The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 32 THE NIGHT OF HORA 334 AR WINTER

“The attack is done,” Melan told the clerics. “It was a slaughter.”

Ashia watched as the men wrung their hands and shifted their feet. News had come a day ago that Jayan had taken the bulk of his forces north to attack Angiers, greatly exceeding his authority as Sharum Ka. The clerics had been begging dama’ting for foretellings ever since. If Jayan succeeded—as he likely would—he would almost certainly move for the Skull Throne.

The Damajah had grown tired of their dramatics, retreating to her own chambers to divine in private, leaving Melan to divine in her stead.

The black-veiled dama’ting added dramatics of her own, casting the glowing dice from the twisted ruin of her right hand. It was whispered in the Dama’ting Palace that she had been forced to hold her first, imperfect set of dice up to the sun, burning her down to the bone. Melan had grown the nails long, and with the rough melted scars the hand looked like nothing so much as an alagai talon.

The dama’ting’s dice had been drained throughout the morning by the incessant questions of the clerics, with no news to show. They had been forced to wait for sunset to try again.

Ashia was the only other woman in the room, but none dared protest her presence. Her husband wanted her presence more and more, of late. Asome was under tremendous strain, and had come to rely on her support in recent days. He was push’ting still, but since they had lain as man and wife, Ashia dared hope they might find a way to keep their union on Ala without making life Nie’s abyss.

“He did it?” Ashan had an edge to his voice. “Jayan has taken Fort Angiers?” It was a closed court, with only the highest-ranking clerics in attendance. Ashan sat the Skull Throne, with the Damaji and the dama sons of the Deliverer at the base of the dais, lining Melan on two sides as she knelt upon her casting cloth.

“It is no surprise,” Damaji Ichach sneered. “The chin are weak.”

Melan leaned in closer, tilting her head as she continued to study the pattern. “No. The dal’Sharum were broken. They are in full retreat. The Deliverer’s firstborn is dead.”

There was a stunned silence. To a one, the Damaji had not wanted impulsive young Jayan to take another great victory so soon. But the alternative was too horrible to bear. The dal’Sharum broken? The Deliverer’s son slain? By chin?

Victory after victory under Shar’Dama Ka had led their people to a national pride that for the first time in centuries began to transcend tribe. A sense they were all Everam’s chosen people, Evejans, and it was inevera the chin should be yoked and bent to Evejan law.

It was Sharak Sun, the Daylight War that would unite all humanity for Sharak Ka.

Defeat was unthinkable.

“Are you certain?” Asome asked. Melan nodded.

“You are dismissed,” Asome said, and the woman nodded, scooping up her dice back into her hora pouch and beginning to fold her casting cloth.

“Stay,” Ashan commanded. “I have further questions.”

Melan finished folding her cloth and rolled back onto her feet. “Apologies, Andrah, but the Damajah has commanded I attend her immediately with any news.” She turned to go.

Ashan opened his mouth at the disrespect, but Asome cut in before he could speak, stepping right in front of the steps to the throne. “Let Melan see to my mother, Uncle. There is much we must discuss that does not concern the dama’ting.”

Ashan looked at him curiously, and Asome bowed. “Apologies, honored Andrah, but your failed leadership has brought us to this point. Jayan would not have dared such a foolish attack if my father sat the throne. This is a clear sign of Everam’s displeasure at your rule.”

He turned to sweep the room with his gaze, meeting the eyes of the other men. “It is time to accept that my father will not return. With my brother dead, it is inevera that I sit the Skull Throne in his place.” He looked at Ashan. “It is your right to attempt to deny me. Know that if you do, there will be no dishonor in your death.”

Ashan scowled. “That is only if you can kill me, boy. But first, you must look to the Damaji to clear your path.”

“Indeed.” Asome nodded, turning his back to Ashan as he strode down the aisle until he had passed the other men. “Damaji! Stand forth!”

As one, his dama brothers all took a stride into the aisle, bowing in unison as they turned to face their respective Damaji. “Apologies, honored Damaji,” they said as one, “but I must challenge you for leadership of the tribe. It is your right to attempt to deny me. Know that if you do, there will be no dishonor in your death.”

“Outrageous!” Ichach shouted. “Guards!”

Asome smiled. “No guards can hear you, Damaji. Melan has sealed the room in wards of silence, and barred the doors.”

Ashia and Asukaji were an island of peace amidst the sudden tension as men took battle stances. She froze, unsure what to do. Asome had clearly planned this, but she had not been privy to it.

Suddenly Let Melan see to my mother took on an ominous tone. She turned a questioning glance at Asukaji just as her brother threw the garrote around her throat. She was fast, but not fast enough. He crossed his fists, pulling tight as he danced behind her.

Ashia choked, her head whipped to the side, but she went with Asukaji’s pull and bent forward, setting one foot firmly and snapping the other up behind her to scorpion-kick him in the back of the head.

Her brother held on, but Ashia managed to get a finger under the chain around her throat, pulling in an obstructed breath.

Choking. In the end, it was always choking.

She continued to kick and elbow Asukaji with her free arm, but he had the hold, accepting the flailing blows and tightening his grip as their feet danced the floor, seeking to gain leverage even as each denied it to the other.

Ashia caught her feet for a moment, but when she lifted one leg for a kick, Asukaji was ready, hooking her other leg and taking her down to the marble floor.

