She hesitated. Should she speak? She quickly dismissed the idea. If she pointed out the mistake in front of the Sharum, it would likely mean her life, as well as that of all the warriors present, Soli included. The dama’ting could not be seen as fallible.
She breathed, finding her centre, and did nothing.
Cashiv bowed again. ‘Dama Lakash is attempting to end the exception that the personal Sharum of dama need fight in the Maze only on Waning. How can this be prevented?’
Qeva grunted and threw the dice a third time. ‘Dama Lakash’s son-in-law and heir Dama Kivan has spoken ill of you in council. Claim insult and kill him, taking his Jiwah Ka, Lakash’s eldest daughter Gisa, as your Jiwah Sen in recompense. Marry her that night, and get a daughter on her the third afternoon after the ceremony.’
Cashiv’s face wrinkled at the thought. ‘This brings me to the dama’s final question, Dama’ting: “I remain vigorous with men, but have lost my ability to lie with and seed my wives. How can this be restored?”’
Qeva snorted and put her dice away. There was a tinkling clatter of small corked bottles as she rifled through the pouch at her waist, finally selecting one. ‘Apply this personally to the dama’s spear before he does the deed, and tell him to be quick about it.’ She tossed the bottle to Cashiv. ‘If that doesn’t work, stick a finger in his arse.’
Cashiv and the other Sharum laughed at that.
‘And the boon?’ Qeva asked.
‘My master has lost nine poison tasters in the year,’ Cashiv said. ‘He suspects one or more of his many sons.’
‘Yet he wastes a question on a spitting khaffit,’ Qeva noted.
Cashiv bowed low. ‘My master’s sons add to his power, and he would not wish to kill one, nor does he think it would deter the others if he did. He asks instead for a chalice, ornate as befits his stature, magicked to turn poison to water.’
‘A precious gift,’ Qeva said. ‘Difficult to make.’
Cashiv smiled. ‘My master prays it will be less so, with the bones of a water demon.’
Qeva nodded, rising to her feet. ‘You may go. Tell your master his chalice will be ready on the first Waning after spring equinox. We will teach him a precise way to hold it, so that only he may activate its power.’
‘The Dama’ting is generous beyond measure.’ Cashiv touched his forehead to the ground and got to his feet. As he and the others turned to go, Soli looked back. For an instant, he met Inevera’s eyes.
And winked.
The days that followed were a horror, as Inevera and the other nie’dama’ting who had earned the Chamber of Shadows rendered the demon’s flesh with acid and fire, leaving the hora untouched. The bones were then polished with sacred oils as the nie’dama’ting chanted endless prayers to Everam until they were black and hard as obsidian.
The putrid acid slurry was neutralized with a base, the resulting liquid poison to the touch, but thick with magic the dama’ting could tap. It was drained into large vats connected to pipes that sent the stuff through the palace walls like a circulatory system, powering the wardlights, climate control, and countless other spells warded throughout the palace.
The work left the other girls pale and retching, their hands burned and eyes watering, but Inevera barely noticed. Her mind was far away from such inconsequential wind. She breathed through her mouth as she chanted, letting her hands work the monotonous task on their own as her thoughts danced with the image of Soli. She had worried greatly about him over the years, her heart clenching every day Sharum wounded were brought to the pavilion. It would have been enough to see him and know he was alive, but the wink had changed everything. He knew her fate and loved her still. He would tell Manvah that she was well and calm their mother’s heart.
The chamber rang with the sound of Inevera’s cymbals as she gyrated and spun, the grip of her bare feet sure on the polished stone floor. She was thirteen, but already she had a woman’s body, lithe yet well curved. She snapped her hips at Khavel and saw him rock back with every thrust.
The younger girls watched in fascination. Inevera taught the beginner classes in pillow dancing now, though the bido wrap she wore meant she herself had yet to experience the dance in full.
Sacred law held that Everam’s Betrothed remain virgins until they took the veil, as signified by the bido. That first night, the Damaji’ting would break her hymen to consummate the marriage to Everam, and Inevera would become a full Bride.
