he had been a strong leader for the Kaji, but he seemed more diplomat than Andrah, eager to please all and secure his position.

Still, Ahmann had ordered him take the throne to keep his sons alive, and it didn’t take a great mind to see that would be easier with them in white.

“Take them,” she breathed. Wards carried the words to his ears alone.

“Age is irrelevant,” Ashan said at last. “There are tests for the white, and they will be administered. It will be upon the sons of the Deliverer to pass them. Asome will observe the testing personally and report back to me.”

Inevera could see the flush of pleasure in the auras of the Damaji’ting at the unexpected pronouncement, a mirror image of the sour cloud around the Damaji. Reading auras was subtler even than the dice, but with every passing day she grew more adept.

The next order of business was the matter of the night’s new Sharum’ting. Since Ahmann’s creation of the Sharum’ting—to give rights to a chin woman, no less—there had been a growing movement among women to kill alagai, thus gaining the rights of men to own property, bear witness, and have liberty to refuse a man’s touch. Women came to the Dama’ting Palace every day, many in secret, begging to be trained. Inevera had given them to Ashia, and not regretted the decision.

Chin women, unused to the yoke of Evejan law, came in numbers, often with the encouragement of their husbands. Krasian women came at a trickle. Three thousand years of subservience had been beaten into them, and while the movement was growing, it was still overpowered by the fierce and near-unanimous opposition of Krasian men, husbands, fathers, brothers—even sons still in tan. Many women were prohibited from leaving their homes without escort, and brutally beaten when they tried to slip away to the palace.

Even those raised to the black were not safe. With the aid of warded weapons, all had taken alagai, but the best of them had weeks of training compared to the lifetime of most Sharum. More than one of the women had been found beaten, raped, or killed.

But there was always blood for the alagai hora, and when Inevera found the assailants, Ashia and her spear sisters soon paid visit. The crime was returned tenfold, and their remains left where others would find them and remember the lesson.

As if summoned by the thought, Ashia entered the throne room, escorting two groups of women to the dais. The larger group, twenty women trained in the Dama’ting Palace, knelt in tight lines as they awaited judgment. Some wore dal’ting black, others the more varied dress of chin.

Ashia kept a hard eye on the women, but Inevera could see the pride in her aura. Her growing knowledge of alagai lines of power and points of convergence had allowed her to design sharukin more dependent on leverage and accuracy than strength of arm. She called the fighting style Everam’s Precise Strike, and taught the women well.

The other group was more curious. Seven common dal’ting, huddled together on their knees, fear and determination in their collective aura. Several women had bloodied bandages showing under their blacks, signs of alagai wounds. One had her entire arm and part of her face wrapped in white cloth that was already stained brown. Firespit. She could see the deep burns in the woman’s aura. Without magic, she would never recover fully.

Another woman had blackened eyes and what looked like a broken nose under her veil. Inevera didn’t need to probe further to know those injuries had not come from a demon.

“Daughter,” Ashan acknowledged Ashia with a nod. He remained displeased with her new station, but was wise enough not to publicly undermine her. “Who have you brought before the Skull Throne?”

“Candidates for the spear, honored Andrah,” Ashia said. She gestured to the women she had trained. “These women were all trained in the Dama’ting Palace, and have taken demons in alagai’sharak. I ask that they be made Sharum’ting.”

Ashan nodded. He wasn’t pleased at the idea of presiding over women taking the spear, but had seen Ahmann do it often enough that he did not resist. He looked to Damaji’ting Qeva. “Have the bones been cast?”

Qeva nodded. “They are worthy.”

Ashan whisked a hand at the women. “Rise, Sharum’ting.”

The women rose and bowed deeply before Ashia dismissed them.

Ashan regarded the group of fearful dal’ting huddling before the dais. “And the others?”

“Untrained dal’ting from a Khanjin village,” Ashia said. Damaji Ichach stiffened. “Their honor is boundless. They took it upon themselves to come to the Deliverer’s call, going out into the night and killing a demon. They ask for the rights the Deliverer promised them.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Jayan said.

Ashia nodded to him. “My cousin does not agree.”

Ashan’s aura darkened. “You will address the Sharum Ka with the respect he is due, daughter.” His voice was a deep boom, far from the quiet tones he had used a moment ago. “You may serve the Damajah, but Jayan is still your superior.”

