No man was fool enough to refuse a summons from the dama’ting, and with their skills at herbs and pillow dancing, compliance with their wishes was assured, even if the man were push’ting. The men stumbled away drained and dazed, having no idea they had just fathered a daughter they would never meet.
Few of the Brides were above gloating about it. ‘His jiwah will never satisfy him again,’ Elan sneered. ‘He will dream of me for the rest of his days, praying to Everam that I will dance for him once more.’
She winked. ‘And I may. His spear was hard and true.’
Many of the dama’ting had warmed to Inevera in this way, taking the girl into their confidences and making efforts to befriend her. Since Melan’s failure, it was widely accepted by the Brides that Inevera was to be Kenevah’s heir. Some, like Elan, tried to impress her. Others tried to dominate, or offer gifts with strings attached.
Inevera kept her eyes down, her ears open, and her words noncommittal. While she had put the politics of the Betrothed behind her, the politics of the Brides were a weave she was still learning – one that made tying the bido seem like braiding one’s hair.
‘Even among the dama’ting,’ she told Elan, ‘your pillow dancing is regarded.’
Regarded poorly, she added silently, but she had her centre, and the dama’ting saw no sign of her true feeling.
‘He will never again see the like,’ Elan agreed.
Inevera turned away, only to see Asavi coldly glaring at her from across the room. Older than Melan by two years, Asavi had recently taken the veil, and Inevera stepped lightly when she was about, giving her no excuse to take offence. With the Vault doors between them, Asavi and Melan could no longer hold each other in the night, but Melan was summoned frequently to Asavi’s new quarters during the daylight hours, and Inevera did not doubt their pillow friendship continued.
One dawn in her fifth year as Betrothed, Inevera was in the dama’ting pavilion when a familiar shout heralded a group of Sharum rushing in their wounded. It was the morning after Waning, and casualties had increased in recent years.
‘Let me through, push’ting scum! That’s my son!’
Inevera felt her blood run cold. Even after half a decade, she knew her father’s voice.
Lifting her robes, she ran without a shred of dama’ting composure to the surgery, where a familiar crowd of sleeveless Sharum stood in their black steel breastplates. Cashiv’s face was wet with tears as he faced Kasaad, each of them with warriors at his back. Kasaad’s eyes were bloodshot, and he stood unsteadily, likely still feeling the effects of the couzi he drank for courage in the Maze.
Several warriors were being treated, but Inevera only had eyes for one, running to Soli’s side with a shout. Her brother’s handsome face was covered in sweat and dust, his eyes glazed, and his skin pale. His good right arm was slashed at the bicep by alagai talon, nearly severed. A tourniquet had been tied just below his shoulder, and though the sheet below him was soaked with blood, Inevera imagined much more lay on the Maze floor, and the path from there to the pavilion.
She was Betrothed to Everam now, with neither family nor name, but Inevera didn’t care, taking her brother’s head in her hands and gently turning him to meet her eyes.
‘Soli,’ she whispered, brushing the sweat-soaked hair from his face. ‘I’m here. I will care for you and make you well. I swear it.’
A dim recognition came to his eyes. Soli tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough that flecked his lips with blood. His voice was a wet wheeze. ‘It is my duty to care for you, little sister, not the other way ’round.’
‘No more, brother,’ Inevera whispered, feeling tears begin to well.
‘We will not be able to save the arm,’ Qeva said at her back. ‘Not with herb or hora. It will have to be amputated.’ If she was bothered by Inevera’s lack of composure, she gave no sign.
‘No!’ shouted Kasaad. ‘Bad enough Everam has cursed me with a push’ting for a son, but I will not have him a cripple as well! Send him down the lonely path now, and pray Everam forgives him for wasting his seed!’
Cashiv gave a shout of anguish, leaping on Kasaad and easily wrestling him to the floor, pressing his head down savagely. Kasaad’s friends moved to intercede, but Cashiv’s warriors blocked their path. ‘Soli never meant anything to you!’ Cashiv cried. ‘He is everything to me!’
‘You have twisted him with your push’ting ways!’ Kasaad growled. ‘A true Sharum would not suffer life as a cripple!’
