The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 2 VACUUM 333 AR AUTUMN

Inevera wasted no time when they returned to the Krasian camp. Even as Ashan quietly selected warriors to begin the search and ordered others to break camp, she summoned Abban to her private audience chamber in the pavilion of the Shar’Dama Ka.

Already the Sharum were questioning why the Deliverer had not returned to them. There had been no formal announcement, either of the battle itself or of its sudden end. Yet soon word would spread, and the ambitious would seek to exploit her husband’s absence. The cunning had plotted for this day, and would be quick to act once it was clear the search was in vain. The rash might be quicker still.

It was clear Abban knew this, approaching the pavilion surrounded by his kha’Sharum warriors. The dal’Sharum still sneered at warriors in tan, but the eunuch spies Inevera had sent to Abban’s compound had been found dead, and that spoke volumes for the khaffit warriors’ skill. She had seen, too, the glow of power in their weapons and equipment, carefully disguised with worn leather and paint to hide their fine quality. Not even the elite Spears of the Deliverer, with their shields and spearheads of warded glass, were equipped better.

You have grown formidable, khaffit. The thought did not please her, but neither did it worry her as it once had. She had not understood weeks ago when the dice told her Abban’s fate was intertwined with her own, but it was clear now. They were Ahmann’s closest, most trusted advisors and, up until a few hours ago, had been untouchable with vast discretionary powers. But with her husband gone, much of that power would evaporate. Inevera would have to work quickly and carefully to install Ashan, but once the reins were passed it would still be his voice, not hers, that led their people. Ashan was not as wise—or as pliable—as Ahmann.

Abban was in an even worse position. Formidable though his kha’Sharum were, the crippled merchant would be lucky to live another day once his enemies ceased to fear Ahmann’s wrath should he be harmed. Not long ago the thought of his death would have pleased her greatly. Now she needed him. The khaffit knew every last draki in the Deliverer’s treasury, every debt of the throne, every grain in his silos. More, Ahmann trusted him with schemes and secrets he did not even share with the Damaji. Troop movements. Battle plans. Targets.

The fat khaffit’s smile as he limped into her audience chamber showed he knew her need, Everam damn him.

At Abban’s back was the giant kha’Sharum bodyguard that had become his shadow in recent weeks. The deaf man who had been one of the first to answer the Deliverer’s call. He had given up his weapons to enter, but seemed no less formidable as he loomed over the khaffit’s shoulder. Abban was not a short man, even stooping to lean on his crutch, but his bodyguard stood head and shoulders above him.

“I commanded we meet in private, khaffit,” Inevera said.

Abban bowed as deeply as his camel-topped crutch allowed. “Apologies, Damajah, but the dal’Sharum no longer have Ahmann to hold their leash. Surely you will not deny me a modicum of security? Earless is deaf as a stone, and will hear nothing of our words.”

“Even a deaf man may hear,” Inevera said, “if he has eyes to watch a speaker’s mouth.”

Abban bowed again. “This is so, though of course the Damajah’s veil prevents this, even if my humble servant had learned the art, which I swear by Everam he has not.”

Inevera believed him—a rare occurrence. Her own eunuch guards had given up their tongues to protect her secrets, and she knew Abban would value a man who could not overhear and be made to betray his many intrigues. Still, it was best not to yield too much.

“He may guard the door,” Inevera said, turning to saunter to the pillows on the far side of the chamber with a swing to her hips. Abban had never dared ogle her before, but she wondered if he might now, with Ahmann gone. That would be something she could use. She glanced over her shoulder, but Abban was not looking. He made a few quick gestures to the giant, who moved with a silent grace that belied his great size to stand by the door.

Abban limped over, easing himself carefully down onto the pillows across from her. He kept his inviting smile in place, but a flick of his eyes at his bodyguard betrayed his fears. He knew Inevera could kill him long before the giant could cross the room, and even Earless would fear to strike the Damajah. She could kill the kha’Sharum as well, in any of a hundred ways—not the least of which was a whisk of her fingers to her own bodyguards, Ashia, Micha, and Jarvah, hidden just out of sight.

There was a silver tea service between them, the pot still steaming. At a nod from her, the khaffit poured and served.

“You honor me with your summons, Damajah.” Abban sat back with his cup. “May I ask the reason why?”

“To offer you protection, of course,” Inevera said.

Abban looked sincerely surprised, though of course it was an act. “Since when does the Damajah place such value upon poor, honorless Abban?”

“My husband values you,” Inevera said, “and will be wroth if you are dead upon his return. You would be wise to accept my help. The dice tell me your life will be short indeed without it. My sons hate you even more than the Damaji, and that is a very great deal. And do not think Hasik has forgotten who cut his manhood away.”

