The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 27 DAMA IN THE DARK 334 AR WINTER

“They said I was cursed by Everam, to bear three daughters after Ahmann,” Kajivah told the crowd, waving a hand at Imisandre, Hoshvah, and Hanya. The Holy Mother was clad in plain black wool. She wore the white veil of kai’ting, but unlike the other women of Ahmann’s blood, Kajivah had taken to wearing a white headwrap, as well.

Inevera, watching from the royal tier as the Holy Mother gave the blessing over the Waning feast, wished she could be anywhere else. She had heard the idiot woman give this speech a thousand times.

“But I always said Everam blessed me with a son so great, he needed no brothers!” The crowd erupted in a roar of approval at the words, warriors stomping feet and clattering spears on shields as their wives clapped and children cheered.

“We thank Everam for the food we are about to partake of, richer fare than many of us knew before Ahmann led us from the Desert Spear into the green lands,” Kajivah went on. “But I wish to thank the women who worked so hard preparing the feast as well.”

More applause. “We honor the Sharum’ting who stand tall in the night, but there are other ways to give honor to the Creator. The wives and daughters who keep the bellies of our men full, their houses clean, their cribs full of children. We honor today the men who protect us from the alagai, but also the women who brought them forth and suckled them, who taught them honor and duty and love of family. Women who are modest and humble before Everam, providing the foundation our fighting men depend upon.”

The cheering increased, with women wailing in love and devotion. Inevera saw more than one woman openly weeping, and couldn’t believe it.

“Too many of us are forgetting who we are and where we come from, lowering our veils and coveting the immodest dress of the Northern women. Women daring to wear colors, as if they were the Damajah herself!” Kajivah swept a hand at Inevera, and there were boos and hisses. Inevera knew they were directed at immodest women, but she could not help but prickle at the sound of hisses to her name.

“The Damajah was wise in giving the Holy Mother this task,” Ashan said. “The people love her.”

Inevera was not so sure. It seemed harmless enough, asking Kajivah to plan feasts. It kept her busy and out of Inevera’s way. But somehow the fool woman was winning the hearts of the people with her uneducated ways and conservative values. It was a time of change for their people. They could not continue the insular ways they had developed over centuries in the Desert Spear if they were to win Sharak Sun.

Kajivah showed no sign of slowing, warming to a sermon like a dama who’d caught the Sharum with dice and couzi. For a woman with an empty head, Kajivah could talk for hours if unchecked.

Inevera stood, and instantly the crowd fell silent, women falling to their knees and putting hands on the floor as the men, from Damaji to Sharum, bowed deeply.

The sight used to comfort her. A reminder of her power and divine status. But there was power, too, in leading the cheers of the crowd. Too much, perhaps, for a simple woman like Kajivah.

“The Holy Mother is indeed humble,” Inevera said. “For none has worked harder to prepare this grand feast than Kajivah herself.” The crowd roared again, and Inevera grit her teeth. “We can do her no greater honor than sitting to it. In Everam’s name, let us begin the feast.”

“I fear we may have opened a djinn bottle with that one,” Inevera said.

Her mother, Manvah, sipped her tea. It was her first visit to the royal chambers, but if she was impressed by the opulence around her, she gave no sign.

“Having dealt with the woman directly, I would have to agree,” Manvah said. Manvah’s pavilion in the new bazaar provided many of the implements used in the Waning feast, earning her an invitation. Her khaffit husband, Kasaad, had been asked not to attend.

It had been a risk, slipping her in for a private audience, but Inevera needed her mother now more than ever. The eunuch who ushered her through the secret passages had been drugged. He would wake with no memory of the woman, and with her veil in place Manvah would look like any other woman as she slipped out from the passage into the public section of the palace.

“I thought her a poor haggler at first, but after enduring a few of her tantrums, I see I undercharged.” Manvah shook her head. “I’m afraid I advised you poorly in this case, daughter. I will deduct it from your debt.”

Inevera smiled. It was a joke between them, for Manvah made Inevera, the Damajah, weave palm for her whenever her daughter came to her for advice.

“They aren’t an act,” Inevera said. Manvah had taught her early how a proper tantrum could aid in haggling, but it was always calculated. A good haggler never lost their temper.

Kajivah had no control over hers.

“Yet the people love her,” Manvah said. “Even dama’ting hop when she speaks.”

“Nie take me if I can understand why,” Inevera said.

“It’s simple enough,” Manvah said. “It is a time of great upheaval for our people, leaving many without sure footing. Kajivah gives them that, speaking in a way the masses can understand. She walks among them, knows them. You spend your time here in the palace, far removed.”

“If she were not the Deliverer’s mother, I would poison her and be done,” Inevera said.

“Ahmann would not appreciate that upon his return,” Manvah said. “Not even you could hide such a thing from the divine sight of Shar’Dama Ka.”

“No.” Inevera dropped her eyes. “But Ahmann is not coming back.”