“Did you really begin to think you were his jiwah?” Asukaji demanded. “That you mean a thing to him? You spend one night under him and think you can supplant me? Asome is mine, sister. Now and forever.”

Indeed, Asome glanced at them, his aura flat and cold. Asukaji might as well have been squashing a bug.

Ashia pulled her finger against the chain until it bled, but could not manage to work in another. She felt her face swelling, and knew it was only a matter of time.

She watched as the shar’dama executed their Damaji. It could not be called anything else. The Damaji were all sharusahk masters, but not a one of them was under sixty years old, with several much older. Many had gotten fat, as well. Asome’s half brothers were all young and strong, close to the prime of their lives.

But it was more than that. All of them had scar-warded their hands by now, and each clenched a fist that glowed powerfully with hora magic. The power absorbed into the scars, giving them inhuman strength and speed, and stealing any honor from their victories as one Damaji after another fell to their brutal attacks.

In seconds all were dead save ancient Aleverak, who danced back and forth with Maji. The ancient Damaji, too, had taken alagai in the night. He was still thin and withered, but stronger than he had been in decades. Thus far neither had landed a telling blow, hold, or throw.

But even as her vision began to blur, Ashia could see Aleverak was only taking the boy’s measure, his aura calm as he explored Maji’s defenses and probed for weaknesses.

She saw it in his bearing when he locked on to his target. The Damaji could not see in Everam’s light, but he, too, had noticed Maji’s increased abilities, and the fist he kept clenched tight as he fought.

Aleverak could not see the lines of power that kept Maji’s fist clenched, but he shattered them as easily as Enkido, kicking a toe into the young dama’s wrist. His hand opened reflexively, and though he recovered quickly, balling his fist again, the damage was done.

Caught up in the ongoing conflict, no one, not even Asome, took note of the shard of demon bone that fell from Maji’s grasp, bouncing across the floor.

But all could see the shift in the battle. Aleverak’s expression remained neutral, but Maji’s grew fearful as the Damaji began to press more fiercely. He took a step back.

Savas stepped forward to aid Maji, but Asome held a hand to stay him. “This test is for him alone, brother.” Savas did not look pleased, but he bowed and stepped back.

A moment later, Maji was prone on the ground with Aleverak’s hand around his throat.

Ashia chose that moment to renew her struggle, a last attempt before she lost consciousness. Asukaji, distracted by the battle, returned his attention to her, tightening his grip further, but it did not matter. Her grasping fingers closed around the bit of demon bone. She could feel the magic tingling against the wards painted on her nails, filling her with new strength.

“Your father, Shar’Dama Ka, swore me an oath, boy,” Aleverak said. “That he would never challenge my rule of the Majah, and that Maji could fight my son for leadership on my natural death.”

Asome bowed. “I know this, honored Damaji. But I am not my father. His oaths are not mine.”

“It is said in the Evejah that oaths spoken by fathers are binding to their sons,” Aleverak said. “And oaths spoken from the Skull Throne bind us all. Had you kept that pact, I would not have stood against you this night.”

He sneered. “Instead you break oaths and attack in the night like an honorless chin. And so your victory will not be complete.” He glanced down to Maji. “You have no other Majah to supplant me.” With that, he snapped Maji’s neck.

The new Damaji all stepped back, clearing the floor for Asome and Aleverak. The ancient Damaji took position before the steps to the Skull Throne, blocking Asome’s path.

Ashan stood ready atop the steps. Tradition demanded he wait until the path between them was clear, but her father had a warrior’s heart. He was eager for the fight.

“You honor our people this night, Damaji,” Ashan said. “Everam will open the gates of Heaven to you Himself.”

“We’re not dead, yet,” Aleverak said as Asome came at him.

Ashia could see no glow of hora about her husband. He might have allowed his brothers to win dishonorably, but he fought as tradition dictated.

He struck hard and fast. Aleverak slipped to the side, but Asome was ready for the move, twisting to drive an elbow into Aleverak’s armpit. He caught the limb as it lost strength, pulling the old man off balance. He grabbed the Damaji’s belt, lifting him clear off the ground, then planted his knee and broke Aleverak’s spine across it.

Asome let the Damaji collapse, limp and forgotten, as he rose to his feet, eyes on Ashan.

Ashia had managed to slowly work another finger into the chain. It was not yet leverage enough to break free, but she wheezed in a breath, and it doubled her power.

Asukaji tightened his grip. “Everam’s beard, do me the honor of dying before my hair grays, sister.”

Ashia had a third finger in place now, but she made choked sounds and fell limp while she gathered her strength.

Ashan strode down the steps from the throne, and Asome gave ground before him, that they might stand as equals on the floor. His brothers cleared the dead from the path between them.

“Does your mother know your betrayal, boy?” Ashan asked. “You, whom I raised as my own son?”

“My mother knows nothing,” Asome said. “She shall ever be blind to her sons, the dice told Melan about my mother, and it has proven true time and again.”

“She will not let you keep the throne,” Ashan said.

“She will give up hers as well,” Asome said. “My grandmother is a more fitting Damajah. Her beatification will be my first decree as Shar’Dama Ka.”

“First you must reach the steps,” Ashan said.

As the Shar’Damaji looked on impassively, Asome and Ashan battled for the Skull Throne.