The second night, she would be free to love any man or object as she pleased, for what were they, compared with Everam’s embrace? Playthings.
Inevera met the eunuch’s gaze as she writhed before him. Firmly under her spell, his eyes were glazed, head swaying in time with her movements. He was hers.
Khavel was a perfect physical specimen – the dama’ting settled for nothing less in a pleasure eunuch – with a handsome face, proud jaw, and muscular body glistening with oil. Trained from an early age in massage and all the other ways a man might give a woman pleasure, he would without question be a skilled lover. It was whispered that almost every dama’ting made use of him, and that he was on a constant diet of virility drugs, with a strict ritual exercise and sleep regimen. Practically every new dama’ting in the last decade had summoned him to her chambers on her second night, with none regretting.
But while Inevera could see the eunuch’s beauty, he stirred no desire in her, no more than a perfect statue of a man might. Other girls might be eager to practise the pillow dance fully, but Inevera didn’t spend years honing her skills to waste them on half a man. She would sooner bed a khaffit.
When her demonstration ended, she lined up the younger girls, helping them place their feet and practise the twist and snap of the hips that was the core of the pillow dance.
After the lesson, Inevera went to the baths, breathing steam deeply as the hot water soaked into her muscles. Melan and Asavi were there, pointedly ignoring her, but in the many months since Inevera’s defeat of the older girl, most of the other nie’dama’ting had changed their attitude towards her.
‘Bathe you, sister?’ Jasira asked, holding a soaked cloth lathered with scented soap. She was two years older than Inevera, and had just passed the test of admission to the Chamber of Shadows. Inevera waved her off. Such offers were becoming common, as her power grew and Melan’s waned. As Kenevah predicted, the other girls feared her, whispering among themselves that she would one day be Damaji’ting. Inevera could make willing servants of most of the nie’dama’ting, even so far as taking them as pillow friends and having her pleasure of them. But Inevera had no interest in such things. The girls did not shun her as they once had, but neither were they her friends.
More than anything, Inevera wished she could speak to her mother. Or her brother. The only people she could ever really trust.
As they were dressing, Inevera looked to Melan. ‘Going to the chamber, sister? We could walk together.’ Melan glared at her, and Inevera allowed herself a slight smirk.
‘Smile now, bad throw,’ Melan whispered. ‘Today I finish my dice, and tomorrow I will take the veil.’ She gave a predatory smile, but Inevera only smiled pleasantly in return.
‘I will still be dama’ting before you,’ she promised.
The girls sat in a semicircle before Qeva in the entrance hall to the Chamber of Shadows – seven Betrothed aspiring to one day take the white veil.
There was always a lesson before carving began, the dama’ting’s robes blood red in the dim wardlight – the only light allowed in the chamber.
Throughout the lesson, Melan fidgeted, shifting her weight and pursing her lips, rolling the velvet bag with her dice with one hand, eager to get back to carving.
It was always thus. Inevera and Melan had entered the Chamber of Shadows together, but even though Melan had years of work on Inevera and sneered about it publicly, she seemed to take seriously Inevera’s threat to finish her dice first. When Qeva ended the lesson each day, Melan practically ran to a carving chamber, always
last to emerge when the dama’ting called an end to the day’s work. Inevera imagined she could hear the frantic scraping of her tools even through the thick stone walls.
If Melan took the veil before Inevera, it could be dangerous … perhaps deadly. All the Betrothed had heard Inevera’s vow to finish first, and any power she had gained among the other girls with her defeat of Melan would vanish if her threat proved hollow. More, Melan would gain the near-limitless privilege of dama’ting, and her opportunities to have Inevera killed would increase manifold. There were others among the Brides of Everam who would surely support her.
The girls were finally dismissed, and padded down the cold stone passage to the long tunnel filled with small carving chambers. There were no wardlights in the tunnel, but Melan and the other girls lifted their unfinished dice, casting a red glow to see by. Only wardlight was permitted in the carving chambers, but even that was not given freely. It had to be earned by the girls’ own hands. Without light, they would not be able to see their tools, their hands, or even the dice themselves.