Manvah looked at her in surprise. “What? Have your dice told you this?”

“Not directly,” Inevera said. “But they made reference to the corpse of Shar’Dama Ka, and I can see him in no futures. Barring a miracle of Everam, our people must go on without him until I can make another.”

“Make?” Manvah asked.

“Of all the mysteries the dice have revealed to me,” Inevera said, “none struck so hard as the knowledge that Deliverers are made, not born. The dice will guide me to his successor, and how to shape him.”

Inevera expected Manvah to gasp as she had, but in typical fashion, Manvah absorbed the information with a grunt and went on. “Who will it be, then? Not Ashan, surely. Jayan? Asome?”

Inevera sighed. “The moment I cast the dice for Ahmann, a boy of nine, I saw the potential in him. I would have thought it a fluke, but after years of searching I found it in another, the Par’chin, who was younger than Asome. Never before or since those two have I seen a boy or man with even the hope of following the Deliverer’s path. One of my sons may yet need to take the throne, but they will only be holding it for the one to come next.”

“None rise willingly from a throne once it is sat,” Manvah said.

“And so it is my hope to hold them off as long as I can,” Inevera said. “There is still time, Everam willing. Neither boy has proven himself in any significant way. Without deeds, neither of them can wrest power from the Andrah. My concern this day is how to keep Kajivah in check.”

“I hate to suggest it,” Manvah said, “but the answer may well be spending more time with her.”

Inevera stared at her blankly.

“And making your raiment a touch more modest.” Only the corners of Manvah’s mouth were touched by her smile, but it was unmistakable.

Ashia watched impassively as Asome cut his hand, squeezing blood over Melan’s dice.

Her husband had done this often since word of the impending attack on Docktown had come to them. Asome’s hands were covered in bandages.

Asome and Asukaji still stared at the process in fascination. Growing into womanhood in the Dama’ting Palace, Ashia had seen the casting ritual countless times, but even she found her eyes drawn to it. There was beauty in the alagai hora, and mystery. She tracked the dice as Melan threw, breath held in anticipation of that exquisite moment when the dice were struck from their natural trajectory, moved by the hand of Everam.

She knew in her heart the power came from the bones and the wards, but Ashia did not believe any but the Brides of Everam could summon His hand. To any other, they would just be dice.

But for all their power and closeness to Everam, Ashia did not covet white robes and dama blood. She, too, felt Everam’s touch. It thrummed through her when she killed alagai. Not the magic, though that was a heady sensation of its own. She felt it even that first night, when she killed with an unwarded spear. There was a sense of rightness, an utter calm and surety that she did His good work. It was her purpose in life. The gift of Sharum blood.

Melan looked up, veiled face glowing red in the wardlight. “Tonight. The divergence is now, or it will never be. When Jayan returns, he will come for the Skull Throne. If you do not act tonight, he will take it.”

For an instant, Ashia lost her center, swept away by a memory.

“Let him defeat you,” the Damajah told Ashia.

“Eh?” Ashia asked. She had only just been raised to Sharum’ting, she and her spear sisters to be sent to the young Sharum Ka for the first time.

Inevera had claimed the young women as her bodyguard, but they were still Sharum, and subject to Jayan. He was to “assess” them this night, to deem their worthiness and where he would position them in alagai’sharak.

“Jayan is proud,” Inevera said. “He will seek to dominate you in front of your sisters, to ensure you do not threaten him. He will challenge you to spar under the guise of assessing your sharusahk, but the fight will be very real.”

“And you wish me to … lose?” Impossible. Unthinkable. How many years had she been forced to feign weakness—Asome the push’ting’s timid bride? The Damajah had promised that would change when she was given the spear.

“I command you to lose,” Inevera said, her tone sharpening. “Show him your mettle. Earn his respect. And then lose. If you do not, he will kill you.”

Ashia swallowed, knowing she should be silent and nod. “And if I kill him?”

“He is the firstborn son of the Deliverer,” Inevera said. “If you kill him, every Sharum and dama in Krasia will call for your head, and the Shar’Dama Ka will not deny them.”

She said nothing of her own part in that, but Jayan was her firstborn, as well. Ashia knew Inevera’s oldest son vexed her, but she loved him, too.

“I know this command pains your Sharum heart,” Inevera said. “But I give it in love. I am the Damajah. Your pride, your life, are mine.” She laid a gentle hand on Ashia’s shoulder. “I value the first less than the second. Everam has a plan for you, and it is not to die for the sake of a man’s frail ego.”

Ashia nodded, shrugging off the hand as she knelt, putting her hands on the floor and pressing her forehead between them. “As the Damajah commands.”

There had not been many witnesses. Jayan knew the Sharum’ting had his father’s favor, and did not wish to discredit them publicly. It was just her and Shanvah, Jayan, Jurim, and Hasik. Shanvah’s father Shanjat, first among the kai’Sharum, should by rights have been there as well. His absence was telling.