Aleverak lasted longer. Asome parried his uncle’s first three blows, setting Ashan up for an aggressive kick inside his guard. He deflected the blow, but could not prevent Asome leaping to hook his leg around Ashan’s neck. His own weight did the rest.

Ashia’s father was a sharusahk grand master before his fortieth year, but Asome broke him like a nie’Sharum. The snap of his neck echoed in the great hall.

Asome looked to his brothers. They hurried to kneel in proper order along the path to the throne, foreheads pressed to the floor as Asome began his ascent.

It was then, with all eyes on her husband, that Ashia struck, throwing her head back as she yanked hard on the garrote chain. She felt Asukaji’s nose crumple, and his grip loosened, allowing her to slip the chain.

All eyes turned to them in surprise, but Ashia did not hesitate, delivering a precise strike to the nape of her brother’s neck, shattering bone and severing his spinal cord.

“Asukaji!” Asome roared, his cold aura at last turning hot.

But he did not stop his ascent, taking the remaining steps in two great bounds to reach the dais. Ashia burst into a run for the rear exit that would take her to the royal quarters.

Asome leapt onto the throne, eyes turning to glare hate at her as he roared, “Kill her!”

Ashia threw herself against the exit to the Damajah’s wing of the palace, but as Asome warned, Melan had sealed all the doors with hora magic. She might as well have thrown her shoulder against the city walls.

She rebounded in a new direction, darting for one of the great pillars as the sons of the Deliverer turned their fury her way.

The moment their line of sight was blocked, she rolled to a second pillar, springing high and climbing quickly. By the time her cousins rounded the pillars and saw she was gone, she had already slipped into one of the alcoves used to guard the Damajah.

Everam’s spear sisters had their own exits from the throne room, and the dama’ting had not barred these.

The wards of silence around the court had kept the outside guards in ignorance. They stood calmly at their posts, easily avoided until she got to the open hall. Any moment, Asome would break the seals and put the entire palace on alert, but for now the way was clear. Her duty was to protect the Damajah, who might even now be facing a coup of her own.

“Everam forgive me,” Ashia whispered, running in the opposite direction.

“No, I most certainly will not give him to you!” Kajivah held her infant great-grandson protectively as Ashia reached for him.

“It isn’t safe for either of you,” Ashia said. “Asome is killing the Damaji in the throne room. I will take you into the Damajah’s protection until the unrest has passed.”

Kajivah took another step back, but Ashia caught her grandmother’s thumb and gave a half turn, catching Kaji smoothly as he fell from her grasp.

“How dare you lay hands upon me, you … !”

Ashia nestled her son into her breast, binding him to her in a sling of silk. Half awake, the boy began sucking at her robe, seeking a nipple. “He is my son, Tikka, not yours. If you would keep him safe, we must go. Now.”

“Your son?!” Kajivah demanded. “Where is your nipple when he hungers? Where are you when he cries? When he soils his bido? Off fighting alagai. And then I find you covered in demon blood, trying to crush the life from him …”

Ashia felt her face heat. “It wasn’t like that. That was an accident.”

Kajivah lifted her veil and spat at Ashia’s feet. “The accident was being cursed with a deviant granddaughter who brings shame to our family.”

It was so ludicrous Ashia had to laugh. “Are you that foolish, Tikka? Can you truly not see my ‘deviance’ is your doing? You pushed me and my sisters into the Dama’ting Palace without a thought of what it meant. I am what you have made of me, and nothing more.”

“And now you expect me to seek the Damajah’s protection?” Kajivah asked. “The very woman who twisted you is to protect me from my own grandson?”

Ashia pulled open her veil, showing the angry red line across her throat. “My own brother tried to kill me this night, Tikka. No one is safe.”

“Asukaji?” Kajivah asked in shock. “What did you do to him?” She came at Ashia in a rush, beating with her fists. “Witch! What did you do to Asukaji?!”

Ashia turned away to protect Kaji, diverting the blows easily. She caught the woman’s arm and put her thumb on a pain convergence, guiding her for the door. Every time Kajivah made to go any direction save the one Ashia wished, she sent a jolt of agony through the old woman, quickly overcoming resistance.

They made it to the hall before there was a shout, half a dozen Sharum rushing in on either side to block their path.

“Thank Everam we have found you safe, Holy Mother,” the kai’Sharum leading them said. “Your grandson is eager for news of your safety.” He turned, leveling his spear at Ashia. “Give the child to the Holy Mother and step back. Now.”

Ashia reached a hand behind her, wrapping it around the shaft of one of the short stabbing spears she wore crossed at her back. “My son belongs with me.”

The kai’Sharum smiled. “And so he will be. The Shar’Dama Ka is most eager for his Jiwah Ka’s safe return as well.”

“So he may kill me himself?” Ashia asked.

“You have little choice, Princess,” the kai said. “Will you fight instead, using your own son as a shield?”

It was Ashia’s turn to smile. “Do not fear for my son, Sharum. Fear instead for any fool enough to point a spear his way.”

“Enough.” Kajivah moved in, reaching for Kaji. “It’s over, Ashia.”

Ashia let out a breath, slumping as she took her hand from the haft of her spear. She turned to her grandmother, fumbling at the knot of the sling that bound her son to her breast.

But when Kajivah was in close, their bodies momentarily blocked the sight of the surrounding warriors. Ashia struck the old woman with a quick, precise blow, making a show of catching her as she collapsed.