Inevera had expected the words to rattle the khaffit. She had seem his cowardice reveal itself in the face of danger before. But this was the bargaining table, and Abban knew it.

He has a coward’s heart, Ahmann once told her, but there is steel in Abban to put Sharum to shame, when the haggling has begun.

Abban smiled and nodded. “It is so, Damajah. But things are no less dire for you. How long will the Damaji let you sit atop the seven steps without your husband? A woman sitting above them is an insult they have never borne well.”

Inevera felt her jaw begin to tighten. How long since any save her husband had dared speak to her thus? And from a khaffit. She wanted to break his other leg.

But for all the audacity, his words were true enough, so Inevera let them pass over her like wind.

“All the more reason we must ally,” she said. “We must find a way to trust, as Ahmann commanded, or both of us may walk the lonely path before long.”

“What are you asking?” Abban said.

“You will report to me as you did to my husband,” Inevera said. “Bring your tallies and schemes to me before they are presented to the council of Damaji.”

Abban raised an eyebrow. “And in return?”

Inevera smiled, visible through the gossamer lavender veil she wore. “As I said, protection.”

Abban chuckled. “You’ll forgive me, Damajah, but you have fewer warriors at your command than I, and still not enough to protect me should one of the Damaji or your sons decide to be rid of me at last.”

“I have fear,” Inevera said. “My sons fear me. The Damaji fear me.”

“They feared you, yes,” Abban agreed, “but how much of that fear will last when a new backside sits the Skull Throne? Absolute power has a way of emboldening a man.”

“No power is absolute save that of Everam.” Inevera held up her dice. “With Ahmann gone, I am His voice on Ala.”

“That, and three draki, will buy you a basket,” Abban said.

The phrase was a common one in Krasia, but it put Inevera on edge nevertheless. Her mother was a basket weaver with a successful business in the bazaar. No doubt Abban—who controlled half the commerce in Everam’s Bounty—had dealings with her, but Inevera had worked tirelessly to ensure her family remained safely anonymous, out of the politics and intrigues that ruled her world.

Were they just words, or a subtle threat? Useful or not, Inevera would not hesitate to kill Abban to protect her family.

Again, Inevera wished she could see into the hearts of men and women as her husband did. The thick canvas walls of the pavilion let her see the khaffit’s aura, albeit dimly, but the subtle variations and patterns of shifting color that Ahmann read as easily as words on a page were a mystery to her.

“I think you’ll find my words carry more weight than you think,” Inevera said.

“If you secure your position,” Abban agreed. “We are discussing why I should help you do that. Not every man in the Deliverer’s court is a complete fool, Damajah. I may never enjoy the power I did with Ahmann, but I could still find protection and profit if I side with another.”

“I will grant you a permanent position at court,” Inevera said. “To witness firsthand every dealing you can twist into a way to fill your greedy pockets.”

“Better,” Abban said, “but I have spies throughout the Deliverer’s court. More than even you can root out.”

“Do not be so sure,” Inevera said. “But very well. I will offer something even you cannot refuse.”

“Oh?” Abban seemed amused at the thought. “In the bazaar, those words are a threat, but I think you will find I am not so easily bullied as I may appear.”

“No threats,” Inevera said. “No bullying.” She smiled. “At least not for coercion. They will be a promise, should you break our pact.”

Abban grinned. “You have my fullest attention. What does the Damajah think my heart desires above all?”

“Your leg,” Inevera said.

“Eh?” Abban started.

“I can heal your leg,” Inevera said. “Right now, if you wish. A simple matter. You could throw your crutch on the fire and walk out on two firm feet.” She winked at him. “Though if I know sly Abban, you would limp out the way you came, and never let any know until there was profit in doing so.”

A doubtful look crossed the khaffit’s face. “If such a simple matter, why didn’t the dama’ting heal me when it was first shattered? Why cost the Kaji a warrior by leaving me lame?”

“Because healing is the costliest of hora magics,” Inevera said. “At the time we did not have warded weapons to bring us an endless supply of alagai bones to power our spells. Even now, they must be rendered and treated, a difficult process.” She circled a finger around her teacup. “We cast the dice for you, all those years ago, to see if it was worth the price. Do you know what they said?”

Abban sighed. “That I was no warrior, and would provide little return on the investment.”

Inevera nodded.

Abban shook his head, disappointed but unsurprised. “It is true you have found something I want. I do not deny this is something my heart has longed for.”

“Then you accept?” Inevera asked.

Abban drew a deep breath as if to speak, but held it instead. After a moment, he blew it out, seeming to deflate as he did. “My father used to say, Love nothing so much you cannot leave it at the bargaining table. I know enough of the ancient tales to know that magic always has its price, and that price is ever higher than it appears. I have leaned on my crutch for twenty-five years. It is a part of me. Thank you for your offer, but I fear I must refuse.”