Qeva tsked and shook her head. ‘As if their opinions matter a whit.’ She clapped her hands, a loud crack that sounded like thunder. ‘Enough! Out, all of you! Any unwounded Sharum still in this pavilion by the count of ten will be khaffit before the sun sets!’
That got everyone’s attention. The excess warriors scrambled outside, and Cashiv released Kasaad immediately, getting to his feet and bowing deeply. ‘I apologize for bringing violence to this place of healing, Dama’ting.’ He cast a pained look at Soli and fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. ‘I beg you, honoured Bride, please do not hold my actions against Soli. Even one-armed, he is worth a hundred other men.’
‘We will save him,’ Inevera said, though it was not her place. ‘I will not let my brother die.’
‘Broth …’ Kasaad looked up. ‘Everam’s beard, Inevera?!’
Recognition lit his face, and he moved with surprising speed, grabbing his spear off the floor and kicking his daughter aside. Caught off guard, Inevera hit the floor hard, looking up just in time to see Kasaad bury the point in Soli’s chest. ‘Better dead than a push’ting cripple spared by his sister’s soft heart!’
Cashiv had him in an instant, standing behind Kasaad with one iron arm around his throat and a long curved knife at his belly. Inevera rushed to Soli, but her father’s thrust had been true, and her brother was dead.
‘You do not deserve to die by alagai talon or spear,’ Cashiv growled in Kasaad’s ear. ‘I will gut you like a khaffit guts a pig, and watch as the life bleeds out of you. You deserve a thousand deaths, and in Nie’s abyss you will have them.’
Kasaad laughed. ‘I have done Everam’s will, and will drink from his rivers of wine in Heaven. The Evejah tells us, Suffer not the push’ting nor the cripple!’
Qeva approached. ‘It also says, Drink not of fermented grain … and It is death to strike one of Everam’s Betrothed.’
It was true. The punishment for striking a nie’dama’ting was the same as for a dama’ting – the striker was made khaffit, then executed. Only the offended woman could spare him.
Qeva took her own curved knife and began cutting the blacks from Kasaad. He screamed and thrashed, but she struck swift, precise blows to shatter his lines of power, and his limbs fell weak.
‘You are khaffit now, Kasaad of no name worth mentioning. You will forever sit outside Heaven’s gates, and should Everam in His wisdom one day take pity on your soul and send it back to Ala, pray you are less stupid in the next life.’ She turned to Inevera, handing her the knife. Cashiv pulled hard, arching Kasaad’s back and presenting her an easy target.
Kasaad wailed and begged, but there was no sympathy in the eyes around him. Finally he calmed and looked at Inevera. ‘If you will waste a true warrior for the sake of a one-armed push’ting, then so be it. Make it quick, daughter.’
Inevera met his eyes, rage boiling in her veins. The silver knife handle was hard and warm in her hand, moist with her sweat.
‘No, I will not kill my own father,’ she said at last. ‘And you do not deserve for it to be quick.’
She looked at Qeva. ‘The Evejah says I may spare him, if I wish.’
‘No!’ Cashiv shouted. ‘Nie take you, girl, you will give your brother justice! If your flesh is too pure to sully, only say the word and I will be your striking hand.’
‘You understand what sparing him means?’ Qeva asked Inevera, ignoring Cashiv completely. ‘Everam must be paid in blood for the offence given him.’
‘He
will be paid,’ Inevera said.
Qeva nodded and took a tourniquet, wrapping it firmly around the leg Kasaad had kicked Inevera with. She looked to Cashiv. ‘Hold him tightly.’ The warrior nodded, tightening his iron grip.
Inevera didn’t hesitate, taking the sharp knife to her father’s knee like a butcher working a joint. Hot blood poured over her as his lower leg was severed with a pop right where the bones met. Kasaad’s screams carried all through the pavilion, but it was a place used to such sounds, and it seemed not amiss.
Inevera grabbed her father by the beard, cutting off his screams as she yanked his agonized face to look at her. ‘You will go to Manvah and serve her. Serve her like she is the Damaji’ting. Do this for the remainder of your days, and I may take pity and let you die in black.
‘But if you ever strike my mother again, or fail to obey her slightest whim, I will hear of it and take the other leg, and your arms as well. You will live a long life with no limbs to get you into trouble, and when you die as khaffit, you will be left for dogs to gnaw upon and shit onto the streets.’