“Tikka!” Ashia threw a panicked look at the warriors. “Help her! The Holy Mother needs help!”

The men froze, forgetting the weapons in their hands as they leaned in to the scene, unsure of what to do. The thought of laying hands upon the Holy Mother no doubt frightened them more than facing a horde of alagai.

Ashia struck in the confusion, her hand flicking sharp warded glass at the warriors closest to her.

The men were armored, but Ashia could clip a fly’s wings with her throwing glass. One warrior’s head was tilted just enough for her to slip a glass into his jugular. Sharum did not have nose guards on their helmets, so another caught a glass between the eyes. There was a tiny crack as it broke through the thin bone and drove up into his brain.

The confusion only mounted as the dying warriors stumbled back into their fellows. One Sharum was quicker than the others to catch on, but stepping forward he exposed the gap in the groin of his armor, allowing her to sever the knot of muscle connecting thigh to hip. As the warrior’s leg collapsed, he left her a clear path to the kai’Sharum.

Kaji woke and let out an irritated cry as Ashia put one of her stabbing spears into the kai’s throat. She pulled the other spear from its harness as she kicked the kai into the path of another warrior. A quick stab into the ensuing chaos, and the warrior’s spear arm fell lifeless to his side as she leapt past.

She was through the press then, the way clear before her. A quick sprint and she could climb into one of the secret ways.…

“Bura! Kamen! Take the Holy Mother to Shar’Dama Ka!” a voice boomed. “The rest of you, after her!”

Ashia looked back. A red-veiled drillmaster had taken command of the men, leading the charge himself as two warriors laid down their spears and stripped their cloaks to make a stretcher.

Already she had killed three men, and crippled two more. Honorable warriors following their leader’s commands. Sharum now lost to Sharak Ka.

But she could not let the men take Kajivah to Asome, where he might use her to supplant the Damajah. Nor could she allow the warriors to go back to her husband with word that Inevera had custody of their son.

She looked down, and Kaji met her eyes. She knew then Kajivah had been right. She had let duty separate her from her child, and almost lost him as a result.

“Be brave, Kaji,” she whispered. “Though we walk the edge of the abyss together, I will never leave you again.”

Each of her spears was a two-foot shaft tipped with a foot of razor-sharp warded glass. Ashia popped caps from the ends and joined them with a twist as Kaji gave a yawn and closed his eyes.

Even the drillmaster pulled up as she charged, unsure how to attack without harming the child. She was under his guard before he knew it, and past before he realized he was dead.

She fell into her breath, watching in Everam’s light the lines of power running through the four remaining warriors as she picked her targets. A stomp broke the ankle of the first, giving her plenty of time to parry a thrust from the second. Ashia spun her spear in two hands, slipping the second blade down the edge of the next man’s shield, severing his spear hand. He fell away in horror, clearing the path to the next warrior. This one was ready, but Ashia stepped back, parrying another blow from the second warrior even as she lined up a killing blow for the first. The man had not found balance on his remaining ankle, and a simple shove opened a gap in his defenses.

She expected the warrior with the severed hand to need longer to recover, but the man gave an inchoate cry and rushed her with his shield.

With nowhere to dodge, Ashia twisted, taking the blow on the armor-plated robe at her back. She kept her spear held out crosswise before her, creating a safe zone around Kaji as she was driven into the other warrior.

But while the men took a moment to regain their balance, Ashia’s quick feet never missed a step. A shove and a trip put the warriors on their backs. The lines of the Sharum with the severed hand were dimming fast as his life bled away. She turned to the other, snuffing out his aura with a quick thrust before turning to face the last man standing in her path.

Bura and Kamen had Kajivah’s stretcher in hand by then, already rounding the far corner followed closely by the warrior whose arm she had disabled initially. Ashia snatched a discarded spear and threw, taking the fleeing man in the back.

The last warrior had his shield up, knees bent and ready to spring. His spear was lowered at her chest, pointed at Kaji.

But the tip shook.

“Find your courage and come at me, warrior,” Ashia said. “Die with honor in your duty, and Everam will welcome you at the end of the lonely path.”

The dal’Sharum took a breath, then gave a great cry and leapt at her, spear leading in a fine thrust.

Ashia killed him quickly, with honor.

“Witch!” Ashia saw as he fell away that the warrior with the crippled leg, forgotten on the floor, had raised himself on his good leg.

The spear had already left his hand, bound for her heart. The armor plates in her robes could have easily deflected such a blow, but Kaji, strapped above them, could not.

With no time to dodge, Ashia dropped her weapon and wrapped Kaji in her arms, twisting to take the blow on her side. The plates there were smaller, with gaps to allow freedom of movement. The point deflected from one, then sank into the gap in between.

Ashia was knocked back a step. For a moment she thought the blow nothing, but the weight of the spear pulled at her when she moved, embedded deep in her side.

She did not know the extent of the damage, but it was as irrelevant as the pain. She pulled the blade from her body and turned it on the thrower, then snatched up her own spear and sprinted after Bura and Kamen.

It was easy enough to get ahead of the men. The palace was riddled with paths known only to the Sharum’ting, allowing her to pass through walls while the men were forced to take a longer route, slowed by their holy charge.

