The Core

  “You think the Damajah a servant of Nie?”

  Iraven’s eyes widened. “What are you doing unannounced in Shar’Dama Ka’s wing of the palace?”

  “A mother needs permission to visit her son?” Inevera asked.

  Iraven did not lower his weapon. “Visitors do not skulk along the ceiling and cast spells at guards. If you have business, state it.”

  “You know my business,” Inevera said. “The Majah hostage your mother, my sister-wife Belina, yet here you stand, gaoler to my own.”

  Iraven was unimpressed. “Your words would hold more weight, Damajah, if you yourself did not hold Tikka captive.”

  “It is my duty to protect the Holy Mother,” Inevera said, “not let her be drawn into the crossfire of a political scheme to supplant me.”

  Iraven was unconvinced. “No doubt Asome seeks to similarly protect your mother.”

  “We all want what is best for our mothers,” Inevera said. “You should go to yours now, before she is taken from Everam’s Bounty.”

  Iraven’s aura colored at that. An image of Belina floated over the young man, tethered by countless strands of emotion, as any mother to her son.

  “I may no more see her than allow you entry here,” Iraven said bitterly. “I cannot free her alone, and Asome will not commit to a rescue that would result in open war.”

  “Demon’s piss,” Inevera said. “That is what Asome would have you believe.”

  “Then where is the Damajah’s support? Why are you here, and not in Aleveran’s palace rescuing your sister-wife?” There was a spark in his aura. One she might fan to a flame.

  “Because it is a task for you, Iraven asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Majah,” Inevera said. “Did your father cower before every problem he could not solve with his spear? The Damaji has taken your birthright, but that does not mean you cannot win it back.”

  Iraven paused. The fire in him was growing, but cautiously. “How?”

  “Go to Aleveran,” Inevera said. “Submit to his rule, and he will take you with him when the Majah depart Everam’s Bounty. Win glory, and the warriors will whisper your family name. One by one, they will follow you.”

  A new image appeared over Iraven, an idealized version of himself standing tall as his pride grew with the fire in his heart.

  But then he shook his head, dispelling the image. “My brother said words are your weapon, Damajah.”

  “I speak only the truth,” Inevera said. “I pulled you from between your mother’s thighs myself, and cast your future before the cord was cut. There is glory still for you, if you are man enough to seize it.”

  “Perhaps,” Iraven said. “But I seize no glory by turning from my duty this night. No doubt your Sharum’ting skulk about, ready to kill me if I refuse, but no words or threats will make me leave my post.” With that, he slammed the butt of his spear down upon a warded tile, one Inevera knew would activate a wardnet running through the thousands of tiles around the doorframe, raising an alarm.

  She raised her hora wand, Drawing the power away before the wards could activate. Iraven’s eyes widened.

  “Acha!” he cried. “Intruders!” The sound should have echoed in the stairs, but a few quick wards in the air stopped it as easily as the alarm.

  Inevera advanced upon him. “I do not need Everam’s spear sisters to pass, Iraven. It is written in the Evejah that it is death to strike a dama’ting or hinder her in any way. How will Everam judge you if you strike the Damajah herself?”

  Her senses afire with the magic coursing through her, Inevera smelled the sweat even before it broke on the boy’s brow. She pitied him, torn between duties—another innocent in the crossfire.

  But her family was on the other side of those doors, and every second this continued, the danger to them was greater.

  Iraven closed his eyes. “Everam forgive me.”

  Then he struck.

  Inevera met him head-on, diverting the thrust of his spear with a hooked wrist. She caught the shaft and pulled as she punched.

  The inflexible plates of warded glass in Iraven’s robes were too rigid to cover the convergence point at the base of his neck. The flexible armor there was meant to turn a spear point, not block the single raised knuckle on Inevera’s fist. Her blow was a blur, aided in strength and speed by hora magic.

  But Iraven seemed to know her target, turning his head to take the blow on his jaw, instead. He rolled with it, using the momentum to turn a circuit, spear swinging low to sweep her feet.

  Inevera was surprised but never lost control, bending back and putting hands on the floor, kicking him in the jaw a second time as she avoided the spear and came back to her feet.

