The Daylight War

Inevera crossed her arms. ‘You know. You knew the moment you laid eyes on it, just as you’ve known all along that this day would come. I never hid this fate from you.’

Ahmann said nothing, and Inevera knew she was reaching him. She touched his arm. ‘If you prefer, I can put a potion in his tea. His passing will be quick.’

‘No!’ Ahmann shouted, pulling away. ‘Always the path of least honour with you! The Par’chin is no khaffit, to be put down like a dog! He deserves a warrior’s death.’

I have him, Inevera thought. ‘Then give him one. Now, before alagai’sharak begins and the power of the spear is known.’

But Ahmann shook his head, and she knew he would not be swayed. ‘If it is to be done, I will do it in the Maze.’

The next morning, Ahmann returned to the Palace of the Sharum Ka triumphant, the Spear of Kaji held high for all to see. Sharum cheered and dama looked on – some in religious fervour, others in terror. Their world was about to change forever, and any with half a mind knew it.

But though he looked every inch the proud, fearless leader, his eyes were haunted. He was surrounded by a crowd of lieutenants and sycophants, but Inevera knew it was imperative she speak to him alone immediately. She gestured, sending her little sisters. No man would impede a dama’ting, and the eleven Jiwah Sen quickly formed an impenetrable ring around Ahmann, cutting him off from the others and guiding him to a private chamber where they might speak freely.

‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘Is the Par’chin—’

‘Gone,’ Ahmann cut her off. ‘I put the spear between his eyes and left his body out on the dunes, far from the city walls.’

‘Thank Everam,’ Inevera exhaled, unclenching muscles she hadn’t even realized were held tight. Even the dice had not been able to say with certainty that he would murder his friend.

And it was murder, despite the honeyed words she’d used to make bitter betrayal easier to swallow. The greenlander was a godless grave robber, but he had not been raised to Everam’s truths, and she would have robbed the grave of Kaji herself had she known where it lay and what it contained. Already she counselled Ahmann to return there as soon as possible.

She reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘I am sorry for your loss, husband. He was an honourable man.’

Ahmann pulled his shoulder roughly from her grasp. ‘What would you know of honour?’

He stormed away from her, going into the small shrine to Everam where he said his private prayers. Inevera did not attempt to follow, but she turned her earring, breathing deeply as she listened to her husband weep.

Was Ahmann the Deliverer? If such a man was made and not born, would she ever know for sure if she had succeeded, short of him killing Alagai’ting Ka, the Mother of All Demons?

Surely Inevera had seized advantages for him, but if it was anyone, it had to be him. He had excelled at every test in his life, and even if he took it by force, the spear had come to him as if by fate. Any other man would have stabbed the greenlander without a second thought, but for all his power and station, Ahmann still wept over the betrayal.

Would he have seized the moment, if she had not commanded it? Even if she had never met him? If he was the strong but illiterate and racist animal that the Kaji’sharaj usually produced, would he have befriended the Par’chin all the same, and killed him when it was time? Was there something divine in Ahmann that would have clawed its way to power no matter how low his station?

She did not know.

‘Today,’ Ahmann said as Inevera helped him into his armoured robes.

It was almost half a year since he took the spear, the last press for the Palace of the Andrah. He could have taken the city sooner if he had wished for vast bloodshed, but Ahmann was content to wait and let men come to him, as more did each day.

‘We have more men inside the palace than he does now,’ Ahmann said. ‘They will open the gates at dawn, killing the last remaining Sharum who hold to the old ways. By noon I will sit the Skull Throne. I will send a runner when it is safe for you and your Jiwah Sen to enter.’

Inevera nodded as if this were great news, though she had listened in on his secret meetings with his generals and confirmed his conclusions with the dice. She had needed to say or do little once the spear was in Ahmann’s hands. She had groomed him to conquer and lead, and he took to those things like a bird to the sky.

Ahmann left to meet his men, and Inevera called her little sisters. They stripped her of her white silken robes, and she stepped into the steaming bath where Everalia and Thalaja waited to scrub her skin and massage her with scented oil.

‘Bring me my red pillow dancing silks,’ she told Qasha, who hurried to comply.

‘Clever,’ Belina said, smiling. ‘You will wear them under your whites, the quicker to help our husband celebrate his rise.’

Inevera threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh, little sister. I am never wearing my whites again.’

Inevera lay on the pillows beside the Skull Throne of Sharik Hora. The temple of heroes’ bones itself was their palace now, and there was old magic here. Not as flashy as that given by demon bones, but no less potent. Millions of men had died proudly to decorate this place, their spirits bound to the stone.

Knowing their ancestors were watching made her feel all the more wanton, lying on a bed of silk pillows clad only in transparent silk. The pants were slit up each leg, gathered with gold at the cuffs, and would flash long strips of bare leg as she moved. The top was a long strip of silk that barely covered her breasts, and did nothing to hide them. It was tied in a simple knot beneath her shoulder blades, the long ends streaming loose along her arms and fastened to golden bracelets. Her hair was oiled and bound in gold.

But there was power in that, too. Ahmann hated seeing his wife displayed so, but it was good to remind him publicly that even as Shar’Dama Ka, his power was not infinite. Thus, he was forced to pretend it was his choice.

It was an important lesson, and unless she missed her guess, she was about to teach it again. Before them stood Kajivah, Ashan, Imisandre, Hoshvah, and Hanya, along with Ahmann’s nieces Ashia, Shanvah, and Sikvah.

‘Hannu Pash has called my son Asukaji to take the white, Holy Deliverer,’ Ashan was saying, ‘but my daughter Ashia, blood of your blood, has been given blacks by the dama’ting. It is an insult.’

‘You should cherish your daughters, Ashan,’ Ahmann said. ‘If they enter the Dama’ting Palace, you may never see them again. There is no dishonour in being dal’ting.’ He gestured to Kajivah.

Ashan bowed deeply to the woman. ‘I mean no disrespect, Holy Mother.’

Kajivah bowed in return. ‘There is none taken, Damaji.’ She turned to her son, and even though he sat seven steps above her, it seemed she was looking down at him.

‘There is no dishonour in dal’ting, my son, but there is burden. Burden your sisters and I carried for many years. Would you have the law defend a husband who strikes a child of your blood?’

Ahmann turned to Inevera, but she cut him off before he could speak. ‘The dice did not call them.’ The words were quiet, for him alone, a benefit from sitting on high with him. ‘Would you take a cripple as Sharum?’

Ahmann scowled, but kept his voice equally low. ‘Are you saying my nieces are no better than cripples?’