The Sharum Ka and two elite Spears of the Deliverer. Even if she and Shanvah could kill them all before they raised the alarm—a prospect of which she was by no means certain—dozens of warriors had seen them enter the audience chamber. There would be no lasting escape.

Jayan grinned as the two women placed their hands on the floor before him. “My timid cousins! Shying from every sound and never speaking in more than a whisper. Who but Everam could have imagined you spent years learning sharusahk in secret?”

“There are many mysteries in the Dama’ting Palace,” Ashia said.

Jayan chuckled. “Of that, I have no doubt.” He undid the clasp of his cape and opened his armored robe, standing bare-chested in his pantaloons. “But while you learned at the hands of women, I studied at the feet of Shar’Dama Ka himself. I must judge your prowess, if I am to find a place for you in sharak.” He held a hand out, beckoning.

Ashia’s breathing was steady as she rose. She, too, removed her cape and unslung the shield from her shoulder, passing them to Shanvah. She did not remove her robe, but she slid her hands into its many pockets with practiced efficiency, removing the ceramic armor plates within and stacking them neatly on the floor.

She was lighter when she rose to her feet, gliding out onto the floor to begin circling opposite Jayan.

His stance was strong. Jayan was not lying when he said the Shar’Dama Ka had taught him, and her uncle was the greatest known sharusahk master. Perhaps he could win the battle fairly. It would bring no shame to Enkido to be defeated by the Deliverer’s son, and Ashia would prefer to lose in truth than dishonor them both by throwing the match.

But then he came at her, and Ashia was the faster. Instinctively she tripped him, jabbing her toe into a convergence point that numbed his foot momentarily. He lost balance as he passed, and Ashia stole the energy, slipping her hand under his armpit and using it to throw him onto his back.

A hush fell on the room. The men looked dumbstruck, having expected a very different result. Ashia wondered if she had already gone too far; if the men would kill her to save face for their Sharum Ka.

But after a moment, Jayan forced a laugh, getting back to his feet, stomping to restore feeling to the numbed appendage. “A fine throw! Let us see what else you have.”

He kept better guard this time, delivering a flurry of punches, kicks, and open-hand blows. Ashia dodged most of them, diverting the others with minimal contact. She made a few halfhearted strikes of her own, assessing his defenses.

He was good, as Sharum went. One of the best. But many of his blocks left convergences open, giving her points she could use to disable, cripple, and kill.

Instead she leapt over one of his circle kicks, somersaulting away to put space between them.

“You are wise to retreat, sister,” Jayan said. “I would have had you there.”

Ashia’s jaw tightened. She could have killed him three times over by now. Her eyes flicked to Shanvah.

Her spear sister knelt serenely, but she worked the fingers of one hand into a question. Why are you giving up advantages?

Why indeed? Ashia wondered. The Damajah had commanded it, of course, but what example was she setting for Shanvah and future Sharum’ting if she allowed Jayan to defeat her?

“You cannot circle forever,” Jayan called. “I have given you too much energy already. Come, show me what strength you have when you are not stealing mine.”

Ashia shot in so quickly Jayan was unprepared. She parted his arms with cobra’s hood, and then bent forward and held his waist as her right foot came up over her back to kick him in the face.

He stumbled back and she spun to the floor, hooking the back of his knee with hers and pulling him off his feet.

Jayan was no novice at ground fighting, twisting and shifting his weight to offer minimal targets and leverage. But Ashia was in close now, where the dama’ting sharusahk Enkido had taught was its deadliest. Precise strikes broke his lines of power as she worked into a submission hold atop him, her forearm cutting off his windpipe and the artery supplying blood to his brain.

Jayan shook, sweat broken out on his face, and she saw fear in his eyes. And, at last, respect. She imagined herself forcing a submission from him, but the Damajah’s words came to her again.

Show him your mettle. Earn his respect. And then lose.

Jayan made a weak pull at her choking arm, and Ashia eased back slightly, as if the effort had made a difference.

Jayan caught a breath, and with a surge, he came forward, punching her hard in the face. Unprepared for such ferocity, Ashia fell back as he landed blow after blow, striking her face, her body, blows meant to do lasting damage.

He rolled her onto her stomach, pinning her under his weight as he took hold of the collar of her robe from behind, pulling in opposite directions to close off the air and blood to her head, much as Ashia had done to him.

Did he mean to kill her? She did not know. If she had taken it too far, humiliated Jayan past reason, he would not hesitate. He was the Deliverer’s firstborn, and if he killed her, he would get no more than a scolding from his father and the support of all others.

Even now, she could turn it around. Even now, with the world blackening around the edges, she could strike the convergence in his elbow, sucking a breath as his grip loosened then reversing the hold.

Let him defeat you.

Ashia wanted nothing more than to show Jayan and these men that she was their better, but that was not the way she had been taught.

Battle is deception, Enkido taught. The wise warrior bides their time.