Ashia was braced above an archway, waiting for them to pass. Kaji fidgeted, and her hastily bound wound ached, soaking her robe, but she was deep in her breath, and these things did not touch her.

Heralded by their frantic gasping, the warriors approached. She let Bura run past the arch, falling silently upon Kamen.

Kaji gave a laugh as they dropped, and the unfortunate warrior looked up just in time to see death coming. When Kamen dropped his end of the stretcher, the sudden drag cost Bura his balance, and she had him.

“Tikka!” Kaji cried, seeing Kajivah. Ashia grit her teeth as she lifted the woman’s dead weight and slung her across her shoulders.

Down the hall she heard the shouts of more warriors, combing the palace for her.

—Your firstborn is dead.—

Inevera stared at the dice, sorting through the mixture of emotions that passed through her.

It was the duty of all dama’ting to produce a female heir, but she had put her own needs aside for her people, using the dice to bless Ahmann with two sons first, one for sharaj and the other for Sharik Hora. The boys had been born out of duty, but as they grew within her, Everam worked His subtlest magic, for in that miracle she had come to love the infants as they suckled her breasts.

As they grew, the boys vexed her in equal measure. She had thought her sons would take after Ahmann, but they were their own creatures. For what son of the Deliverer could be anything but a disappointment?

Jayan was Sharum to the core—brutal and willfully ignorant. From cradle to the Maze, he had never wasted a moment on caution or personal safety, leaping without a glance below. As a leader, he was apt to solve problems with the spear rather than wisdom. He was clever in his way, and might have made a name for himself, but the only name anyone ever needed to hear was his father’s. Too much decision had been thrust upon him before he was fully a man.

The dice had never been much use with her own children, but she had always known in her heart he would die young.

That fear trebled at word he was heading north.

—Doom befall the armies of the Deliverer—the dice had said—if they should march north with enemies unconquered at their back—

Confirmation of Jayan’s death brought a wave of anguish, made worse by the guilty feeling of relief that the moment she’d dreaded for so long had finally come.

There would be time to fill tear bottles later. She envisioned the palm bending before the wind of her pain and focused her breath until she was ready to cast again.

—Three times will your power be challenged tonight.—

This gave her pause, and for a moment, she felt a touch of fear. Her eyes flicked to the single entrance to her casting chamber. Outside Micha and Jarvah waited with Damaji’ting Qeva, ready to defend her with their lives. Other Sharum’ting waited outside her chambers, as well as eunuch guards trained by Enkido himself.

If the news of Jayan’s defeat reached the Damaji, there was no telling what they might do. None of them could be trusted, schemers all. They would not hesitate to act if it was in their interests.

She lifted the dice a third time. “Almighty Everam, Giver of Life and Light, give your humble servant knowledge of what is to come. Who will challenge me this night?”

The dice flared and fell into a complex pattern as always, but the message was simple.

—Wait.—

There was a cry outside the chamber.

Melan looked up as Inevera entered the room. She had removed her white headwrap, holding her mother’s black one in hand. Qeva lay at her feet, aura extinguished in death. Across the chamber by the doors lay Micha and Jarvah. Their auras were flat and dim, and they lay unmoving.

To Inevera’s shock, Melan laughed. It was so unexpected, she hesitated.

“Come, Damajah!” Melan cried. “Can you not see the irony? Is this not precisely how we found you with my grandmother all those years ago?”

It was true enough. Inevera had not wanted to assume leadership of the Kaji Dama’ting prematurely, but when Kenevah had threatened her plans to put Ahmann on the Skull Throne, she had not hesitated to kill the old woman.

“Perhaps,” she allowed, “but it was not matricide as well.”

“Of course not,” Melan sneered. “The weaver’s daughter could never harm her sainted mother. How is Manvah? Still in the bazaar? Perhaps the time has come to pay her a visit.”

Inevera had heard enough. She raised her hora wand, firing a blast of magic at Melan.

The instant she raised the wand, Melan’s hand darted into her robe, holding a warded piece of rock demon armor, plated in gold. The magic bent around the warding, tearing apart the room and leaving Melan untouched.

She’s ready for me, Inevera realized. “How long have you planned this betrayal, Melan?”

Melan held up her burned, misshapen claw of a hand. “Do you have to ask?” She snorted. “Longer. Since your first bido weave, I have dreamed of this day.

“But Everam spoke to you. The dice named Ahmann Jardir Shar’Dama Ka and you his Damajah. What could I do, but obey?”

Melan pointed one of her talons at Inevera. “But you failed to foretell Ahmann Jardir’s defeat, and have not kept our people unified in his absence. Everam favors you no longer. The dice have spoken against you ever since the Northern whore supplanted you in the pillows. It is time for a new Shar’Dama Ka and a new Damajah.”

Inevera laughed. “You don’t have what it takes to satisfy my push’ting son.”

“No woman does,” Melan agreed, “and I haven’t the recognition our people need in any event.”

“Kajivah,” Inevera spat the name.

Melan clapped her misshapen hand. “How delicious that you yourself handed me the weapon. Asome will have beatified her by now, and she will occupy your pillows by the throne … a few steps down. A figurehead and blunt instrument, but one we’ve learned to aim quite effectively.”

Inevera raised her hora wand. “You won’t be aiming anything, Melan. You walk the lonely path tonight.”