Ashan turned to Jayan. “I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness, Sharum Ka. I assure you she will be disciplined.”

Jayan nodded, waving a hand. “Unnecessary, Uncle. A warrior my cousin may be, but she is a woman, and cannot be expected to control her emotions.”

“Indeed,” Ashan agreed. “What does the Sharum Ka have to say on this matter?”

“These women are outlaws,” Jayan said. “They have brought shame to their families with their reckless actions, endangering their fellow villagers and causing the death of an innocent woman.”

“Serious accusations,” Ashan said.

Jayan nodded. “With deliberate planning and forethought, they violated the curfew of the local dama and disobeyed the commands of their Sharum husbands, sneaking out of their homes at night and crossing the village wards. They lured a lone flame demon into a crude trap and surrounded it. Using improvised weapons and shields, poorly painted with stolen wards copied from their honored husbands’ equipment, they attacked. Without training, one woman was killed, and several others injured. The fires started in their battle threatened to burn the entire village down.”

“That isn’t … !” one of the woman blurted, but the others grabbed her, covering her mouth. Women were not to speak in the Andrah’s presence save when spoken to, and under Evejan law, they could not bear legal witness in any event. Their husbands would speak for them.

Jayan’s eyes flicked to the commotion, but he said nothing. They were only women, after all.

Ashia bowed deeply, an artfully executed show of deference, just enough to mock without giving true offense. “The words of the honored Sharum Ka of Krasia, firstborn son of the Deliverer, my cousin the esteemed Jayan asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Kaji, may he live forever, are true, Father, if exaggerated in detail.”

Jayan crossed his arms, the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“They are also irrelevant,” Ashia said.

“Eh?” Ashan said.

“I, too, violated curfew and disobeyed my husband to go into the night,” Ashia said. “The curfews are designed to make it illegal for any woman to go into the night.” She met her father’s eyes. “You debated these very points with the Deliverer on the day he named me Sharum, and they did not deter him then. They should not deter you now. By the Shar’Dama Ka’s own words, any woman who kills a demon is to be made Sharum’ting.”

Ashan frowned, but Jayan was not finished.

“Indeed,” he said. “But I count seven women, and only one demon killed. Who is to say who struck the killing blow? Or if all of them struck at all?”

“Also irrelevant,” Ashia said, drawing a glare from Jayan. “All warriors share kills, especially when blooding nie’Sharum. By your measure, there is not a warrior in Krasia who does not claim more than are his due. The Deliverer himself was one of more than a dozen spears in the push guard on his first night in the Maze.”

“The Deliverer was twelve years old that night, daughter,” Ashan said, “and was sent to Sharik Hora for five more years before he was given his blacks.”

Ashia shrugged. “Nevertheless, if you discount shared kills, you will need to strip the blacks from every warrior raised before the Deliverer returned fighting wards to us, and half the rest. The purpose of the blooding is not to kill a demon unassisted. It is to test a warrior’s courage in standing fast against the alagai. These women have done so. In truth, their test was the greater for the lack of proper training and equipment. Are these not the very hearts we need with Sharak Ka nigh?”

“Perhaps,” Ashan agreed.

“And perhaps not,” Damaji Ichach cut in. “Andrah, surely you cannot mean to raise these women? They are Khanjin. Let me see to the matter personally.”

“I do not see that I have a choice, Damaji,” Ashan said. “I am of no tribe at all, and must follow the Deliverer’s commands.”

“You are Andrah,” Aleverak snapped. “Of course you have a choice. Your daughter twists the Deliverer’s words to trap you, but she does not speak the whole truth. ‘Any woman who takes a demon in alagai’sharak shall be Sharum’ting,’ the Deliverer said. I do not believe this qualifies. Sharum blooding does not come without the approval of a drillmaster. Alagai’sharak is a sacred ritual, not some fools stealing out into the night on a whim.”

The other Damaji grunted along, and Inevera felt her jaw tighten. Again the rasping chorus as the old men quoted scripture, related irrelevant anecdotes, and warned sagely against being too free with the rights of Sharum. She stroked the hora wand at her belt, imagining for a moment what it would feel like to blast the lot of them into the abyss.