She reached a shaking hand toward Jayan’s arm as her vision shrank down to a dark tunnel, the light at the end ready to wink out at any moment. But instead of striking the convergence, she slapped twice, weakly.

The sign of submission.

Jayan grunted, loosening the hold. Ashia drew a breath, sweeter than any save the first one Enkido had allowed her, those many years ago.

But though he seemed to have accepted her submission, Jayan did not roll away, keeping her pinned, his mouth close to her ear.

“You fight well, cousin, but you are still only a woman.”

Ashia grit her teeth, saying nothing.

“How long?” Jayan whispered, shifting atop her. “How long since my push’ting brother last treated you as a wife? I expect it was just the once.” He ground his hips into her backside, and Ashia could feel his erection. “When you are ready for a true man, come to me.”

“Jayan must not take the throne,” Ashia said. “He would have to kill my father to do it, and he would not be wise in his rule.”

Asome nodded. “Help me stop him.”

“How?” Ashia asked. “If he is to find victory this night, we cannot change it even if we wanted. And I will not help you steal the throne in his absence. The Damajah has spoken. Shar’Dama Ka will return.”

“The dice say he may return, girl,” Melan said. “Not that he will.”

“I have faith,” Ashia said.

“As do I,” Asome agreed. “I do not ask you to help me take the throne, jiwah. Only to help me win glory to match my brother, that his claim be diminished and the Andrah hold power until Shar’Dama Ka comes again.”

“How?” Ashia asked again.

“It is Waning,” Asome said. “Tonight I will go out with my newly raised dama brothers and fight the alagai.”

“It is forbidden,” Ashia said.

“It must be done,” Asome said. “You heard the dama’ting. The Damajah cannot keep Jayan from the throne, nor can the Andrah. Only I can do it, and only tonight. Tomorrow will be too late.

“I do this because I must,” Asome added. “For the good of all Krasia. For the good of the world. But I am afraid.”

He held out a hand to her. “No doubt you felt much the same, the first night the Damajah bade you to defy Evejan law and claim your Sharum birthright. I beg you, if ever you were a wife to me, stand with me now.”

Ashia hesitated, then took his hand. “I will stand with you, husband. With pride.”

Ashia watched the Damajah from the shadows as Inevera entered her chambers. She remained alert to the slightest danger to her mistress, but still her thoughts reeled. It was her duty to serve the Damajah in all things, but Asome was her husband, and the son of the Deliverer.

Where did her greatest loyalty lie? To Everam, of course, but how could she, barely worthy of His notice, judge His plan? Was that not the job of the Damajah? She should inform her of Asome’s plan—now—and let Inevera judge Everam’s will.

But she hesitated. Perhaps she could not know His plan, but in her heart, the voice of Everam was clear. Sharak Ka was coming, and there was little room for those who would not fight. Asome had a warrior’s spirit, a warrior’s training, but as she had been, he was forbidden to use it, even as Nie’s forces mounted.

The Deliverer had given the right to fight to khaffit, to women, even. Why not the clerics? Was the cowardice of old men to dictate the lives of the young, even as the alagai tore Everam’s Bounty apart?

Once Asome killed an alagai, there would be no stopping it. He was the dama son of Shar’Dama Ka and the Damajah, and his glory would be boundless. Not even the Damajah could halt it then.

But until that moment, his plans could still be thwarted, costing Everam warriors and putting an unworthy boy on the Skull Throne.

Inevera stopped as she passed, looking right at Ashia as if the shadows that cloaked her were not there. Ashia froze. She knew she could not hide from her mistress, but it was always unnerving when the Damajah looked at her directly when she was concealed. “Are you well, child?”

“It is nothing, Damajah,” Ashia said, quickly finding her center and letting her fears and doubts fall away.

But Inevera narrowed her eyes, staring, her divine Sight peeling away Ashia’s center like the layers of an onion. “The coming night troubles you.”

Ashia swallowed the growing knot in her throat, nodding. “It is Waning, mistress.”

“Alagai Ka is attempting to lure us into relaxing our defenses by not appearing,” the Damajah agreed. “You and your sisters must be extra vigilant, and rush to inform me if you witness anything out of the ordinary.”

“I will, Damajah,” Ashia said. “On my love of Everam and my hope of Heaven, I swear it.”

Inevera continued to scrutinize her, and it was all Ashia could do to hold her center. At last, the Damajah nodded. “Return to your chambers and spend the remaining hours until muster with your son.”

Ashia bowed. “I will, mistress. Thank you, mistress.”

Ashia held young Kaji close as she watched Asome and Asukaji prepare for the coming night.

Her own preparations were quick and efficient, the result of years of training. Her weapons and armor were oiled and laid out in precise fashion. Though she lounged in a plain robe of silk in their private chambers, she could be armored and ready to fight in moments.