The circlets of wardsight they left behind, forbidden in the carving cells. Inevera had heard it whispered in the Vault that a girl once tried to sneak her circlet into the cells that she might carve in Everam’s light. Her eyes had been cut out before she was cast from the Dama’ting Palace.
Inevera walked unhurriedly as the other girls slipped into carving chambers. Qeva shut the doors behind them, leaving only the faint glow of wardlight leaking from under the door frames. One by one, the lights winked out until it was only by this faint glow that Inevera came to her own chamber. Qeva shut the door behind her, and she slipped off her robe, using it to stuff the bottom of the door, leaving her in perfect darkness.
Inevera, too, could call light from her dice, but chose not to in the Chamber of Shadows. The Evejah’ting warned that even wardlight could weaken the dice, leaching their power unnecessarily. The Damajah had carved in utter darkness, and Inevera saw no reason to do differently. Everam will guide your hands, if you are worthy, the holy book said.
Kneeling in the darkness, she said a prayer to her namesake as she took out her dice and warding tools, laying them out in a neat, evenly spaced row. She had finished the four-sided die, and the six, now working on the eight. Her work was slow and meticulous – shaping, smoothing, etching, all in rhythm with her breath.
Time passed. She did not know how long. Her trance was broken by a ringing sound that echoed through the silence of the chamber.
Melan had completed her dice.
Inevera quickly gathered her hora back into their pouch and put away her tools. There would be no more work tonight. She drew deep breaths and emerged from her chamber.
The other girls had already gathered, Melan in their centre, her face elated in the wardlight. She held up her dice and basked in the sounds of adoration and envy. When she caught sight of Inevera, her smile was one of cold triumph.
Inevera smiled in return, bowing politely.
They gathered in the lesson room, Melan kneeling with the nie’dama’ting surrounding her in a semicircle. Before long, dama’ting began to file into the room as well, nearly every Bride in the tribe forming an outer ring. Kenevah was the last to arrive, moving to the centre and kneeling to face her granddaughter. Her face was unreadable as she produced an ancient, faded deck of cards. The sound of her shuffling echoed in the silent chamber.
The Damaji’ting laid three cards facedown on the floor between them. She produced a knife and handed it to Melan, who cut her own hand and let the blood coat her dice. As she did, the wards began to softly glow.
Kenevah pointed to the first card. Melan shook the dice until they glowed fiercely, then threw them to the floor, scattering them in the precise method the girls had been taught. Inevera strained to see the markings, but the angle was wrong for any but Melan and Kenevah to read the pattern.
‘Seven of Spears,’ Melan said after a moment.
Kenevah pointed to the next card, and again Melan threw. ‘Damaji of Skulls.’
Again. ‘Three of Shields.’
Kenevah nodded, her face still unreadable. ‘One of the Brides announced to me this day that she carries a daughter. Which?’
Melan threw again. This time she took longer, studying the dice carefully. She glanced at the assembled dama’ting, and sweat trickled from her brow.
‘Dama’ting Elan,’ she said at last, naming one of the younger Brides who had yet to produce an heir.
Kenevah said nothing, turning over the first card. The nie’dama’ting gasped as the Seven of Spears revealed itself. Inevera felt her heart clench.
The next card was turned. The Damaji of Skulls. Inevera’s heart moved into her throat.
Kenevah turned the third card, and there was a gasp from all. It was the Damaji’ting of Water.
Suddenly Kenevah lashed out, smacking Melan hard on the face. ‘No Bride is pregnant, you idiot girl!’
She snatched the dice from Melan’s hand, holding them up and studying them in the wardlight. ‘Sloppy! Wasteful! Good enough for light, but naught else. Your dice of wood, carved when you were barely in your bido, were better! Where is your eighth?’
Melan’s face was a mask of shock and horror, her centre lost. Numbly, she reached into her hora pouch, producing her eighth bone and handing it to the Damaji’ting.
Even from her vantage, Inevera could see it was a twisted ruin.