“Did any men witness the event?” Ashan asked when the hubbub had faded. He still had not consulted the women themselves, and likely would not.

Jayan bowed again. “Andrah, the women’s husbands are waiting outside, and beg to speak before you make your decision.”

Ashan nodded, and the men were brought in. All wore blacks, though by their look and equipment none was a warrior of note. Their auras were colored with rage, shame, and awe at the grandeur of the throne. One of the men was particularly distraught, barely contained violence radiating from him like a stink.

The widower. Inevera shifted slightly on her bed of pillows. Watch that one, her fingers said.

I see him, Damajah. Ashia’s hand hung loose at her side, her reply a whisper of nimble fingers.

“These women killed my wife, Holy Andrah,” the distraught warrior said, pointing. “My Chabbavah would not have disobeyed me and acted so foolishly without their foul influence. I demand their lives in recompense.”

“Lies!” another of the men shouted. He pointed to his own wife, the dal’ting who had been beaten. “My wife fled to me after the disaster, and made clear Chabbavah had been one of the ringleaders pressuring the others. I regret my spear brother’s loss, but he has no right to claim vengeance for his own failings as a husband.”

The widower turned and struck at him, and for a moment the two warriors traded blows. Ahmann had tolerated no violence in his court, but none of the men, even Ashan, seemed inclined to stop them until the second man had put the widower onto the floor in a painful hold.

Ashan clapped his hands loudly. “The argument stands. Everam would not give victory to a liar.”

Inevera breathed. Not a liar. Only a warrior who had beaten his wife.

The second man bowed. “I ask the holy Andrah to remand these women to us, their rightful husbands, for punishment. I swear by Everam they will not bring shame to their families, our tribe, or your throne again.”

Ashan sat back on the throne, steepling his fingers and staring at the women. Ashia had made a compelling case, but Inevera could see in his eyes that the new Andrah would still refuse them. Given the opportunity, Ashan would take the spears from every Sharum’ting, Ashia included.

She should have brought the women to me first, Inevera thought. But perhaps this, too, was Everam’s will.

Living in the Northland where women had as many rights as men had shown Krasian women that there was an alternative to living their lives under a husband’s sandal. The greenlanders had not been able to stand against the Krasian spears, but they had struck at the very heart of their enemy in the Daylight War. More and more women would seek their due, and sooner or later the clerics must be confronted on the matter.

Inevera did not want to overrule Ashan publicly on his first day on the Skull Throne, but if he would not see reason, so be it.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was checked as Asome loudly cleared his throat and spoke with a voice that carried through the room. “My honored wife is correct.”

Ashan’s face went slack with surprise, and even Inevera was struck dumb as Asome stepped down from the dais to take the floor. The boy had argued vehemently against the formation of Sharum’ting and his wife and cousin’s raising.

“It is true my honored father said that the demons must be taken in alagai’sharak,” Asome said, “but what is alagai’sharak, truly? It literally means ‘demon war,’ and war is no ritual. The alagai have made all humanity, male and female, their enemy. Any battle against them is alagai’sharak.”

Jayan snorted. “Leave it to my dama brother to fail to understand war.”

It was the wrong thing to say in a court dominated by clerics, further proof of Jayan’s tendency to speak without thought. Ashan and the Damaji all turned angry glares upon him.

At last, Ashan found his spine, using the same deep boom he had used on his daughter a moment before. “You forget your place, Sharum Ka. You serve at the will of the white.”

Jayan blanched, and anger blossomed in his aura. His hand tightened on his spear, and if he had been a single grain more the fool he might have used it, even if it plunged all Krasia into civil war.

Asome was wise enough to keep his expression neutral, but it did not save him from the dark gaze Ashan turned his way. “And you, nie’Andrah. Did you not argue long and hard against women taking the spear before this very throne a fortnight ago?”

Asome bowed. “Indeed I did, Uncle. I spoke with passion and belief. But I was wrong, and my honored father was right to ignore my pleas.”

He turned, sweeping his eyes over the room. “Sharak Ka is coming!” he boomed. “Both the Deliverer and the Damajah have said it is so. Yet still we stand divided, coming up with petty excuses why some should be allowed to fight while others stand by and do nothing. But I say when the Deliverer returns with all the armies of Nie biting at his heels, there will be glory and honor enough for all in the great battle. We must be ready, one and all, to fight.”