Her brother and husband, however, paced and preened like pillow wives. Their hands were wrapped tightly in white silk, only the first knuckles exposed. Much like Ashia and her sisters, Asome had painted fighting wards on Asukaji’s finger and toe nails, layering clear polish over the symbols to harden and protect them.

Asukaji clenched his fists, moving through a series of sharukin with the precision of a master, flexing his fingers to bring different combinations of wards into play.

“Try it with the silvers,” Asome said, and Asukaji nodded, going to a lacquered wood case on his vanity. Inside were two pieces of polished, warded silver, shaped to be slipped over the fingers. They rested comfortably to protect his top knuckles, giving her brother fists that would strike the alagai like thunderbolts.

Asukaji went through his sharukin again, layering in moves to make the most of the new weapons.

“Now the staff,” Asome said, taking Asukaji’s whip staff from its stand and throwing it to him.

The whip staff was a glorious weapon—six feet of flexible Northern goldwood, carved with wards of power and capped on either end with warded silver. Asukaji caught the staff, spinning it into a blur he incorporated into his sharukin. The whip staff moved faster than the eye could see, and in the hands of a master, the supple wood could bend to strike around defenses that would deflect a rigid weapon.

Ashia looked to Asome, wearing only his alagai tail, the weapon all dama carried. The barbed tips of its prongs were no doubt warded, but it seemed like little compared to the myriad weapons her brother was preparing to bring into the night.

“What of you, husband?” Ashia asked. “You have not so much as painted your nails. What dama weapon will you bring to alagai’sharak?”

Asome pulled the whip from his belt, hanging it on its hook on the wall. “None. Tonight I fight as you did on the night the Sharum’ting revealed themselves.”

Ashia hid her surprise. “You will fight spear and shield, like your honored father?”

Asome shook his head. “Dama are forbidden the spear, and a shield would slow me, when I must be fast.”

Ashia looked at him, understanding slowly dawning on her. “Husband, you cannot mean to fight with sharusahk alone.”

“My father did it, when he was only a kai,” Asome said.

Ashia knew the story. One of the first legends of the Shar’Dama Ka’s rise. “Your honored father had spent years in the Maze by then, husband, and his own retelling had it an act of last resort. To go unarmed into Waning is …”

“Madness,” Asukaji agreed, but Asome glared at him, and he dropped his eyes.

“Anyone can kill alagai with weapons,” Asome said. “My Sharum brothers do it every night. It is not enough if I am to win glory to match my brother.”

He clenched one of his bandaged hands into a fist. “Either Everam wills me to succeed, or He does not.”

They went into the night wrapped in black cloaks, Asukaji and the dama sons of the Deliverer. Only Asome walked boldly in the night in his white robes. Sharum looked at him with apprehension, remembering the Shar’Dama Ka’s forbiddance that clerics to go out at the night. But they recognized Asome, blood of the Deliverer himself, and none dared hinder him.

There were no alagai close to the city proper, held back by walls, wardposts, and regular patrols. They had to range far before the sounds of battle came to them. At last they came to Hoshkamin, Asome’s younger brother, wearing the turban of Sharum Ka as he directed men culling field demons on a wide plain.

Hoshkamin looked at them in surprise. “You should not be out in the night, brother! It is forbidden!”

Asome stood before him, slender where Hoshkamin was thick with muscle; clad only in silk, where Hoshkamin wore the finest armor; weaponless where Hoshkamin carried spear and shield of warded glass.

And yet it was Asome who dominated, Ashia saw immediately. There were but two years between them, but that was vast for men not yet twenty. Asome leaned in, and Hoshkamin took a step back.

“The Deliverer is not here to stop me,” Asome said quietly. “Nor is our elder brother.” His smile was dangerous, predatory. “Will you try?”

He didn’t raise his voice, or make a threatening gesture, but Hoshkamin paled visibly. He glanced at his men, no doubt imagining the shame if his elder brother were to beat him in front of them while he wore the white turban.

Hoshkamin took two steps back, giving Asome a respectful bow. “Of course not, brother. I only meant that it is dangerous in the night. I will assign you a bodyguard …”

Asome whisked a hand dismissively. “I have all the bodyguard I need.”

With that, Damaji Asukaji and Asome’s dama brothers cast aside their cloaks, their white robes bright in the flames and wardlight. Hoshkamin and the Sharum stared, speechless, as they strode into the field of battle.

Asome went first, striding toward a reap of field demons being harried by a unit of dal’Sharum, their shields locked in a V-formation.

He walked right up to the apex of the V, brushing aside the Sharum at point with a gesture. Surprised at the sight of a dama, the Deliverer’s son, they fell back instinctively. Ashia and her spear sisters followed with Asukaji and the others.

One of the demons was quicker to take advantage of the break in formation than its fellows, leaping at Asome with a roar. Ashia tensed, ready to charge and interpose herself should the alagai prove too much for her honored husband.