  Iraven reeled, but he, too, kept control, spinning the spear behind him and coming back in. He glowed bright with magic, fast and strong. The spear like a feather in his hands. Ashia and her spear sisters dropped to the floor, but Inevera stayed them with a hiss and the back of her hand.

  Inevera had never held much respect for Sharum fighting styles, but Iraven had been trained by her husband and Damaji Aleverak, the two greatest sharusahk masters in Krasia. He worked his weapon and feet in perfect harmony, giving her little free energy to turn against him as he picked off the most dangerous of Inevera’s return blows and let others skitter off his armor. All the while he herded her with his spear toward kicks and leg locks that could easily cripple.

  Fast as he was, Inevera was faster, bending away from thrusts and kicks, diverting others with minimal contact. She ducked under a sweep of his spear, leg curling around to kick him in the back. He pitched forward, tripping as she hooked his ankle with her support leg.

  That should have ended it, but again he surprised her, turning the fall into a somersault and redirecting that energy back in at her. Inevera caught his spear shaft, and he push-kicked her dead center, slamming her back into the doorframe.

  Inevera knew then she had been too merciful, meeting him with sharusahk instead of magic. Thousands of wards on the tiles of the doorframe came to life on contact with the hora about her person, filling the landing with light and setting off alarms throughout the palace.

  Inevera snarled as Iraven thrust again, kicking the point of his spear down and running up the shaft to hook a leg around his throat, bearing him to the floor.

  Still the warrior thrashed and fought, but Inevera accepted the minor blows, striking convergence points to break the lines of power in his limbs even as she cut off the blood to his brain.

  “Leave Everam’s Bounty with the Majah,” she told him as his aura began to darken, “or I will have your head mounted above the city gate.”

  “Damajah, we must flee.” Ashia reached out to help her to her feet when Iraven slumped unconscious to the floor.

  Inevera ignored the words as she studied the magic flowing through the tiles. She drew an intricate script in the air, and the flare of the wards began to dim even as her wand brightened. She pointed at an inert tile. “Break it.”

  Ashia did not hesitate, shattering the tile with a punch. Inevera drained two more wards for Ashia to break, then lifted her wand and drew an impact ward, blowing the doors from their hinges.

  “Kill any who stand in our way,” Inevera commanded, and the Sharum’ting went for the short spears on their backs, warded glass infused with electrum, razor-sharp and indestructible.

  Guards were rushing down the hall as the women darted through. Inevera reached into her hora pouch, flinging a handful of black marbles their way, the glass formed around bits of lightning demon bone. Sparks flew as the guards’ muscles seized, and her bodyguards knocked them down like game pieces. Their spears flashed, and Inevera knew the men would not rise.

  Up ahead, a group of kai’Sharum clustered by the door to where her parents were being held. Behind them, two dama stood with staves glowing bright in Everam’s light.

  Ashia and her sisters flung sharpened glass into the cluster, but one of the dama raised his staff, and a great gust of wind blew the weapons back at
them. Most skittered off the women’s armor, but one embedded in a gap between the plates on Jarvah’s thigh. The girl made no sound, keeping pace with Ashia’s charge, but Inevera could see the wound ripple through her aura and knew it was serious.

  Before the women could reach the guards, the other dama raised his staff, sending forth a crude but powerful blast of fire. It expanded quickly, catching two of the guards as it filled the hall.

  Ashia and her spear sisters did not hesitate, ducking behind their glass shields and wading in. The wards on the shields absorbed the demonfire, and then they were amid the warriors.

  There was a shriek as Micha crippled one of the Sharum with a spear thrust to the leg. A spatter of blood as Ashia spun her two-headed spear through a kai’Sharum’s throat. A grunt as Jarvah found a seam in the glass armor and ran another through.

  The walls and carpets were ablaze now, but Inevera did not feel the heat, her warded jewelry absorbing the energy. The first dama sent another blast of wind at her as she advanced, but she parted it with a flick of her wand, collecting it behind her and throwing it back at the cleric.