He pointed to Ashia. “It is true I argued against my wife taking the spear. But she has brought us nothing save honor and glory. Hundreds owe their lives to her and her spear sisters. They carry the Damajah’s honor on the field, trusted with her protection. They elevate us all. Women give us strength. The Deliverer was clear on this. All who have the will for Sharak Ka must be allowed to stand.”

He paused, and Asukaji stepped into the gap as smoothly as if it had been rehearsed. The two were ever the first to support each other.

Ashan shook his head. “Everam, not you, too.”

Asukaji pointed to the Sharum husbands. “What have these men to hide, that they fear the witness their wives might bear against them if raised? Perhaps the threat of it will make some husbands wiser. These women have fought alagai. Should our walls fail, they will be the last defense of our children. With so much resting upon them, why should they not have rights?”

“Why not indeed?” Inevera asked, before any of the older men had time to formulate a retort. She smiled. “You men argue as if the choice were yours, but the Deliverer gave the Sharum’ting to me, and I will decide who shall be raised and who shall not.”

Ashan’s scowl was belied by the relief in his aura, spared responsibility for a decree that would make him enemies regardless of how he ruled.

“Umshala.” She beckoned her sister-wife, Damaji’ting of the Khanjin. “Foretell them.”

Eyes widened. Foretellings were private things. The dama’ting were secretive with their magic, and with good reason. But the men needed reminders that there was more than politics at work here. It was Everam’s will that should guide them, not their own petty needs.

The women knelt in a crescent about Umshala’s casting cloth. All of them wore reddened bandages, and the Damaji’ting touched her dice to the wounds, wetting them with blood for the prophecy.

Inevera dimmed the wardlight in the chamber. Not to aid the casting, for wardlight did not affect the dice. Rather, she did it so all would see the unmistakable glow of the hora, pulsing redly with Umshala’s prayers. Hypnotized, men twitched at the flash of light each time she threw.

At last, Umshala sat back on her heels. She turned, ignoring Ashan to address Inevera. “It is done, Damajah.”

“And what have you seen?” Inevera asked. “Did these women stand fast in the night? Are they worthy?”

“They are, Damajah.” Umshala turned, pointing to the woman who had been beaten. “Save for this one. Illijah vah Fahstu faltered in her strike and fled the demon, causing the death of Chabbavah and the injury of several others. The kill is not hers.”

Illijah’s aura went white with terror, but the other women stood by her, reaching out in support—even the woman who had been badly burned. Inevera gave them a moment for pity’s sake, but there was nothing she could do. The dice cut both ways.

“Six are raised,” she said. “Rise, Sharum’ting. Illijah vah Fahstu is returned to her husband.” It was a cruelty, but better than if Inevera had left her fate to Damaji Ichach, who would likely have had her publicly executed for bearing false witness before the throne.

Illijah screamed as Fahstu walked up behind her, grabbing the top of her hair in one thick fist, dragging her backward off her knees. She stumbled, unable to rise fully, as Fahstu dragged her from the room, her wails echoing off the walls as the Damaji watched with cold satisfaction.

Bring me the hand he uses to drag her before the sun sets, her fingers told Ashia.

Ashia’s fingers replied in their customary hidden whisper. I hear and obey, Damajah.

“Wait!” one of the women cried, drawing everyone’s attention. “As Sharum’ting, I wish to testify on Illijah’s behalf to bring witness against the crimes of Fahstu asu Fahstu am’Ichan am’Khanjin.”

Inevera waved, and the guards lowered their spears, preventing Fahstu from leaving the throne room. Illijah was released, and both were escorted back to the throne.

Damaji Ichach threw up his hands. “Is this what the Andrah’s court has become? A place for ungrateful women to complain about their husbands like gossiping washerwomen?”

Several of the Damaji nodded with agreement, but Damaji Qezan of the Jama, Ichach’s greatest rival, smiled widely.

“Surely not,” Qezan said, “but your tribe has brought such drama to the court, we of course must see it through.” Ichach glared at him, but other Damaji, even some of those who had supported him a moment ago, nodded. They might not be washerwomen, but the Damaji loved gossip as much as any.

“Speak,” Ashan commanded.