Cashiv dropped Kasaad to the floor, bringing a fresh scream of anguish. He pointed a finger in Inevera’s face. ‘A limb? The limb of a worthless, drunken fool? That is how you value Soli?’
Inevera moved quickly, grabbing his finger and breaking it as easily as she broke the line of energy in his leg with a single raised knuckle. The limb collapsed and she caught him in a throw that put him heavily on his back. ‘You presume to judge my love of my brother? You think my ties of blood weaker than yours of semen?’
Cashiv looked at her, his eyes cold. ‘My soul is ready for the lonely path, Inevera vah Kasaad. I have killed many alagai, fathered a son, and I have not struck you. It is your right to kill me if you wish it, but you cannot deny me Heaven as you did your father. I will sit in Everam’s great hall by Soli’s side, and comfort him under the camel’s piss his sister pours on his memory with every breath that pig-eater takes.’
He sneered. ‘Strike. Do it!’ A madness came into his eyes, and Inevera realized he wanted her to. He was begging for it.
Inevera shook her head. ‘Begone from here. I will not kill you for loving my brother, even if it has made you a fool.’
After she returned to the palace, Inevera went quickly to the Vault. Few girls were there at that hour, and those hurrying to get ready for classes. Inevera was due to teach one herself before entering the Chamber of Shadows later that afternoon.
She saw nie’dama’ting Shaselle weaving her bido after a bath and snapped her fingers, getting the girl’s attention. Though older, Shaselle jumped at the sound. ‘I have matters to attend,’ Inevera said. ‘Take over teaching basic herbs to the second-years.’
‘Of course, nie’Damaji’ting.’ Shaselle bowed and scurried away to attend the matter.
Nie’Damaji’ting. Kenevah’s heir apparent. It was no formal title – likely any girl caught using it would be punished severely.
Inevera had never ordered another girl to teach for her, nor did she have any right to, but at the moment she didn’t care. All that mattered was she was alone at last. She threw herself onto her tiny cot and cried. She sought to capture the water in tear bottles she might offer to Everam with prayers for her brother’s soul, but her hands shook with her sobs, and the task was impossible. She buried her face in her pillow, letting the rough cloth soak up the tears.
Soli was gone. She would never again see his easy smile or handsome face, never again be comforted by his words, or feel the safety of his presence. In an instant, all those futures had vanished. She wondered if the dama’ting had seen it in the dice at the end of his Hannu Pash.
And Kasaad? Had she done the world any favours by sparing him, or would he be an even greater drain to the Desert Spear? Was Cashiv right? Had she failed to avenge her brother as he deserved?
Time passed, and the afternoon bell was rung. The Chamber of Shadows beckoned, but still Inevera did not rise. Since her admission, she had never missed a session, but there was no law forcing her attendance. If she wished to take a lifetime to carve her dice, it was within her rights.
At last, the Vault door opened and Qeva entered, standing by the door. ‘Enough, girl, you’ve had your tears. There isn’t water enough to spare in the Desert Spear for you to gush all day. Find your centre. Kenevah has summoned you.’
Inevera drew a deep breath, then another, subtly wiping her eyes on the cuff of her sleeve. When she rose, she had regained her composure, though her insides still felt torn to shreds.
Kenevah was waiting in her office when Inevera arrived. The teakettle was steaming, and at a signal Inevera poured for them both and took a seat across from the Damaji’ting.
‘You never told me your brother was one of Baden’s men,’ the old woman noted.
Inevera nodded numbly. ‘I feared you would keep me from him each year if you knew.’ The confession was tantamount to admitting lying to the Damaji’ting, but Inevera found she lacked the strength to care.
Kenevah grunted. ‘Likely I would have. And perhaps he would be alive today if you had.’ Inevera looked up at her, and she shrugged. ‘Or perhaps not. The dice can let us glean much of the future, but on the past they are silent.’
‘The past is gone,’ Inevera said, quoting the Damajah, ‘it is pointless to chase it.’
‘Then why have you spent the day weeping?’ Kenevah asked.
‘My pain is a mighty wind, Damaji’ting,’ Inevera said. ‘Even the palm must bow before the wind, straightening only when it passes.’