  They raised their staves defensively, wards flaring to part the wind much as Inevera had, but she followed the wind with a spell of her own, impact wards blasting apart the floor and knocking them from their feet. One lost his grip on his staff, and Inevera sent it spinning down the hall out of reach. The other held his tightly, fingers running like a flutist to manipulate the wards along its surface. Inevera raised her wand to kill him before he could release the gathering energy.

  But then the door opened, and Inevera saw her mother. Asome stepped out behind Manvah, a hand around her throat.

  “That’s far enough, Mother.”

  —

  Inevera froze. The hora wand was warm in her hand, slick with her sudden sweat. Its power dwarfed that of even the great staves the dama carried—no doubt with demon bone cores of their own—enough to kill everyone in the palace.

  But not enough to free her mother. Not before Asome snapped her neck.

  “I must say I’m surprised you took the bait,” Asome said. “Did you really think it would be so easy?”

  “Let her go,” Inevera said. “That is your grandmother, not some chin slave.”

  “Neither of you made the effort for her to know me,” Asome said. “Why should I care if she dies? But I will let her go when you return my son to me. When you return my true grandmother.” He tilted his head, eyeing Ashia. She was veiled, but though he had been a poor excuse for a husband, there was no mistaking her. “My ‘dead’ bride.”

  “Three hostages for one?” Inevera asked. “Your dama make poor sorcerers, but I thought they taught simple arithmetic in Sharik Hora.”

  Asome smiled. “Enjoy the advantage while you can, Mother. Melan and Asavi taught us much about hora magic, if unwittingly. We narrow the gap each day. Magic is no longer the sole purview of the dama’ting.”

  “Against the direct teachings of the Evejah,” Inevera said. “Suffer no sorcerer to live, Kaji told his people.”

  Asome shrugged. “I am Shar’Dama Ka now, Mother. It’s time those passages were updated.”

  “Murdering your way atop the dais does not make you Shar’Dama Ka, boy,” Inevera said. “You have betrayed all Krasia, put Sharak Ka itself in jeopardy, all for your own ambition.”

  Inevera met her mother’s eyes. “Forgive me, Mother. The First War must come before even family.”

  “You are my daughter,” Manvah said. “I would love you if you put out the sun.”

  Asome’s aura spiked hot with anger. He jerked his head and Kasaad was shoved into the hall, stumbling on his peg leg. Behind him Cashiv grinned, a knife at her father’s throat. His exposed forearm was armored, and he was careful to keep the heavier Kasaad in place as a shield.

  “Let us start small, then,” Asome said. “Surrender my jiwah, now, or Cashiv will open your father’s throat.”

  Inevera’s fingers itched to raise her wand, but it would do little good. She could not strike at Cashiv without risking her father any more than she could kill Asome without risking her mother. Down the hall, she heard reinforcements coming. They would arrive soon, dama wielding hora staves and many, many Sharum.

  “Do not, daughter,” Kasaad said, drawing a sharp breath as Cashiv pressed the blade to his neck. “The Deliverer forgave me. My soul is clean.”

  Inevera looked into her father’s aura and knew it to be true. In his Sharum days, he had been a drunk and a coward, but now he was ready for death and Everam’s judgment. His spirit looked to the lonely path, ready to walk it for his family’s sake. He knew Asome saw him only as khaffit—expendable. Manvah had true value. His grandson would never kill her.

  “It will never be clean after what you did to Soli!” Cashiv’s muscles bunched, but Asome threw out a hand, staying him.

  “I will go, Damajah,” Ashia said.

  Inevera fell deep into her breath and shook her head. Sharak Ka must come first. The dice said Ashia still had a part to play. Kasaad did not. “You tried to murder your wife once already, my son. You will not have another chance.”

  Asome dropped his hand and Cashiv’s blade flashed, drawing a hot line of blood across Kasaad’s throat. Inevera screamed as her father fell, choking on his own blood. The moment Cashiv lost Kasaad’s body as a shield, Inevera raised her wand, blasting the life from him. The warrior was thrown down the hall to land in a smoking ruin, but the damage was done.

  Manvah made a choked sound as Asome pulled her in close, shielding himself with her body as he dragged her back inside. His men closed ranks to cut off pursuit.