“I am Uvona vah Hadda am’Ichan am’Khanjin,” the woman said, using a man’s full name for the first time in her life. “Illijah is my cousin. It is true she ran from the alagai, and is not worthy to stand in the night. But her husband, Fahstu asu Fahstu am’Ichan am’Khanjin, has been forcing her to prostitute herself for years to earn money for his couzi and dice. Illijah is an honorable daughter of Everam and refused his initial demands, so Fahstu beat her so badly she was forced to keep to her bed for days. I witnessed her shame personally.”

“Lies!” Fahstu cried, though Inevera could see the truth in his aura. “Do not listen to this vile woman’s falsehoods! What proof does she have? Nothing! It is the word of a woman against mine.”

The woman whose arm and face were wrapped to cover her firespit burns moved to stand beside Uvona. Pain lanced across her aura, but she stood straight, and her voice was firm. “Two women.”

The other four moved in, the women standing together as one.

“Six women bear witness to your crime, Fahstu,” Uvona said. “Six Sharum’ting. We went into the night not to claim rights for ourselves, but for the sake of Illijah, that she might be free of you.”

Fahstu turned to Ashan. “Andrah, surely you will not take the word of women over a loyal Sharum?”

Umshala looked up as well. “I can consult the dice if you wish, Holy Andrah.”

Ashan scowled, knowing as well as any what answer the dice would bring. “Do you wish to confess, son of Fahstu, or shall we clear your name with hora?”

Fahstu blanched, then glanced around, seeking support where there was none. At last he shrugged. “What difference does it make what I do with my own wife? She is my property, and no Sharum’ting. I have committed no crime.”

Ashan looked to Ichach. “He is your tribesman, Damaji. What say you to this?”

“I rule in favor of the husband,” Ichach said without hesitation. “It is a wife’s duty to work and support her husband. If he cannot pay his debts, the failing is hers and she should pay the price, even if he decide it be on her back.”

“Or her knees,” Damaji Qezan said, and the other men laughed.

“The Damaji of the Khanjin has spoken,” Inevera said, drawing looks of surprise. “For prostituting his wife, Fahstu shall not be punished.” A wide smile broke out on Fahstu’s face at the words, even as the eyes of the new Sharum’ting fell. Illijah began to weep once more, and Uvona put an arm around her.

“However, for the crime of lying to the Skull Throne,” Inevera went on, “he is found guilty. The sentence is death.”

Fahstu’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Umshala,” Inevera said.

The Damaji’ting reached into her hora pouch, pulling out a small black lump—a piece of breastbone from a lightning demon. The Damaji’ting knew to avert their eyes, but the rest of the room looked on and was blinded by the flash of light, deafened by the thunder.

When their eyes cleared, Fahstu son of Fahstu lay halfway to the great doors, his chest a charred, smoking ruin. The smell of cooked meat permeated the room.

“You push fast and too hard, Damajah,” Qeva said. “The Damaji will revolt.”

“Let them, if they are such fools,” Belina said. “Ahmann will not weep if he returns to find the entire council reduced to a scorch on his throne room floor and his sons in control of the tribes.”

“And if he does not return?” Melan asked.

“All the more reason to cow the Damaji and recruit as many Sharum’ting as possible now,” Inevera said. “Even Abban the khaffit has more soldiers than I.”

“Kha’Sharum,” Qeva said derisively. “Not true warriors.”

“Tell that to Hasik,” Inevera said. “The Deliverer’s own bodyguard, brought down and gelded by the khaffit. They say the same about the Sharum’ting, but I would take any of Enkido’s spear daughters over a dozen Spears of the Deliverer.”

They reached Inevera’s private gardens, a botanical maze filled with carefully manicured plants, many cultivated from seeds brought all the way from Krasia. There were medicinal herbs and deadly poisons, fresh fruit, nuts and vegetables, as well as grasses, shrubs, flowers, and trees cultivated for purely aesthetic value.

It was easy for Inevera to find her center in the gardens, standing in the sun amidst so much flourishing vegetation. Even in the Palace of the Deliverer in Krasia, such a garden would have been impossible to maintain. The land was too harsh. In Everam’s Bounty, it seemed one had but to throw seeds in any direction and they would thrive unaided.

Inevera breathed deeply, only to be thrown from her center as she caught a hint of the perfume that always signaled an end to tranquility.