Inevera was becoming vexed and saw no reason to hide it. “You try my patience, khaffit. If there is something you want, be out with it.”

The triumphant smile that came over Abban’s face made it clear this was the moment he had been waiting for. “A few simple things only, Damajah.”

Inevera chuckled. “I have learned nothing is simple where you are concerned.”

Abban inclined his head. “From you, that means everything. First, the protection you offer must extend to my agents, as well.”

Inevera nodded. “Of course. So long as they are not working counter to my interests, or caught in an unforgivable crime against Everam.”

“And it must include protection from you,” Abban went on.

“I am to protect you from myself?” Inevera asked.

“If we are to work together,” Inevera noticed he did not say that he would work for her, “then I must be free to speak my mind without fearing for my life. Even when it is not things you wish to hear. Especially then.”

She will tell you truths you do not wish to hear, the dice had once told Inevera of her mother. There was value in an advisor like that. In truth, there was little value in any other kind.

“Done,” she said, “but if I choose not to act on your advice, you will support my decisions in any event.”

“The Damajah is wise,” Abban said. “I trust she would not act wastefully once I have given her the costs.”

“Is that all?” Inevera asked, knowing it was not.

Abban chuckled again, refilling their teacups. He took a flask from the inner pocket of his vest and added a splash of couzi to the drink. It was a test, Inevera knew, for the drink was forbidden by the Evejah. She ignored the move. She hated couzi, thought it made men weak and foolhardy, but thousands of her people smuggled the tiny bottles under their robes.

Abban sipped at his drink. “At times I may have questions.” His eyes flicked to the hora pouch at her waist. “Questions only your dice can answer.”

Inevera clutched the pouch protectively. “The alagai hora are not for the questions of men, khaffit.”

“Did not Ahmann pose questions to them daily?” Abban asked.

“Ahmann was the Deliverer …” Inevera caught herself, “… is the Deliverer. The dice are not toys to fill your pockets with gold.”

Abban bowed. “I am aware of that, Damajah, and assure you I will not call upon you to throw them frivolously. But if you want my loyalty, that is my price.”

Inevera sat back, considering. “You said yourself magic always comes with a price. The dice, too, can speak truths we do not wish to hear.”

“What other truth has value?” Abban asked.

“One question,” Inevera said.

“Ten, at least,” Abban said.

Inevera shook her head. “Ten is more than a Damaji has in a year, khaffit. Two.”

“Two isn’t enough for what you ask of me, Damajah,” Abban said. “I could perhaps manage with half a dozen …”

“Four,” Inevera said. “But I will hold you to your word not to use this gift frivolously. Waste the wisdom of Everam with petty greed and rivalries, and every answer will cost you a finger.”

“Oh, Damajah,” Abban said, “my greed is never petty.”

“Is that all?” Inevera asked.

Abban shook his head. “No, Damajah, there is one more thing.”

Inevera brought the scowl back to her face. It was art, but easy enough. The khaffit could try even her temper. “This bargain is beginning to outgrow your worth, Abban. Spit it out and have done.”

Abban bowed. “My sons. I want them stripped of the black.”

There was commotion in the Krasian camp when Abban limped away from the audience. Inevera caught sight of Ashan striding toward her rapidly.

“What has happened?” Inevera asked.

Ashan bowed. “Your son, Damajah. Jayan has told the warriors his father has disappeared. The Sharum Ka acts as if it is foregone conclusion that he will sit the Skull Throne on our return.”

Inevera breathed, finding her center. This was expected, though she had hoped for more time.

“Bid the Sharum Ka to lead the search for his lost father personally, and leave a handful of warriors to maintain a camp. The rest of us must ride for Everam’s Bounty with all haste. Leave behind anything that may slow us.”

They pressed for home as fast as the animals would allow. Inevera sent Sharum to kill alagai as soon as the sun set and used their power-rich ichor to paint wards of stamina on the horses and camels to strengthen them enough to continue on in the night.

It was a risk, using hora magic so openly. The quick-minded might glean some of the mysteries the dama’ting had guarded for centuries, but it could not be helped. The dice advised she return as quickly as possible—and warned it might not be fast enough.

There were countless divergences over the coming days, a struggle that threatened to rend the fragile peace Ahmann had forged among the tribes and cast them back into chaos. How many feuds had been set aside on the Deliverer’s order, but still nursed in the hearts of families that had stolen wells and blooded one another for generations?

Despite her precautions, Jayan and the Spears of the Deliverer reached Everam’s Bounty before them. The fool boy must have given up the search early and ridden cross-country with his warriors, pushing their powerful mustang to their limits and beyond. Her trick with the ichor to strengthen the animals could be replicated by warriors who killed demons in the night, the wards on their spears and the steel-shod hooves of their mounts absorbing power even as they turned the alagai’s strength back on them.