Something stuck Inevera then, knocking her across the room. If she had not been strengthened by magic, the force would have left her broken and helpless. As it was, she was thrown like a doll and hit the floor with a jolt that sent pain lancing up her limbs and the wand clattering from her grasp. She looked in the direction the strike had come from, the room momentarily spinning.

But then the whirl resolved into Dama’ting Asavi, who was supposed to be hundreds of miles away.

Advising Jayan.

“You killed my son,” Inevera said.

“It was your own prophecy that spoke his doom.” Asavi put a hand to her breast. “Since the wise Damajah chose not to reveal it to her son, who was I to speak it to him?”

He would not have listened, in any event, Inevera thought. But it did nothing to lessen the pain as the words cut into her, nor the anger blowing through her like a hurricane.

Melan and Asavi spread out to opposite sides of the room, keeping Inevera between them so it became difficult to see them both at once. Their auras were brightening, each having activated a hora stone to strengthen herself for the fight to come. Their jewelry and the items in their hands all shone with power.

Too much power for Inevera’s comfort. Her eyes flicked to her hora wand, but Melan kicked it farther away.

Made from the limb of a demon prince, the weapon was more powerful than all Melan and Asavi’s hora combined. So powerful that Inevera had come to rely on it overmuch, and had few other items of offensive magic on her person. She took comfort, at least, that it was useless to her enemies without hours to study how she had positioned the wards of activation.

But even disarmed Inevera was not defenseless, as Asavi learned when she raised a flame demon skull and sent a jet of fire at her. One of Inevera’s rings tingled and the fire became a breeze as it passed over her.

Inevera wasted no time, darting right into the fire and kicking the skull from Asavi’s hands. She followed through into a full spin, meaning to drive an elbow into the woman’s throat, but Asavi was no novice to sharusahk. She slipped a hand under Inevera’s elbow and pulled it along its natural circuit as she dropped her own weight, attempting a takedown with wilting flower, a sharukin that would shatter the line of power in her leg.

Inevera adapted quickly, turning her thigh to protect the convergence point. Asavi’s fingers missed only by an inch, but it was enough, and her leg remained planted as she used Asavi’s own momentum to drive her hard into the floor.

But before she could press the advantage, Melan threw a handful of wind demon teeth at her. The wards cut into the teeth activated, sending them flying with speed to make the air crack.

She threw a hand up, halfway between her face and chest. One of her bracelets was warded against wind demons, and a flare of magic protected her vitals.

Other parts of her body were not so fortunate. Wind demon teeth were sharp as needles and thick as straw. One punched a hole through her stomach, another her hip.

Inevera Drew hard on her jewelry again, healing the punctures, but two of the teeth were embedded in her thigh, and she did not have time to pull them free.

She stomped down, but Asavi had already rolled out of the way and kicked back onto her feet. Melan was raising a tube made from the leathery wing of a wind demon, and she knew what was coming next.

With nowhere to run, Inevera dropped to the ground just as the blast of wind struck her like the hand of Everam, slapping her down onto the floor so hard she felt floorboards crack beneath her.

Asavi threw a wardstone as Inevera lifted her legs to kick herself upright. It skittered across the floor, leaving a trail of ice in its wake. Power enough to freeze an enemy solid.

Inevera Drew on her ruby ring, the gold molded around a circlet of flame demon bone, and her body was filled with warmth to fend off the cold as she kicked the stone toward Melan.

The woman had been readying another gust of wind when the cold stone came her way. Desperately she turned the tube of demon wing and loosed. She succeeded in blowing the stone away, but she foolishly aimed the blast at the floor, and the rebound knocked her from her feet.

Inevera closed the distance between her and Asavi, driving pointed fingers into her shoulder. Asavi was not quick enough to block fully, but she tapped Inevera’s forearm just enough to protect her convergence point, turning a crippling blow into one merely painful.

With Inevera in close, Asavi caught her shoulder, holding her in place as her knee drove into Inevera’s kidney, once, again. Inevera accepted the blows for the chance to hook Asavi’s knee with her free arm, again taking the woman down. She snaked her other arm around Asavi’s leg as well, preparing to twist it from the socket.

She was not able to complete the move, but it had the desired effect. Unwilling to let her lover be maimed, or to strike with magic while she was in its path, Melan moved in close to join the fight.

Inevera had to drop Asavi’s leg to block Melan’s whip kick, striking a return blow to her chest that would have broken the breastplate of a normal woman. But Melan, too, was strengthened by magic, and resisted the blow as she fell back, kicking Inevera hard in the crotch.

Unlike other points, where an inch meant the difference between striking a convergence or not, much of a woman’s power centered between her legs, and the target was difficult to miss. Nerve clusters screamed in pain and Inevera’s legs went momentarily weak. Asavi was ready, kicking at them and at last taking her down.

Rather than be pulled, Inevera threw her weight into the fall, catching Asavi by the back of her neck and rolling to put the woman on top just in time to catch Melan’s driving knee in the back. Inevera kicked the two women into each other, rolling to her feet and sprinting across the room for her hora wand.

As fast as she ran, Melan’s throw was faster. Like a glowing coal, the hora stone streaked through the air to land between her and the weapon, impact wards blowing a gaping hole in the floor and striking her with debris. She had no wards against wood, and it left her bloodied and pincushioned with splinters. Amidst the smoke and dust, she lost sight of her wand.