“Flee while you can, little sisters,” she said quietly. “The Holy Mother waits within the bowers.”

The words were enough to send her sister-wives hurrying from the garden as fast as their dignity would allow. As his Jiwah Ka, Ahmann’s mother was Inevera’s responsibility, a position the women were all too happy to yield.

Inevera envied them. She, too, would have fled had she been able. Everam must be displeased, not to have warned me in the dice.

Only Qeva, Melan, and Asavi dared to remain. Ashia had vanished into the leaves, though Inevera knew she was watching, never more than a breath away.

Inevera breathed, bending to the wind. “Best get it over with,” she muttered, and strode ahead to where the Holy Mother waited.

Inevera heard Kajivah before she saw her.

“By Everam, keep your back straight, Thalaja,” the Holy Mother snapped. “You’re a bride of the Deliverer, not some dal’ting merchant in the bazaar.”

The scene came into sight as Kajivah reached and snatched a pastry from her other daughter-in-law. “You’re putting on weight again, Everalia.”

She looked to one of the servants. “Where is that nectar I asked for? And see they chill it this time.” She rounded on another servant, holding a ridiculous fan. “I didn’t tell you to stop fanning, girl.” She fanned herself, hand buzzing like a hummingbird. “You know how I get. Everam my witness, the entire green land is as humid as the baths. How do they stand it? Why, I have half a mind—”

The woman mercifully broke off as Inevera entered the bower. The other women looked as if they were about to be rescued from a coreling. Kajivah might treat every other woman like a servant, but she was wise enough to respect the dama’ting, and Inevera most of all.

Usually.

“Where is my son?!” Kajivah demanded, storming over to Inevera. She wore the black robes and white veil of kai’ting, but had added a white shawl as well, similar to Ahmann’s mode of dress. “The palace buzzes with gossip, my son-in-law sits the Skull Throne, and I am left the fool.”

Truer witness was never given, Inevera thought.

Kajivah grew increasingly shrill. “I demand to know what’s happened!”

Demand. Inevera felt s coil of anger in her center. Had the woman forgotten who she was talking to? Even Ahmann made no demands of her. She imagined herself blasting Kajivah across the gardens like Fahstu at court.

Oh, if it could be so easily done. But while Ahmann would be forgiving if she vaporized the entire council of Damaji, he would hunt his mother’s killer to the ends of Ala, and with his crownsight, there would be no hiding the crime.

“Ahmann is hunting a demon on the edge of the abyss,” Inevera said. “The dice favor his return, but it is a dangerous path. We must pray for him.”

“My son has gone to the abyss?!” Kajivah shrieked. “Alone?! Why are not the Spears of the Deliverer with him?”

Inevera reached out, grabbing Kajivah’s chin. Ostensibly it was to force her to make and hold eye contact, but Inevera put pressure on a convergence spot, breaking some of the woman’s energy.

“Your son is the Deliverer,” she said coldly. “He walks in places none may follow, and owes no explanations to you, or even me.”

She released Kajivah, and the woman fell back, weakened. Thalaja caught her and tried to usher her to one of the stone benches, but Kajivah straightened, pulling from her grasp and meeting Inevera’s eyes again.

Stubborn, Inevera thought.

“Why was Jayan passed over?” Kajivah demanded. “He is Ahmann’s eldest heir, and a worthy successor. The people worship him.”

“Jayan is too young and headstrong to lead in Ahmann’s stead,” Inevera said.

“He is your son!” Kajivah shouted. “How can you …”

“ENOUGH!” Inevera barked, causing everyone to jump, most of all Kajivah. It was rare for Inevera to raise her voice, especially in front of others. But more than anyone else alive, Inevera’s mother-in-law could test her patience. “You have forgotten yourself, woman, if you think you can speak to me so of my own children. I forgive you this once, for I know you are worried for your son, but do not cross me. All of Krasia needs me, and I do not have time to soothe your every anxiety. Ashan sits the Skull Throne by Ahmann’s own command. That is all you need know of the matter.”

Kajivah blinked. How many years had it been since someone dared speak to her like that? She was the Holy Mother, not some common dal’ting.

But for all the liberties she took and influence she had, Kajivah had no true powers. She was not even dama’ting, much less Damajah. Her wealth and servants were a stipend from the throne Inevera could easily rescind in Ahmann’s absence, though there would be others quick to try to gain her favor with gifts of gold.

