The Daylight War

But what could she tell him? Traditionally, there were but two answers to a reading: yes and no. Yes, this boy is worthy to take the black veil of warrior and be called a man. No, this boy is a coward or weakling who will break like brittle steel when struck. The dama’ting saw more in the foretellings, of course, glimpses and possibilities, but these things were not for men to know, not even the dama.

It was possible to give a bit of detail. The dice often showed untapped potential, giving glimpses of futures where they make names for themselves as Warders or marksmen or leading men. These last were watched closely by the dama, and after a year the best of them were sent to Sharik Hora for kai’Sharum training.

Sometimes the dice spoke of failings. Bloodlust. Stupidity. Pride. Every Sharum had his share, and the dama’ting rarely spoke them unless they were apt to bring down others around them with their folly.

But once Inevera gave Ahmann the black, these would be mere hints and suggestions the dama and the Sharum Ka could heed or ignore as they saw fit.

– Make him a man – the dice had said, and even at twelve, there was no doubt in Inevera’s mind that Ahmann Jardir was worthy of the black. But potential Deliverer or no, he was vulnerable now, as proven by the state Inevera had found him in. It was impossible for someone to rise so fast without making enemies. If anyone understood this fact, it was Inevera. And the dice had said if he was given the veil before his time, he would die.

– Deliverers are made, not born – Was she expected to intercede? Was that why the dice had sent her to him, and now? Or were there a hundred other potential Deliverers out there among the tribes, waiting for a chance to be made?

Inevera shook her head. It was too great a risk to take. She had to protect the boy, her husband-to-be. Protect his honour, but, more importantly, his life.

There was only so much she could do, once he took the black. She could not deny him the Maze, or the jiwah’Sharum in the great harem. She could not protect him from every knife and spear aimed at his back.

– Make him a man, but not before his time – But how was she to know when that time came? Would the dice tell her? If she denied him the black, was there a way for him to regain it?

She turned a corner and, as expected, found Khevat waiting. The drillmaster must have fetched him. She found her centre and glided up to him, her eyes a mask of serenity.

‘The blessings of Everam be upon you, holy jiwah.’ Khevat bowed to her, and she acknowledged it with a nod.

‘You have foretold the death of Ahmann Jardir?’ he asked.

Inevera nodded silently, offering nothing more.

‘And?’ The barest hint of irritation entered Khevat’s voice.

Inevera kept her own voice level. ‘He is too young to take the black.’

‘He is unworthy?’ Khevat asked.

‘He is too young,’ Inevera said again.

Khevat frowned. ‘The boy has enormous promise.’

Inevera met Khevat’s gaze and shrugged. ‘Then you should never have sent him into the Maze so young.’

The dama’s face darkened further. He was powerful, and had the ear of those even more so. Not a man used to being questioned – or dictated to – by anyone, much less a woman. The dama’ting stood below the dama in the city’s hierarchy. ‘The boy netted a demon. Everam’s law is clear …’

‘Nonsense!’ Inevera snapped. ‘There are exceptions to every law, and putting a boy still half a decade from his full growth into the Maze was madness.’

The dama’s voice hardened. ‘That is not for you to decide, Dama’ting.’

Inevera drew in her brows and saw doubt cross the dama’s face. He might outrank her, but where they had sway, the dama’ting’s power was absolute.

‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed, ‘but whether he takes the black is, and he will not, because of your decision.’ She raised her hora pouch, and Khevat flinched. ‘Shall we take the matter to court? Perhaps Damaji Amadeveram will have me read you as well to determine if you are still worthy to run his sharaj after needlessly costing the Kaji a warrior of great promise.’

Khevat’s eyes widened, the muscles in his face trembling with barely contained fury. Inevera was pushing him to his limit. She wondered if he would lose control. It would be regrettable to have to kill him.

‘If the boy returns to the Maze before he is grown, he will die, and I will not abide such waste,’ she said. ‘Send him back to me in five years and I will reconsider.’

‘And what am I to do with him until then?’ Khevat demanded. ‘He cannot go back to sharaj after setting foot in the Maze, nor back to the Kaji pavilion without the black!’

Inevera shrugged as if the boy’s fate meant nothing to her. ‘That is not my concern, Dama. The dice have spoken. Everam has spoken. You created this problem, and you must find a solution. If the boy is as exceptional as you say, I’m sure you can find a place for him. If not, there is no doubt use for a strong back among the khaffit.’

With that, she turned and walked away, her steady glide belying the emotions roiling inside her like a sandstorm. She had purposely enraged the dama so that he would be determined to keep the boy’s honour intact, if only to spite her. There was only one place Khevat could do that: Sharik Hora.

Ahmann was old to be called as nie’dama, and ill suited in any event, but perfect for kai training. So far as Inevera knew, no nie’Sharum had ever been called before taking the black, but the Evejah did not forbid it. In Sharik Hora, Ahmann would learn letters and mathematics, philosophy and strategy, warding, history, and higher forms of sharusahk.

Knowledge a Shar’Dama Ka would need.

I must seize for him every advantage, Inevera thought.

As Inevera had hoped, Ahmann was sent to Sharik Hora the very next day. Dama Khevat smirked the next time they met, believing he had outmanoeuvred her. Inevera allowed him the notion.

She watched Ahmann’s progress often, lurking in the shadowed alcoves of the undertemple where the nie’dama trained. The boy was woefully behind in many regards, and took special resentment to his early lessons, believing he had already learned all there was to know in sharaj.

He was quickly disabused of this notion, and the resentment beaten out of him. Before long he applied himself fully to his studies, and progressed quickly from there on.

Almost seven years to the day after her burning, Melan rang the chimes once more. Inevera watched her testing calmly, though she knew there were many who would flock to Melan if she passed.

Kenevah’s voice was sharp, her examination of the dice scrutinous, and her questions complex. Melan passed all without flaw, gathering the dice with her good hand and casting with the claw.

Later that day, Inevera was walking through the long hall of the underpalace to her personal chambers when she found Melan waiting by her door. She was newly robed and veiled, but even if the older woman’s stance were not already familiar, the twisted hand, nails long and sharp like alagai talons, marked her.

Melan pointed one of those claws at Inevera, the rest curling back stiffly. ‘You tricked me.’

There was no one else in the passageway, but Inevera did not back away. The dice had not warned her to expect an attack, but that did not mean one would not come. The hora revealed mysteries beyond what a woman could discern on her own. They might warn her of a hidden poison, but an attack that she saw coming was her own concern. Everam had no sympathy for the weak.