“Mother!” Jayan cried in shock, turning to see Inevera, Ashan, Aleverak, and Asome storm into the throne room where he had gathered the remaining Damaji and his most trusted lieutenants.

Inevera’s group was followed by the twelve Damaji’ting, Qeva of the Kaji and Ahmann’s eleven wives from the other tribes. All were loyal to Inevera and her alone. Ashan was shadowed by his powerful lieutenants, Damas Halvan and Shevali, all three of whom had studied with the Deliverer in Sharik Hora. Ashan’s son Asukaji, speaking for the Kaji in his absence, waited with the other Damaji.

Abban limped into the throne room as fast as his crutch would allow, practically unnoticed in the commotion. He slipped quietly into a dark alcove with his bodyguard to observe.

It was good that she had pushed her entourage. Jayan had clearly expected more time to rally the Damaji to his favor. He had barely been in the Bounty a few hours, and had not yet had the audacity to climb the seven steps to sit the Skull Throne.

It would not have been claim enough if he had, with the Deliverer’s inner council and the most powerful Damaji absent, but he would have been far more difficult to unseat without open violence. Inevera loved her son for all his faults, but she would not have hesitated to kill him if he’d dared such a blatant grab at power. Ahmann had curtained off the great windows of the throne room that he might use his crownsight and give Inevera access to her hora magic in the day. The electrum-coated forearm of a mind demon hung from her belt, warm with pent energy.

“Thank you for gathering the Damaji for me, my son,” Inevera said, striding right past his gaping face to ascend the steps and take her customary place on the bed of pillows beside the Skull Throne. Even from a few feet away, the great chair throbbed—perhaps the most powerful magic item in existence. Below, the holy men and women assembled as they had for centuries, the Damaji to the right of the throne, and the Damaji’ting to the left. She breathed a bit of relief that they had arrived in time, though she knew the coming struggle was far from over.

“Honored Damaji,” she said, drawing a touch of power from a piece of warded jewelry to carry her voice through the room like the word of Everam. “No doubt my son has informed you that my divine husband, Shar’Dama Ka and Everam’s Deliverer, has disappeared.”

There was a buzz of conversation at the confirmation of Jayan’s tale. Ashan and Aleverak were nodding, though they were not foolish enough to give any detail until they learned what exactly Jayan had said.

“I have cast the alagai hora,” Inevera said after a moment, her enhanced voice cutting through the chatter without being raised. She held up the dice and called upon them to glow brightly with power. “The dice have informed me the Deliverer pursues a demon to the very edge of Nie’s abyss. He will return, and his coming shall herald the beginning of Sharak Ka.”

Another rash of conversation broke out at this, and Inevera gave it just a moment to build before pressing on. “Per Ahmann’s own instructions, his brother-in-law Ashan will sit the Skull Throne in his absence, as Andrah. Asukaji will become Damaji of the Kaji. Upon the Shar’Dama Ka’s return, Ashan will greet him from the base of the dais, but retain his title. A new throne will be built for him.”

There was a collective gasp, but only one voice cried out in shock.

“What?!” Jayan shouted. Even without Ahmann’s talent for reading auras, the anger radiating from him was unmistakable.

Inevera glanced to Asome, standing quietly beside Ashan, and saw simmering rage at the injustice in his aura as well, though her second son was wise enough not to show it. Asome had ever been groomed for the role of Andrah, and had chafed since his brother took the Spear Throne, seeking the white turban more than once.

“This is ridiculous,” Jayan shouted. “I am the eldest son. The throne should fall to me!” Several of Damaji murmured their agreement, though the strongest wisely kept silent. Aleverak’s dislike of the boy was well known, and Damaji Enkaji of the Mehnding, the third most powerful tribe, was known to never publicly take sides.

“The Skull Throne is not some bauble, my son, to be passed without a thought,” Inevera said. “It is the hope and salvation of our people, and you are but nineteen, and have yet to prove worthy of it. If you do not hold your tongue, I despair you never will.”

“How are we to know it was the Deliverer’s wish that his own son be passed over?” Damaji Ichach of the Khanjin tribe demanded. Ichach was ever a thorn in the council’s ass, but there were nods from many of the other Damaji, including Aleverak.

“A fair question,” the aged cleric said, turning to address those gathered, though his words were no doubt meant for Inevera. With Ashan’s claim for the throne announced, he had relinquished control of the council of Damaji, and none dared challenge venerable Aleverak as he assumed the role. “The Shar’Dama Ka did not speak them openly, nor even in private that we know of.”