“Mother.” Inevera and the other women turned to see Asome enter the bower. He had been silent as Enkido in his approach. Asome bowed. “Grandmother. It is good to see you both.”

Kajivah brightened immediately, opening her arms for her grandson. He moved into her embrace and accepted the kisses she gave through her veil with grace and dignity, though the treatment was below his station.

“Tikka,” Asome said, using the informal Krasian word for “grandmother” Kajivah had instilled in all her grandchildren even before they began to speak. Just the sound of it from Asome’s lips made the woman melt into agreeability as if drugged. “Please be gentle with my honored mother. I know you fear for Father, but she is his Jiwah Ka, and no doubt her worry is as great as yours.”

Kajivah nodded as if dazed and looked to Inevera, her eyes respectfully down as she nodded. “Apologies, Damajah.”

Inevera wanted to kiss her son.

“But why were you and your brother passed over?” Kajivah asked, regaining something of her resolve.

“Passed over?” Asome asked. “Tikka, Jayan sits the Spear Throne, and I am next in line for the Skull. Asukaji has been made Damaji of the Kaji. Your firstborn grandsons are all kai’Sharum now, and soon the second sons will take their places as nie’Damaji. Thanks to you, the line of Jardir, so close to ending twenty years ago, is set to control all of Krasia for generations.”

Kajivah seemed mollified at that, but pressed still. “But your uncle …”

Asome cupped her chin in his hand much as Inevera had, but instead of touching a pressure point, he laid his thumb on her veil. He touched her lips as gently as a feather, but it silenced Kajivah as effectively as Inevera’s more forceful move.

“The Evejah teaches us all dama’ting possess the Sight,” Asome said, “the Damajah most of all. If she has allowed my honored uncle to sit the throne, it is likely because she sees Father returning soon, though of course she cannot speak of such things directly.”

Kajivah glanced at Inevera, a touch of fear in her eyes. The Sight was revered in Krasia, the source of dama’ting power. Inevera played along, giving Kajivah a measured stare and the slightest hint of a nod.

Kajivah looked back at Asome. “It is bad fortune to speak of fortune.”

Asome bowed with convincing deference as Kajivah mangled the ancient proverb. “Wisely said, Tikka.” He looked at Inevera. “Perhaps there is something my honored grandmother could do to praise Everam and help pray for Father’s safe return?”

Inevera started, Asome’s words reminding her of the advice her own mother Manvah had given her with regard to the Holy Mother. She nodded. “Waning will be upon us in less than two weeks, and with the Deliverer abroad, morale will be low even as the forces of Nie gather once more. A great feast to give heart to our warriors and join the voices of many as one in beseeching Everam for Ahmann’s victory in his latest trial …”

“A wonderful idea, Damajah,” Melan said, stepping forward. Inevera looked at her old rival, thankful for the support.

“Indeed,” Asome said. “Perhaps the Holy Mother could even give the blessings over the food and drink?”

“I was going to see to it personally …” Inevera lied.

As Manvah had predicted, Kajivah leapt at the bait. “Think on it no more, Honored Damajah. Many are the burdens upon you. Let me lift this one, I beg.”

Indeed, Inevera felt a great burden lifting. “One feast may not be enough, I fear. We may have need of another at Waxing, and on until Sharak Ka is won.”

Kajivah bowed, deeper than Inevera had seen in years. “It would be my great honor to see to it, Damajah.”

“I will ask the Andrah to assign a generous stipend from the treasury for the feasts,” Inevera said, knowing Ashan would be as pleased as her to have the woman out of their hair. He would agree to anything and call it a bargain. “You will need help, of course. Florists and chefs, scribes to prepare invitations …” People who can read and do sums, she thought derisively, for of course Kajivah could do neither, even after twenty years of palace life.

“I would be honored to assist the Holy Mother,” Melan said.

“I, too, will assist, as my responsibilities will allow,” Asome said, looking pointedly at Inevera. She had no doubt it was a debt he would one day collect upon, but she would pay it gladly. This was a favor beyond price.

“It is settled, then,” she said, giving Kajivah a nod. “All of Krasia will owe you a debt for this, Holy Mother.”