  “Kill them!” Asome shouted, kicking the door shut.

  Inevera let them go, glad to have Manvah out of harm’s way as she raised her hora wand. With her free hand, she spoke to her Sharum’ting.

  Leave no survivors.

  —

  I am a fool, Inevera thought as they returned, singed and bloody, to her wing of the palace.

  They had taken a heavy toll, leaving a trail of dead Sharum and dama throughout Asome’s halls, but it was nothing compared with the numbers at her son’s command. Already his guard would be tripled. There would be no second chance, now that his trap was sprung.

  Only Asome, Manvah, and the spear sisters lived to bear witness to what happened, but it made Inevera’s failure no less complete. She had been arrogant, letting anger guide her instead of the cold reason of the dice.

  Now her father was dead, and it was doubtful she would see her mother alive again. Asome had confirmation of something he already suspected—that Ashia was alive.

  And in return, what had she gained?

  Nothing.

  “Damajah.” Ashia bowed as they returned to her private chambers. “May I go to my son?”

  Inevera’s eyes flicked to the girl, not yet twenty years of age, and saw the fear in her. Not for herself—she had been willing to die this night, in battle or in sacrifice. But the encounter with her husband had her worried over her son. Inevera could see Asome’s image, hovering over her like a haunting spirit. Ashia knew he would willingly kill every man, woman, and child in Krasia to have Kaji back.

  Inevera reached out and Ashia stiffened, her aura shocked. Did the Damajah mean to embrace her?

  But Inevera did not put her arms around the girl, instead pressing her hand against Ashia’s robe where it had been cut by a Sharum spear in their escape. The wound beneath had healed, but Inevera’s hand came away wet with blood.

  She knelt, drawing free her dice and rolling them in her palm, coating them in her niece’s essence before she cast.

  “Everam, giver of Light and Life, your children need guidance. How can I best protect your honored son Kaji asu Asome am’Jardir am’Kaji, that he and his mother might serve you in Sharak Ka?”

  The glow of the alagai hora brightened, and she threw, watching coldly as they fell into a complex pattern. It took her long moments to decipher it.

  —She must see
k the khaffit through the father of her father, and find your lost cousin.—

  Inevera blinked. That Abban still had a part to play was no surprise, and sending Ashia out of Everam’s Bounty might well be the only way to keep her and Kaji safe. Ashia’s father’s father was Dama Khevat, who had once been in command of the monastery, and was likely there still.

  But cousin? What cousin?

  She cut herself this time. The dice said her cousin, not Ashia’s. Perhaps her own blood might provide answers where Ashia’s could not.

  But as ever, the dice raised more questions than they answered.

  —She will know him by his scent.—

  —

  “You will slip out in the hubbub as the Majah prepare to leave,” Inevera said. “Asome won’t expect me to send you away. Make for Everam’s Reservoir. Jayan’s defeat has left many widowed mothers there. Another will not draw scrutiny, and no one will recognize you or Kaji outside the capital.”

  “And once there?” Ashia asked. “How will I find the khaffit?”

  “Seek out Qeran,” Inevera instructed. “The drillmaster commands the town now, and his privateers dominate the waters, at least until spring. If any can aid you in finding his lost master, it is he. I will cast daily and update you if I have any more information. It should be days before the hora stone in your earring is out of range. After that, you will be on your own.”

  “And this lost cousin?” Ashia asked.

  Inevera shrugged. “You will know him by his scent.”

  “That is little to go on,” Ashia said.

  “We must trust in Everam,” Inevera said. “The dice were clear. You must find them, if you are to do your part in Sharak Ka.”

  Ashia touched her forehead to the floor. “As you command, Damajah.” She rose and left to say her goodbyes to her spear sisters waiting silently outside. They knew she would be leaving, but none save the two of them would know where, or for what purpose.

  “Niece,” Inevera said, pulling Ashia up short. She turned to meet Inevera’s eyes.

  “Know that I could not be prouder of you if you were my own daughter. “If any shoulders can bear this burden Everam has set, they are yours.” Inevera held her arms open, and Ashia, stunned, fell into them for the first time in her adult life.