There were shouts from outside, drawn to the commotion, but Asavi threw another impact stone at the doorway, collapsing the frame to prevent any from coming to Inevera’s aid.

Again Inevera Drew for healing, but she felt the reservoir of power in her jewels dwindling. She could not continue depleting hora at this rate.

Desperately, she reached into her hora pouch, closing her fingers about the familiar contours of her dice. She did not even need to look at them as she held them aloft and summoned light.

Light wards were among the first nie’dama’ting carved into their dice, that they might work further by Everam’s light. Even a novice could do it. Melan and Asavi laughed at the effort.

But Inevera’s dice were carved of mind demon bone, focused by pure electrum. The light she called shone like the sun itself, and the women shrieked, turning from the glare.

By the time they caught their senses, Inevera had caught Asavi’s arm, torquing it back until she felt cartilage pop and the woman screamed.

The move cost her a slash of Melan’s talons across the face. Blood began to flow into her eyes as she caught the follow-up blow and struck a convergence that sent Melan stumbling back.

She had to pause to pull her forearm across her eyes, wiping the blood away. Again she Drew for healing, but this time she felt the well run dry as the bleeding slowed. Asavi camel-kicked her away, pausing as she too Drew for healing.

The next minutes were a blur. Inevera was forced to focus almost entirely on defense as the women pressed her from both sides. They had come prepared, their auras continuing to glow brightly even as Inevera’s dimmed and she began to slow.

More, Asavi and Melan had been fighting together their entire lives, designing their own sharukin to fight in perfect harmony. Blocking one opened Inevera to attacks from the other, and the women took full advantage.

Inevera found herself missing more and more blocks as her power waned, and the few counters she managed amidst the pummeling were easily blocked. It became clear they were toying with her, savoring the moment.

“Accept your fate,” Melan said, landing a kick to the side of the head that sent Inevera reeling.

“Everam has forsaken you,” Asavi said, kicking her back the other way.

“It is your own fault,” Melan said, punching Inevera in the jaw so hard it took her feet from under her.

Asavi was positioned to catch her as she fell, dropping to one knee and driving Inevera hard into it. Inevera coughed a spatter of blood as the air was blasted from her, and Asavi hurled her onto her back. “You have grown complacent in your power, coming into battle with little more than your dice, flawed since you coated them as the Evejah forbid.”

Was it true? Had the dice turned from her? Had she truly fallen from Everam’s favor? If so, what had been her failing? Not confirming the death of the Par’chin? Coating her dice? Allowing Ahmann into Domin Sharum? What might she have done differently?

But then she remembered something, and her hand dropped to her hora pouch.

“They warned me,” she croaked.

“Eh?” Melan asked.

“The dice.” Inevera gasped as she reached into the pouch. “They warned me my power would be challenged. Everam has not forsaken me. This is just another test.”

It was forbidden in the Evejah to Draw on one’s dice for anything save light and foretelling, lest the hora might become so drained as to cause false foretellings. More, the items were the most precious thing a dama’ting owned. They were her key to the white, her guide through life, the heart of her power. No dama’ting would risk harm to her dice.

But Inevera had already lost her dice once, leaving her blind until she could carve a new set. The price was high, but she was stronger for paying it.

Now, she had dice carved from a mind demon’s bones, and coated in electrum. She closed her fingers about the seven dice, Drawing hard on their power for one last burst of strength and speed.

Melan and Asavi had not expected the move, but neither were they caught unaware. As Inevera came back, they moved in perfect sync, Asavi to block, and Melan to counter.

Faster than asps a moment ago, the women now seemed to move like plodding camels. Inevera’s kick connected with Asavi’s chest before her hands were in place to block, knocking her back with plenty of time to pivot and catch Melan’s attack, pulling her into a throw that sent her clear across the room.

At a safe distance, both women reached for their hora pouches once more, but Inevera was faster, raising the fist that clutched her dice and pointing a finger, her sharp nail tracing a cold ward in the air.

Asavi literally froze, a thin rime of white coating her skin. Inevera had not intended to kill her—yet—but she had not anticipated the raw power of the dice. The woman’s aura snuffed like a candle.

Melan shrieked, letting loose a blast of lightning, but Inevera turned, sketching a quick Drawing in the air. Her hand tingled as the energy was absorbed back into the dice.

Gaping, Melan fumbled with her hora pouch, pulling free another fistful of wind demon teeth. Propulsion wards activated as she threw, but Inevera traced the ward in reverse, and the teeth ripped back through the thrower.

Melan gave a sharp cry and fell back, groaning and laboring for breath, riddled with holes. Inevera kept her dice in hand, ready to ward, but the woman’s aura gave no sign that she might continue the battle.

“Killed … Asavi …” Melan said through clenched teeth.

“The same fate she wanted for me,” Inevera noted. “But you don’t fear cold, do you, Melan?” She drew quick wards in the air, and a bright flame hovered above her hand. “Fire has ever been your bane.”

Melan flinched, crying in pain as she curled reflexively, clutching her scarred hand close. “I will tell you nothing!”

Inevera laughed. “I have my dice, little sister. I need nothing you can tell me. Any value you might still hold vanished the moment you mentioned my mother.”

“Forgive our failure, Damajah,” Micha begged when Inevera revived her. Jarvah was only just stirring from the healing magic when one of Inevera’s earrings began to vibrate, signaling that someone had entered one of the secret passages the spear sisters used.