Kenevah held the dice under Melan’s nose. ‘Each of these is a year of your life. They will be shown the sun, and you will return to ivory. When you have made three perfect sets, you may return to the Chamber of Shadows, and carve one hora each year until you have completed a new set. Each die will be examined before you are given another, and Everam help you if there should be the slightest flaw.’
Melan’s eyes widened, and the shocked look left her face as her shame and fate dawned on her fully. Inevera breathed deeply, finding her centre and suppressing the smile that threatened to pull at her lips.
Kenevah thrust the dice back into Melan’s hands and pointed to the exit. Melan was weeping openly now, but she rose and stumbled out. Asavi gave a wail and tried to go to her, but Qeva caught the girl’s arm and threw her roughly back.
Outside the chamber, the younger nie’dama’ting were waiting. They gasped as one to see Melan weeping, and all fell in line as Kenevah and every other Bride and Betrothed followed the procession.
They walked to the highest tower in the Dama’ting Palace. When Melan failed to climb fast enough, Kenevah shoved her with surprising strength. More than once the girl stumbled, and Kenevah kicked her until she rose and continued on up the spiralling stairs, coming at last to a high balcony that gave a view of all the Desert Spear.
‘Hold out your hand,’ Kenevah ordered, and Melan did so as the others all crowded behind her, some on the balcony and others in the topmost chamber of the tower. The girl’s fingers were clenched tightly around her precious dice, the result of half a lifetime’s work.
‘Open your hand,’ Kenevah said. It was late in the day, the sun low in the sky, but still it flooded the balcony with Everam’s bright light. Weeping, Melan did as she was bade, uncurling her fingers and letting the sunlight strike the dice.
The result was immediate. The bones sparked and caught fire, burning with white-hot intensity. Melan screamed.
In an instant, it was over, Melan’s hand smoking, the flesh blackened where it wasn’t melted away. Her three largest fingers were fused together, and Inevera could see bits of scorched bone amid the ruin.
Kenevah turned to Qeva. ‘Treat and bind her hand, but use no magic. She must always bear the mark of her failure, as a reminder to herself …’ She turned, and her gaze took in the other Betrothed. ‘… and to others.’ All the nie’dama’ting save Inevera gasped and stepped back at the words.
With Melan broken, Inevera put the politics of the nie’dama’ting from her mind, finding her centre and focusing on her studies. She continued to thrive in her t
raining, mastering herbs and hora magic, teaching classes in sharusahk and pillow dancing, as well as indoctrinating the younger girls, whose training normally began at five.
On the following solstice, she glimpsed Soli again, and threw him a return wink that crinkled his eyes in pleasure. She floated for six months on the memory.
After a year, Melan completed her three sets of ivory and returned to the Chamber of Shadows. Qeva’s ministrations had been skilled, but her daughter’s hand was still a twisted ruin with little of its former dexterity. She grew her nails long and sharp on that hand, giving it the look of an alagai’s clawed appendage. The sight struck terror in the other nie’dama’ting – both of Melan and of the risk taken by all who aspired to the white veil.
But while the other girls were intimidated by Melan and her claw, she was nothing to Inevera – a pile of camel dung she had already stepped around. Blocking out all distraction, she continued her slow, methodical work on her dice. The fact that she worked in utter darkness was now common knowledge, whispered at mealtimes and in hallways as she passed. Rumour was that none of the dama’ting, not even Kenevah, had done the same. Many seemed to think this was a sign that Inevera was indeed the chosen of Everam, meant to take the place of the aging Damaji’ting.
But the talk was just wind, and Inevera ignored it, keeping her centre. Working in the dark meant nothing if she grew overconfident as Melan had.
‘I have ruined him for his wives,’ Dama’ting Elan told Inevera one evening while Inevera served her tea. Just that morning, Elan had whisked away a handsome kai’Sharum to bless her with a daughter.
Each dama’ting was expected to produce at least one daughter to succeed her. The fathers were selected carefully, chosen for their intelligence and power, the choices and timing sanctified by the dice. When a dama’ting selected a man, a palanquin was sent for him, taking him to a private pleasure house the Brides kept outside the sacred palace – where no man could set foot with his stones intact.