“He spoke them to me,” Ashan said, stepping forward. “On the first night of Waning, as the Damaji filed from the throne room, my brother bade me take the throne, if he should fall against Alagai Ka. I swore by Everam’s name, lest the Deliverer punish me in the afterlife.”

“Lies!” Jayan said. “My father would never say such a thing, and you have no proof. You betray his memory for your own ambition.”

Ashan’s eyes darkened at that. He had known the boy since birth, but never before had Jayan dared speak to him so disrespectfully. “Say that again, boy, and I will kill you, blood of the Deliverer or no. I argued in your favor when Ahmann made his request, but I see now he was right. The dais of the Spear Throne has but four steps, and you have yet to adjust to the view. The dais of the Skull Throne has seven, and will dizzy you.”

Jayan gave a growl and lowered his spear, charging for Ashan with murder in his heart. The Damaji watched with cool detachment, ready to react when Jayan closed in.

Inevera cursed under her breath. Regardless of who won the fight, they would both lose, and her people with them.

“Enough!” she boomed. She raised her hora wand and manipulated its wards with nimble fingers, calling upon a blast of magic that leapt forth, shattering the marble floor between the men.

Both Jayan and Ashan were knocked from their feet by the shock wave, along with several of the Damaji. As the dust settled, there was an awed silence, save for the sound of debris falling back to the floor.

Inevera rose to her feet, straightening her robes with a deliberate snap. All eyes were upon her now. The Damaji’ting, schooled in the secrets of hora magic, retained their serenity, though the display was one none of them could match. A scorched crater now stood in the center of the thick marble floor, big enough to swallow a man.

The men stared wide-eyed and openmouthed. Only Ahmann himself had ever displayed such might, and no doubt they had thought they could quickly erode Inevera’s power with him gone.

They would be rethinking that assessment now. Only Asome kept his composure, having witnessed his mother’s power on the wall at Waning. He, too, watched her, eyes cold, aura unreadable.

“I am Inevera,” she said, her enhanced voice echoing throughout the room. The name was pregnant with meaning, literally translating as “Everam’s will.” “Bride of Everam and Jiwah Ka to Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji. I am the Damajah, something you seem to have forgotten in my husband’s absence. I, too, witnessed Ahmann’s command to Damaji Ashan.”

She raised her hora wand high, again manipulating the wards etched in the electrum, this time to produce a harmless flare of light. “If there are any here who would challenge my command that Ashan take the throne, let them step forward. The rest will be forgiven your insolence if you touch your foreheads to the floor.”

All around the room, men dropped to their knees, wisely pressing their foreheads to the floor. No doubt they were still scheming, grating at the indignity of kneeling before a woman, but none, even Jayan, were fool enough to challenge her after such a display.

None save ancient Aleverak. As the others fell to the floor, the ancient Damaji strode to the center of the room, his back straight. Inevera sighed inwardly, though she gave no outward sign. She had no wish to kill the Damaji, but Ahmann should have killed him years ago. Perhaps it was time to correct that mistake and end the threat to Belina’s eldest son, Maji.

The submission of the other tribes had been total. Only Aleverak had fought Ahmann and lived to tell the tale. The old man had earned so much honor in the battle that Ahmann had foolishly granted him a concession denied the others.

Upon the hour of his death, Aleverak’s heir had the right to challenge Ahmann’s Majah son to single combat for control of the Majah tribe.

Ahmann no doubt thought Maji would grow into a great warrior and win out, but the boy was only fifteen. Any of Aleverak’s sons could kill him with ease.

Aleverak bowed so deeply his beard came within an inch of the floor. Such grace for a man in his eighties was impressive. It was said he had been Ahmann’s greatest challenge as he battled to the steps of the Skull Throne. Ahmann had torn the Damaji’s arm off, but it had done nothing to strike fear into his heart. It was not surprising her blast of magic similarly failed to deter him.

“Holy Damajah,” Aleverak began, “please accept my apologies for doubting your words, and those of Damaji Ashan, who has led the Kaji people, and the council of Damaji, with honor and distinction.” He glanced to Ashan, still standing at the base of the dais, who nodded.

“But no Andrah has been appointed since the position was first created,” Aleverak went on. “It runs counter to all our sacred texts and traditions. Those who wish to wear the jeweled turban must face the challenges of the other Damaji, all of whom have a claim to the throne. I knew well the son of Hoshkamin, and I do not believe he would have forgotten this.”

Ashan bowed in return. “The honored Damaji is correct. The Shar’Dama Ka instructed me to announce my claim without hesitation, and kill any who stand in my path to the throne before any of the Damaji dare murder his dama sons.”