She needn’t have worried. Asome flowed easily around the jaws and talons, catching the demon by the horns and turning a full circle that converted all the energy of the demon’s leap into a twist that cracked its neck like a whip. Trained Sharum jumped at the sound, and hopped back as Asome threw the demon’s lifeless body at their feet.

Two more charged at him, but Asome was ready, snatching the wrist of one and turning to pull its arm straight as he laid his free hand against its shoulder joint. Again he turned the demon’s momentum against it, twisting it to the ground and breaking its arm effortlessly as he put it into the path of the other.

The second demon lost barely a moment clawing its way over the first, talons digging deep wounds as it tamped and pounced. But a moment was time enough for Asome to shift his stance and catch its wrists, pulling it off balance as he fell back. He hooked a leg around its neck, getting in too close for the demon’s jaws. They rolled in the dirt a moment, but Ashia knew her husband had the hold, and even alagai needed to breathe.

Soon it lay still, and Asome rose. The other demon hissed at him, limping weakly on three legs. Asome hissed back, moving in.

“Everam’s beard,” Hoshkamin whispered as the demon retreated to match Asome’s advance. The other Sharum echoed him, muttering oaths and drawing wards in the air.

The other demons of the reap hesitated momentarily in confusion, but now they gathered themselves, readying a charge that would surely overwhelm Asome.

Asome saw it, too, chopping his hand in the air at them. “Acha!”

With that, Asukaji and the other dama gave piercing battle cries, raising their weapons and charging past Asome into the fray, leaving husband and wife standing together.

Ashia turned to Micha and Jarvah. “Inform the Damajah of what you have seen. Now. Do not deviate or slow until our mistress has heard your account.”

The women looked at each other, then bowed deeply to Ashia, running at speed back toward the city.

Asome looked at her curiously.

“Many oaths conflict this night, husband,” Ashia said. “But I will keep them all, if I can.”

Asome bowed. “Of course, wife. I would ask nothing less of you. But you should have waited.” He winked. “The best is still to come.”

They turned together, looking out on the field as the clerics waged alagai’sharak. Asukaji waded into a knot of demons, whip staff seeming to strike them all at once. Flashes of magic sparked and popped around him as he spun.

The younger brothers distinguished themselves as well. Though they were but fifteen, they had been trained in sharusahk since they could stand, each marked by the distinctive fighting style of his tribe. Maji, trained by grand master Aleverak, used no weapon save warded nails and silvers. He let the demon he faced do most of the work, powering the heavy blows that rocked it back.

Dama were denied blades by Evejan law, including the broad-bladed arrows and throwing knives Mehnding Sharum favored. Mehnding dama used bolas instead, and Savas was no exception. A slender warded chain connected two heavy balls of warded silver. Savas took the legs from a field demon, immobilizing it as he beat it senseless with his silvers.

Hallam, the Sharach brother, used the alagai-catcher favored by his tribesmen, its metal cable warded. He caught a demon by the neck, tightening the loop until the magic popped its head off. Tachin and Mazh, the Krevakh and Nanji brothers, had small wooden pegs hammered into their staves, like the rungs of a ladder. Ashia watched Tachin run up the side of his staff to leap ten feet in the air, somersaulting over a charging demon to land behind it. As the creature whirled about in confusion, he landed a flurry of explosive blows with his silvers.

They ranged through the night, Hoshkamin and his warriors following his older brother as Asome led his dama brothers to glory.

As it had been for several months, there was no sign of Alagai Ka, but it was Waning, and the alagai were stronger and more numerous. And there was something else.

“They are attacking strategic positions,” Ashia said. The demons lacked the precision they had under the control of the minds, but they clustered in places were defenses were weakest, attacking wardposts to increase their range.

Asome nodded. “Perhaps Father stands at the cusp of the abyss as Mother foretold, holding Nie’s princelings at bay, but She has kai, as well.”

“The changelings,” Ashia said, tightening her grip on her spear.

“Melan foretold we would find one in the night,” Asome agreed. He looked at Ashia. “For this test, wife, we must fight side by side.”

Ashia nodded eagerly. A mimic had taken Enkido, and she would show this one the sun in her master’s honor. “Your glory is boundless this night, husband. I am proud to stand with you.”

An hour later, the attack came without warning as a large wood demon surrounded by fighting dama lashed out, its arm becoming a great horned tentacle. The blow knocked half a dozen men back. The wards embroidered in silver thread on their robes deflected the worst of it, but all were stunned, shaking heads and placing hands on the ground as they tried to push up even to sitting position.

Hoshkamin rushed in to protect his dama brothers. The shields of his warriors were better at turning the mimic’s blows, but the demon spun, lashing through the thin gap between the shields and the ground. Sharum screamed in agony as they collapsed, many with severed feet.

Ashia was relieved to see Hoshkamin had escaped that fate. Dama’ting magic could heal much, but even they could not grow back that which was cut away. She gave a cry as she rushed in, hoping to distract the creature from her brothers in the night as they regrouped.