Kenevah lifted her veil just enough to blow steam from the surface of her tea. ‘Sharum do not bend.’
Inevera looked up at that. ‘Eh?’
‘They do not bend, they do not weep,’ Kenevah said. ‘These are luxuries Sharum cannot afford in the Maze, when life and death are a hair’s breadth apart. Where we bend before the wind, Sharum embrace their pain and ignore it. To the untrained, the effect seems much the same, but it is not. And as a great wind can break even the most supple tree, there are pains too great for Sharum to hold. When this happens, they hurl themselves into its cause in hopes they might die an honourable death with no submission on their lips.’
‘Cashiv wanted such a death,’ Inevera said. ‘He and my brother were lovers.’
Kenevah sipped her tea. ‘Other Sharum lock their loved ones away in the Undercity at night when they go into the Maze. Push’ting stand side by side with them. They fight more wisely because of this, but also feel the loss more keenly when one of them is taken.’ She looked at Inevera. ‘But you denied him this death. And your father, too, though the Evejah demanded it.’
‘The Evejah gave me a choice,’ Inevera said, ‘and why should Cashiv be given a release from suffering over Soli’s death when I am not?’
Kenevah nodded. ‘We have become too free with death in Krasia. A frequent but unwelcome visitor has become like an old friend, greeted with open arms. Three centuries ago there were millions of us, filling this great city and all the lands beyond. We fought among ourselves even then, but a few lives lost over stolen wells was nothing when we were as numerous as grains of sand in the desert. Now we are scarce as raindrops, and every life matters.’
‘The alagai—’ Inevera began.
Kenevah whisked a hand dismissively. ‘The alagai may be taking most of the lives, but it is our own foolishness that keeps feeding them.’
‘Alagai’sharak,’ Inevera said.
‘Millennia of tribal feuding are not forgotten at sunset, no matter what the Andrah and Sharum Ka say,’ Kenevah said. ‘They are corrupt, putting the Kaji first in all things and doing what they can to cull their rivals. The Sharum Ka is old and remains in his palace at night, leaving no true leadership in the Maze, but still we funnel our strongest men into that meat grinder night after night, losing warriors faster than they are born. The dama’ting do all we can to keep every fertile womb in Krasia full with child, but there are simply not enough wombs to keep pace with men det
ermined to rush to extinction.’
‘But what can be done?’ Inevera asked.
Kenevah sighed. ‘I do not know if there is anything to be done. Our power has its limits. It may be that you will one day inherit my veil, only to preside over the end of our people.’
Inevera shook her head. ‘I do not accept that. Everam is testing us. He will not let our people fall.’
‘He has been letting it happen for three centuries,’ Kenevah said. ‘Everam favours the strong, but also the cunning. Perhaps He has lost patience suffering fools.’
She continued to work with calm precision, but Inevera felt the tension grow as she drew closer and closer to finishing her dice. Another week, two at the most, and she would test for the veil. At fourteen. The youngest in centuries.
Unbidden, her mind flashed to Melan as her dice burned in the sunlight. The sound of her screams. The smell of burning flesh and the putrid smoke that stung her eyes. Even now, after many cuttings and more than one suspected hora healing by Asavi, Melan’s hand was like a sand demon’s paw, misshapen and scarred.
Would that be her fate? Inevera’s instincts told her no, but there were no absolutes, even in Kenevah’s foretellings.
She woke from a nightmare, her heart pounding. It was still dark in the Vault, but Inevera guessed morning was not far off, and knew there would be no further sleep for her. She slipped quietly from her cot and padded to make her ablutions and take fresh bido silk from the pile, wrapping it as quickly as a man might don his robes. She was ready when the wardlights activated, and quickly had the younger girls dressed and ready for sharusahk.
Casualties were low in the pavilion that day, and she was about to head back to the palace when a pair of boys still in their bidos arrived. One was surprisingly fat – she knew the drillmasters all but starved the nie’Sharum – and supported another boy, shorter and skinnier by far, little more than stringy muscle and bone. He could not have been more than ten years old, his arm broken so badly the bone jutted white from his torn flesh and blood streamed down the limp appendage. His face was pale and sweaty, but he did not cry, and walked on his own feet to the table where Qeva was to set the arm. As soon as Qeva nodded, the fat one bowed and vanished.