Be silent, Inevera’s hands signaled. She flicked her fingers, and Micha helped get Jarvah out of sight as Inevera raised her hora wand.

The hidden door opened silently, but it was no attacker. Instead she found Ashia, with Kajivah slung over her shoulder and a bundle strapped to her chest. The spear sister’s robes were torn and wet with blood, her white veil splotched red. She left bloody footprints behind her.

“Succor, I beg, Damajah.” Ashia laid Kajivah down and uncovered the bundle, revealing her infant son.

“What has happened?” Inevera demanded, moving to inspect the woman’s wounds. There were bruises and superficial cuts, but a spear had pierced her abdomen and come clear through. She was pale, her aura dim. She would need hora magic if she was to survive.

“Jayan is dead,” Ashia said, “his forces shattered.”

Inevera nodded. “I know.”

“The shar’dama killed their Damaji and took control of the tribes in response,” Ashia said. “All save Maji, who was defeated.”

This was news, and dire. It had been Inevera’s intention all along that Ahmann’s dama sons take control of the tribes, but at a time of her own choosing. The idiots risked everything, and she realized just how far her control of them had slipped.

“And Ashan?” she asked, already guessing the answer.

“My father is dead,” Ashia said. “Asome sits the Skull Throne.”

Worse, still. She had already lost Jayan. It would be devastating if she were forced to kill Asome, as well.

“I turned to Asukaji when the slaughter began,” Ashia said, “just in time to catch a chain around my throat as he tried to kill me.”

“Then your brother, too, is dead,” Inevera guessed.

Ashia nodded, coughing blood, then, and swayed on her knees. Inevera signaled and Micha and Jarvah were there in an instant. “Take the child.”

Jarvah reached out, but Ashia tightened her grasp reflexively and Kaji began to cry. Ashia squinted as if she did not recognize her spear sister, confusion and fear in her aura.

That more than anything frightened Inevera. When had she ever seen fear in Ashia’s aura? Not even when the alagai built greatwards around the city.

“By Everam and my hope of Heaven, I swear I will not harm him, sister,” Jarvah said. “Please. The Damajah must see to your injuries.”

Ashia shook her head, and some of the confusion left her aura. “I have walked the abyss to protect my son tonight, sister. I will not be parted from him.”

“You will not be parted,” Inevera said. “You have my word. But you may clutch too tightly when the magic takes you. Let your spear sister hold Kaji. They will not leave your side.”

Ashia nodded, relaxing her grip. Jarvah took Kaji, holding the thrashing infant beneath the armpits at arm’s length. She looked like she would prefer fighting a rock demon. The Sharum’ting, denied their own childhoods, had none of a mother’s instincts.

Inevera snatched the child from her, bundling his limbs tightly in the blanket. She took the neat bundle and pushed it into the crook of Jarvah’s elbow. “Micha, take the Holy Mother down to the vault. We will meet you there shortly. Go quickly and tell no one.”

“Yes, Damajah.” Micha bowed and vanished.

Inevera swept into the throne room at dawn, her Damaji’ting sister-wives at her heel. The room was already filled with dama and Sharum, causing a great din at the news. Before them, their second sons lined the path to the throne, save for Belina, who glared hatred at Damaji Aleveran. Aleverak’s eldest son, Aleveran had taken the place of his father to lead the Majah—at least for now.

None of the Damaji’ting approved of their sons’ coup, but ties of blood ran deeply in them all. Inevera felt it herself, looking up the steps to Asome, his face grim, eyes still puffed from tears no doubt shed over Asukaji.

There is always a price to power, my son, she thought. Even now, sympathy for the boy mingled with the pain of Jayan’s loss. Some might claim the younger killed the elder, but the truth of the dice was harsher. Asome had goaded his brother, but it was Jayan who defeated himself.

“It is good to see you well, Mother. I feared for you last night.” Asome had wisely uncovered the windows of the throne room, filling it with light that bounced around the room on dozens of new mirrors, but Inevera did not need to read his aura to know the lie.

“I fear for all of us,” Inevera said, continuing on as her sister-wives took their place left of the throne, opposite the new Damaji. “So much that I have taken Kajivah and my grandson into my custody. For their own protection, of course.”

“Of course.” Asome grit his teeth as she began to ascend the steps. She knew he wanted to stop her—every man in the room did—but while it was one thing to have your mother quietly killed, it was another to attack the Damajah in the light of day before the entire court.

“And Ashia?” Asome asked. “My traitorous wife must face justice for killing her brother and my palace guards.”

Inevera resisted the urge to laugh at the irony. “I am afraid your Jiwah Ka was mortally wounded in the battle, my son.”

Asome pursed his lips, clearly doubting. “They must be returned, now that the danger is past. I would see the body of my wife, Kaji must lead his tribe, and my holy grandmother …”

Inevera topped the steps and met his eyes, and he did not dare finish the sentence. As Shar’Dama Ka, Asome’s power exceeded her own, but it was untested, and they both knew Inevera could have both of the hostages killed long before he found them.

“The danger is not past!” Inevera said loudly, her voice echoing through the room. “I have consulted the alagai hora, and the dice foretell doom, should they leave my protection.”

She did not bow, striding as an equal to her bed of pillows beside the throne.