Aleverak nodded, turning to look Inevera in the eye. Even he had lost a moment’s composure at her show of power, but his control was back, his aura flat and even. “I do not challenge your words, Damajah, or the Deliverer’s command, but our traditions must be respected if the tribes are to accept a new Andrah.”

Inevera opened her mouth to speak, but Ashan spoke first. “Of course, Damaji.” He bowed, turning to the other Damaji. Tradition dictated that they could each challenge him in turn, starting with the leader of the smallest tribe.

Inevera wanted to stop it. Wanted to force her will on the men and make them see she could not be denied. But the pride of men could only be pushed so far. Ashan was the youngest Damaji by a score of years, and a sharusahk master in his own right. She would have to trust in him to make good his claim, as Ahmann had.

She cared nothing for the Damaji—not a one of them worth the trouble they caused. She would as soon be rid of the lot of them and let her sister-wives take direct control of the tribes through Ahmann’s dama sons.

Aleverak was the only one that worried her, but hora magic could ensure that Maji win out against the ancient Damaji’s heirs.

“Damaji Kevera of the Sharach,” Ashan called. “Do you wish to challenge me for the jeweled turban?”

Kevera, still on his knees with his hands on the floor, sat back on his ankles to look Ashan in the eyes. The Damaji was in his sixties, but still robust. A true warrior-cleric.

“No, Damaji,” Kevera said. “The Sharach are loyal to the Deliverer, and if it was his wish that you take the jeweled turban, we do not stand in your way.”

Ashan nodded and called upon the next Damaji, but the answer was the same. Many of them had grown lax since taking the black turbans, no match for Ashan, and others were still loyal to Ahmann, or at least afraid of his return. Each man had his own reasons, but as Ashan went up through the tribes, none chose to face him.

Until Aleverak. The one-armed old cleric stepped forward immediately, barring Ashan’s path to the steps of the dais and assuming a sharusahk stance. His knees were bent, one foot pointed toward Ashan, and the other perpendicular, a step behind. His single arm was extended forward, palm up and stiffened fingers aimed at Ashan’s heart.

“Apologies, Damaji,” he said to Ashan, “but only the strongest may sit the Skull Throne.”

Ashan bowed deeply, assuming a stance of his own. “Of course, Damaji. You honor me with your challenge.” Then, without hesitation, he charged.

Ashan stopped short when he came in range, giving Aleverak a minimum of momentum to turn against him. His punches and kicks were incredibly fast, but Aleverak’s one hand moved so quickly it seemed to be two, batting them aside. He tried to latch on, turning the energy of the blows into a throw, but Ashan was wise to the move and could not be caught.

Inevera had never thought much of dama sharusahk, having learned a higher form among the dama’ting, but she grudgingly admitted to herself that the men were impressive. They might as well have been relaxing in a hot bath for all their auras told.

Aleverak moved like a viper, ducking and dodging Ashan’s kicks. He spun around a leg sweep and came out of it with a kick straight into the air that was impressive even for a dama’ting. Ashan tried to pull back out of range, but the blow was so unexpected he was clipped on the chin and knocked back a step, out of balance.

Inevera breathed out the tension as the ancient Damaji moved to take advantage of Ashan’s momentary imbalance. His fingers were like a speartip as he thrust his hand at Ashan’s throat.

Ashan caught the blow just in time, twisting Aleverak into a throw that would break the old man’s arm if he resisted.

But Aleverak did not resist. Indeed, it became clear he was counting on the move, using Ashan’s own strength to aid his leap as he scissored his legs into the air, hooking them around Ashan’s neck. He twisted in midair, throwing his weight into the move, and Ashan had no choice but to go limp and let himself be thrown to the floor, lest Aleverak break his neck.

But Ashan was not finished. As he rebounded off the floor with Aleverak above him, he used the energy to punch straight up. Even wooden Aleverak could not instantly embrace such a blow, and Ashan tucked his legs in, kicking himself upright and whirling to face the Damaji on even footing once more.

Aleverak was angry now. Inevera could see it, a thin red film crackling on the surface of his aura. But the emotion did not claim him. His energy was centered, channeled into his movements, giving him terrifying strength and speed. He wielded his one hand like a knife, showing surprising knowledge of the pressure points dama’ting used in their own sharusahk. Ashan took a blow to the shoulder that would leave his right arm numb for a minute, at the least. Not long in Everam’s great scheme, but a lifetime in battle.

Inevera began to wonder how much control she could keep if Aleverak ascended to the throne.

But again Ashan surprised her, taking a similar stance to Aleverak and focusing his efforts on defense. His feet beat rapidly on the marble floor, back and forth, keeping Aleverak dancing but always stopping short of full attacks that might give the aged Damaji free energy to turn against him. Again and again Aleverak struck at him, but Ashan batted his hand aside every time, keeping up the dance. Aleverak’s kicks were dodged, or blocked smoothly with thighs, shins, and forearms.