Asome followed, but her husband had absorbed no magic in the night’s battle, and could not keep pace. It was good. Asome had surpassed all expectations, but without so much as a warded nail, this foe was beyond him.

Tentacles whipped at her, but Ashia was ready. She dodged the first, leapt over the second, and caught a third on her shield, never slowing her advance. Two more lashed out as she drew in close, and she dropped her shield in order to dive between them.

She hit the ala in a roll, bouncing back to her feet and using the momentum to add power to her two-handed thrust into the demon’s heart.

Magic exploded with the blow, shocking up Ashia’s arms and filling her with power such as she had never felt. The changeling’s black eyes widened in shock, and Ashia stared back hard, wanting to see its unholy life melt away. “Everam burn you in the name of Enkido!”

The demon shrieked at her and she tried to pulled the spear free and thrust again, but found it held fast. Still staring into the creature’s dark eyes, she understood her mistake.

A rock demon’s arm grew from the mimic’s chest, knocking the wind from her as it clutched her tightly and bore her to the ground, talons scraping against the plates of warded glass woven into her robes. The claws did not pierce, but it mattered little as Ashia felt her ribs crack.

Her spear, punched clear through the demon’s torso, melted free like a spoon through hot resin, sloughing onto the ground just out of reach. There were other weapons concealed in her robes, but Ashia could not reach them while held in the crushing grip.

Everam, I am ready, she thought. She had served Him in all things, and would die on alagai talons, as her Sharum blood demanded. There was no dishonor. This was a creature like the one that had killed her master, like the one that fought the Deliverer on even terms. It was a good death.

As the changeling drew back for a killing blow, Asome leapt past her. She wanted to cry out, to tell him to flee, but even if she had the breath, she would not dishonor him so.

We will walk the lonely path together, Ashia thought. What more could any couple ask for? Everam had joined them in life. It seemed only fitting they should also die as one.

But then Asome struck, and there was a flare of magic so bright it burned Ashia’s warded eyes. As if she had looked at the sun, the image stayed with her a few moments, even as she blinked and shook her head. The talon that held her eased its grip as the creature was rocked by explosions of magic, then pulled away entirely.

Ashia clenched her eyes tight for a moment, then opened them.

Asome held the demon’s arm in a grip that smoked and burned, bright with magic. Her husband had stripped to a simple white bido, discarding even his sandals and the wrappings that had covered his hands.

She saw now why he had hidden his hands these last days. His fists—his entire body—was covered in raised scars. Like his father, Asome had cut wards into his flesh, that his very touch be anathema to the children of Nie.

His glow had been dim before, when he fought without the aid of the symbols, proving himself before Everam and the Sharum. But now the wards were written in fire across his skin, and he glowed so brightly that there was a halo around him all could see, warded sight or no.

He ducked and twisted, delivering powerful blows that knocked the demon back, parrying its return strikes, but even he seemed unable to do lasting damage. They fought for several moments, and instead of continuing to lose ground, the demon seemed to be strengthening, gaining firmer footing as it took Asome’s measure and adapted.

Asome saw it, too. “Brothers! Form a ring! Nie’s servant must not be allowed to escape!”

He barely got the words out before the demon struck hard, one of its flailing tentacles slipping past Asome’s defenses. Magic stopped the limb short of connecting, but the impact still sent him flying through the air.

Ashia was already moving, diving into a roll and coming up with her spear in hand. She studied the mimic in her warded sight, but it was unlike any demon she had faced before. Every demon—every living thing—had lines of power. The essence of dama’ting sharusahk was breaking these lines by striking the points where they converged.

But the demon’s lines were as amorphous as its body, growing and retracting, ever changing. She sensed a pattern in it all, but it was beyond her ability to grasp, her attention focused upon simply staying alive.

The magic she had absorbed on her initial blow surged through her, making her impossibly fast and strong. Horned tentacles came at her from all sides, but she spun her spear, picking them off.

The demon hawked and spat fire like a flame demon, but like a flame demon its eyes squeezed shut and in that instant she quickstepped around it to come from another angle. This time she made no effort to strike a killing blow, instead thrusting the spear rapidly back and forth to strike half a dozen shallow ones.

Each wound flared brightly at first, the demon’s ichor giving off raw magic like smoke from a fire. But then the loss stemmed, and the area around the wound dimmed as the demon’s flesh knit back together.

The changeling shrieked, and this time she wasn’t fast enough as it spat lightning at her. Pain like she had never imagined wracked her body, jolting limbs rigid as she was thrown through the air. She thought she would lose the spear, but when she struck the ground it remained locked in her frozen grasp. She could not have let go if she wanted.

Then, as quickly as it came, the pain dissipated and her muscles unclenched. Her entire body burned, but there was still magic coursing through her, and already it was easing. She looked up to see Asome back in the fight, hammering at the mimic while his brothers struck at it from all sides.