He kept it up, his aura calm, until, at last, Aleverak began to tire. Whatever reserves of energy the ancient Damaji had called upon depleted, and his moves began to slow.

When he next stepped forward, he was not quick enough to stop Ashan from stomping on his foot, pinning it. Aleverak stabbed his right hand in, but Ashan caught the wrist, holding it as he snapped his hips around to add torque to a devastating punch to the chest with his now recovered right arm.

Aleverak gasped and stumbled, but Ashan locked his arm and added several more punches before his opponent could recover, driving sharp knuckles into the shoulder joint of the Damaji’s one arm. He swept Aleverak’s feet from him and put him down hard on his back. The retort as he struck the marble echoed throughout the chamber.

Aleverak looked up at Ashan, his eyes hard. “Well done, Andrah. Finish me with honor and take your place atop the steps.”

Ashan looked at the ancient Damaji sadly. “It was an honor to face you, Damaji. Your fame among the masters of sharusahk is well earned. But tradition does not demand I kill you. Only that I clear you from my path.”

He began to turn away, but Aleverak’s aura flared, as close to a loss of control as Inevera had ever seen. He clutched the hem of Ashan’s robe with quivering fingers.

“Maji is still in his bido!” Aleverak coughed. “Kill me and let Aleveran have the black turban. No harm will come to the Deliverer’s son.”

Ashan glanced up to Inevera at this. It was a tempting offer. Maji would be safe from the foolish vow Ahmann had made, but in exchange the Majah would have a younger Damaji who might rule for decades to come. She gave a slight shake of her head.

“Apologies, Damaji,” Ashan said, pulling his robe free of the old man’s grasp, “but the Deliverer still has need of you in this world. It is not yet your time to walk the lonely path. And should any harm come to the Deliverer’s Majah son apart from an open challenge in court on the hour of your natural death, my respect for you will not stop me from having your entire male line killed.” He turned again, striding for the seven steps leading to the Skull Throne.

Asome met him there, blocking the path.

Inevera hissed. What was the fool boy doing?

“Apologies, Uncle.” Asome gave a formal sharusahk bow. “I trust you understand this is not personal. You have been as a father to me, but I am the eldest dama son of the Deliverer, and have as much right as any assembled to challenge you.”

Ashan seemed genuinely taken aback, but he did not dispute the claim. He bowed in return. “Of course, nephew. Your honor is boundless. But I would not leave my daughter a widow, nor my grandson without his father. I ask this once that you step aside.”

Asome shook his head sadly. “Nor would I leave my cousin and wife without a father. My aunt without a husband. Renounce your claim and allow me to ascend.”

Jayan leapt to his feet. “What is this?! I demand … !”

“Silence!” Inevera shouted. There was no need to enhance her voice this time, the sound echoing around the room. “Asome, attend me!”

Asome turned, climbing the steps swiftly to stand before Inevera’s bed of pillows. There was a flare in his aura as he passed by the throne. Was it covetousness? Inevera filed the information away in her mind as she manipulated polished stones on a small pedestal beside her, covering some wards and uncovering others. She could use the stones to control a number of effects, powered by hora placed around the room, and now placed a wall of silence around her pillows, that none save her son should hear her words.

“You must give up this foolish claim, my son,” Inevera said. “Ashan will kill you.” Having seen Asome’s sharusahk, she wasn’t certain this was true, but now was not the time to flatter the young man.

“Have faith, Mother,” Asome said. “I have waited my entire life for this day, and I will prevail.”

“You will not,” Inevera said. “Because you will not continue your challenge. This is not what Everam wants. Or your father. Or I.”

“If Everam does not wish me to take the throne, I will not,” Asome said. “And if He does, then it should be Father’s and your wish as well.”

“Wait, my son,” Inevera said. “I beg you. We have always meant the jeweled turban for you, but it is too soon. Jayan will drive the Sharum into revolt if you take it now.”

“Then I will kill him, too,” Asome said.

“And rule over a civil war with Sharak Ka on our heels,” Inevera said. “No. I will not allow you to kill your brother. If you persist, I will cast you down myself. Recant, and you will have the succession on Ashan’s death. I swear it.”

“Announce it now,” Asome said. “Before all assembled, or cast me down as you say. My honor will be appeased with nothing else.”

Inevera drew a deep breath, letting it fill her, and flow back out, taking her emotions with it. She nodded, sliding the stones on her pedestal to remove the veil of silence.

“Upon Ashan’s death, Asome will have the right to challenge the Damaji for the jeweled turban.”

Jayan’s aura swirled with emotion. The anger was still present, but he seemed mollified for the moment. There was no telling what he would have done if his younger brother had been given the chance to fight for a throne that sat higher than his. But seeing Asome thwarted had always brought Jayan pleasure. Ashan was not yet forty, and would stand between Asome and ascension long enough for Jayan to claim his father’s crown.

He stamped his spear loudly on the marble, and turned without leave to exit the throne room. His kai’Sharum followed obediently behind, and Inevera could see in them, and many of the Damaji, a belief that the Deliverer’s eldest son had been robbed of his birthright. The Sharum worshipped Jayan, and they outnumbered the dama greatly. He would be a growing danger.

But for the moment he was dealt with, and Inevera felt the wind ease as Ashan at last climbed the dais to sit the Skull Throne. He looked out at the assembled advisors and said the words Inevera had instructed, though she could tell they were sour on his lips.

“It is an honor to hold the throne for the Shar’Dama Ka, blessings be upon his name. I will keep the Deliverer’s court much as he left it, with Damaji Aleverak speaking for the council, and Abban the khaffit retaining his position as court scribe and master of logistics. As before, any that dare hinder or harm him or his interests will find no mercy from the Skull Throne.”

Inevera twitched a finger to Belina, and the Majah Damaji’ting stepped forward with hora to heal Aleverak. Soon the Damaji was rising shakily back to his feet. The disorientation would soon pass, leaving him even stronger than before. His first act was a bow of submission to the Skull Throne.

Satisfying as that submission was, it was nothing compared to the flick of Ashan’s eyes to her, obviously asking if this scene was at its end. She gave a subtle nod and Ashan dismissed the Damaji and moved to meet with Asukaji and Asome, as well as his advisors, Halvan and Shevali.

“Little sisters,” Inevera said, and the Damaji’ting remained as the men filtered out, clustering at the base of the dais to take private audience with her.

“You did not tell all, Damajah. My dice foretell that Ahmann may never return.” Belina kept her voice steady, but her aura was like a raw nerve. Most of the Damaji’ting appeared the same. They had lost not only a leader, but a husband as well.

“What has happened? Truly?” Qasha asked. Less disciplined than Belina, the Sharach Damaji’ting could not keep her voice steady. The last word cracked with a whine like a flaw forming in glass.

“Ahmann spared the Par’chin in secret after claiming the spear,” Inevera said, disapproval in her tone. “The man survived and challenged him to Domin Sharum.”

The women began to chatter at this. Domin Sharum literally meant “two warriors,” the name given to the ritual duel first fought by Kaji himself against his murderous half brother Majah three thousand years ago. It was said they battled for seven days and nights atop Nie’s Breast, the tallest of the southern mountains.

“Surely there is more to the tale than that,” Damaji’ting Qeva said. “I have trouble believing any man could defeat the Shar’Dama Ka in fair combat.”

The other women voiced their assent. No man nor demon they could imagine could stand against Ahmann, especially with the Spear of Kaji in his hands.

“The Par’chin has covered his skin in inked wards,” Inevera said. “I do not understand it fully, but the symbols have given him terrifying powers, not unlike a demon himself. Ahmann held sway in battle and would have won, but as the sun set the Par’chin began misting like an alagai rising from the abyss, and the Shar’Dama Ka’s blows could not touch him. The Par’chin cast them both from the cliff, and their bodies were never found.”

Qasha gave out a wail at that. Damaji’ting Justya of the Shunjin moved to comfort her, but she, too, had begun to sob. All around the semicircle of women, there was weeping.

“Silence!” Inevera hissed, her enhanced voice cutting through the sobs like a lash. “You are Damaji’ting, not some pathetic dal’ting jiwah, weeping tear bottles over dead Sharum. Krasia depends on us. We must trust that Ahmann will return, and keep his empire intact until he can reclaim it.”

“And if he does not?” Damaji’ting Qeva asked, her words a calm breeze. She alone of the Damaji’ting had not lost a husband.

“Then we hold our people together until a suitable heir can be found,” Inevera said. “It makes no difference in what we must do here and now.”

She looked out over the women. “With Ahmann missing, the clerics will try to leech our power. You saw the magic I displayed to the Damaji. Each of you has combat hora you have been husbanding against need. You and your most powerful dama’ting must find excuse for displays of your own. The time to hide our strength is over.”

She looked around the semicircle of women, seeing determined faces where a moment ago there had been tears. “Every nie’dama’ting must be put to preparing new hora for spells, and all should be embroidering their robes with the Northlander’s wards of unsight. Abban will have spools of gold thread sent to every dama’ting palace for the task. Any attempts to prevent us walking in the night should be ignored. If men dare hinder you, break them. Publicly. Kill alagai. Heal warriors near death. We must show the men of Krasia we are a force to be feared by man and demon alike, and not afraid to dirty our nails.”