Savas caught two tentacles in his bola, and the warded chain held them fast, unable to melt away. Another was caught in Hallam’s alagai-catcher.

But even these seemed minor inconveniences. The demon would writhe from the bolas soon enough, and it swung Hallam to and fro by his alagai-catcher pole. Others lent their strength to the task, but they were sorely pressed and out of the fight.

Asome continued to pound at the demon, and as she retrieved her shield, Ashia could see a pattern beginning to emerge in the creature’s magic. Even this fiend had a limited supply, and she watched as it ebbed and flowed, healing its wounds, powering its blows, reshaping its body.

With every blow he struck, Asome grew a fraction brighter, the demon, that much dimmer. If they could keep it at bay long enough, his victory was inevitable.

Ashia moved back in, stabbing hard where the creature was held by the men at the catcher pole. She hacked the blade of her spear through a tentacle at its base, severing the limb. The demon repaired the damage, but the tentacle, and the magic it had contained, lay in the dirt, no longer part of the whole.

The changeling grew eyes on its back, whipping horns and talons through the air to fend off the assailants, but Ashia could see its lines of power, and knew its attention was fixed on Asome. It knocked him sprawling, then opened a jaw that grew rapidly to gigantic size.

Ashia didn’t know if it meant to bite him in half or swallow him whole, but didn’t give it the chance, accepting the lash of a tentacle to get in close and stab hard. The sharp horns tore her robe, ripping away armor plates and finding soft flesh beneath. She hit the ground spitting blood, praying to Everam that Asome had used the distraction to recover.

Indeed the demon had hesitated, but Asome did not use the opportunity to flee. As the creature roared in pain through its impossibly wide jaws, Asome coiled up and sprang right into its mouth.

The force of his leap took him past the rows of jaws and down the alagai’s throat. Ashia could see its lines of power shatter as it pulled in all its strength to heal the damage Asome’s warded skin was no doubt doing inside. Limbs melted back into the blob, save those the dama held trapped in warded silver.

The amorphous pile bucked and thrashed. Choked, the demon could not shriek. Ashia could see it losing cohesion, and knew its end was inevitable, but would it take her husband with it? He was still alive, still fighting, but even he could not go forever without breath.

Forcing herself to her feet, Ashia stumbled back in. The dama fighting around her were denied the blade, but her curved knife was long a foot long and sharp enough to shave the hairs from a spider’s leg. She stuck it to the hilt in the gelatinous mass, cutting a deep line.

The wound bucked from the inside, spattering her with ichor, but she did not relent, slashing deeper. At last, one of Asome’s warded fists punched out into the night air, bright with power. His other hand appeared, the two gripping the wound and tearing it apart from the inside.

Mouths broke across the surface of the demon, joining in one last cry before it collapsed, motionless.

Asome stood there, covered in ichor and glowing like the sun. Like her blessed uncle.

Like Kaji himself.

His dama brothers and the remaining Sharum, including Hoshkamin and Asukaji, fell to their knees before him. Ashia felt it, too. She understood what had happened, but the instinct to kneel was strong. It was only by an act of will that she kept her feet.

“Nie’s power grows again at Waning, brothers!” Asome called. “This is but the first of her kais to come. With my father chasing Alagai Ka to the edge of Nie’s abyss, it is not enough for the Sharum to hold the line against Her. Every man must fight, if Sharak Ka is to be won! My father made the weak khaffit into kha’Sharum! The chin into chi’Sharum! Even women, like my blessed Jiwah Ka, were called as Sharum’ting!”

He swept a hand over the assembled dama. “Of all in Krasia, it is only we, the clerics, who waited to be called! But the wait is over, brothers! As my father called others to the fight, so do I call upon those in white to join in alagai’sharak! It is only fitting that it should be blood of the Deliverer to first step into the night. I name you shar’dama, warrior-clerics, and we will guide Krasia through its darkest hour!”

There was a stunned silence, and then all the assembled men broke out in cheers. Even Hoshkamin, the Sharum Ka and Jayan’s creature, could not help himself as he punched a fist in the air, joining the cry.

“Shar’dama! Shar’dama! Shar’dama!”

Kajivah was asleep in the nursery as Ashia and Asome crept into their palace chambers. Asukaji and the other dama went to see the dama’ting for their injuries, but Ashia and Asome, flush with stolen magic, had already healed every scrape and bruise.

There was no mistaking what Asome was about as he pushed into Ashia’s pillow chamber. She felt it, too, pulling him along with one hand as she pulled down her veil with the other to kiss him.

The thrill of battle, the pride in each other, and the charge of battle whirled in them both, an aphrodisiac neither could resist.

Ashia tripped her husband, flinging Asome onto the bed and crawling atop him.

“I am told these greenland beds have better uses than sleeping.” She kissed him again. Asome’s member stood in his robes like the pole of a tent.

“I am still … push’ting.” He groaned as she squeezed it.

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Ashia said, pulling off her own robes. “Tonight, you are my husband.”