The Daylight War

The movements were gentle and precise – nothing like the broad, brutal motions Soli had practised. But though gentle in appearance, the poses proved far more complex than Soli’s. Inevera was forced to attain positions she hadn’t known possible and hold them for extended periods of time. Never-before-used muscles screamed at the strain, and she broke into a heavy sweat, heart thumping as she struggled for air. It seemed no amount of gasping could pull in a full breath, and she feared that at any moment she would lose control of her water.

Qeva leaned forward on her left leg until her body was perpendicular to the floor, arms out before her as if to embrace. Her right foot raised high into the air and curled back over, toes nearly touching her tailbone.

Inevera attempted the pose, but lost her balance, pitching forward onto her hands.

‘Hold pose,’ Qeva said, and the other girls were left balanced in that precarious position as she stepped down from the dais.

‘Stand up straight,’ the dama’ting commanded. Inevera got quickly to her feet, and Qeva put one hand on her bare chest and the other in the hollow where her shoulders met. ‘Breathe in through your nostrils. Deeply.’ She squeezed, and Inevera had to overcome the resistance to inflate her chest.

The dama’ting grunted. ‘Out. Slow.’ She continued to squeeze as Inevera slowly let the air out at an even pace.

‘Again,’ Qeva said. ‘Breath is life. If you have breath, you have your centre. If you have your centre, nothing can truly touch you. You will not feel hunger or pain. Not love nor hate. No fear. No anxiety. Only the breath.’

Already, Inevera felt herself calming. The insistent cries of her full bladder and empty stomach faded as she followed the path of her breath from her nose to her belly and out again. Around her, the girls began to wobble, strain telling on their faces as they held the difficult pose.

‘With me,’ Qeva said. Still squeezing, she began to breathe in a slow rhythm, and Inevera paced her own breaths to match. ‘As the breathing cleanses your mind, these will hone your body, until the two act as one.’ When they were in sync, the dama’ting took her hands away and grabbed Inevera’s arms, spreading them wide above her.

‘Cobra’s hood,’ Qeva said, and glanced at the other girls. ‘Resume.’

There were sighs of relief throughout the room as the girls all stood straight, reaching for the ceiling with arms spread.

‘These are the sharukin,’ Qeva said as she guided Inevera through the next several movements, gently correcting her posture. ‘Vulture’s beak. Jackal’s spring.’

She leaned Inevera forward into the position she had stumbled in. ‘Scorpion’s tail.’ The dama’ting stepped her left foot on Inevera’s, holding her in place as she hooked her right foot around Inevera’s right ankle and lifted her leg until she could catch it, pulling it higher and higher, then bending it over until Inevera felt her tendons straining to the limit. She gasped and wobbled.

‘Breathe,’ Qeva said. ‘You are the palm, and breath is the wind. Use its power to lead you back to balance and guide you from one form to the next.’

Inevera returned to the rhythm, and found the steady breathing did indeed aid her. Qeva noted her renewed balance and nodded, returning to the dais.

The lesson went on for some time. Inevera still wobbled and felt awkward, her joints stretched into fire, but she kept her breath steady, and was relieved when Qeva finally relaxed, reaching into a box beside the dais. There was a clatter of metal and she came away with four tiny cymbals, one strapped to each thumb and forefinger.

At a nod, Melan went and took up the box, taking her own cymbals and passing it along. All the other girls did the same, and soon they were back in place, waiting for Qeva to begin this next part of the lesson.

Qeva turned to stand in profile, her hands held high, cymbals poised. One leg was stretched out before her, the other kept close.

The other girls assumed the same pose, and Inevera did her best to imitate it.

‘Knees bent,’ Qeva said. ‘Weight on the balls of your feet.’

When Inevera corrected herself and found her centre, the dama’ting clapped her cymbals four times, each time snapping her round hips so they cracked like a whip.

‘All,’ she said, and repeated the move. The other girls copied her with practised precision, but Inevera found the move trickier than it looked.

‘Again,’ Qeva said. ‘Watch closer.’

Again she rang the cymbals and snapped her hips, and again the move eluded Inevera. At first she could not figure out how to move her hips, and then her cymbals were out of sync with the others. Doing both at once seemed impossible.

Over and over Qeva took her through the move. Inevera could sense the irritation of the other girls as she struggled, but there was nothing she could do save try and try again.

Finally, Qeva seemed satisfied. She grunted and began to ring the cymbals in a continuous pattern, snapping her hips to match. Inevera fell into the rhythm, and soon it was second nature. She found herself smiling.

But then the dama’ting began to move, stepping around her dais with lithe grace, never ceasing the rhythm of the cymbals or her hips. It was beautiful. Mesmerizing. And when Inevera tried to imitate her, she walked right into Melan, bringing them both down in a heap.

‘Idiot!’ Melan snapped.

Qeva leapt from the dais, slapping Melan hard on the face, her cymbals rang with the impact. ‘The fault is yours, Melan! The Damaji’ting assigned you to teach her the ways of the nie’dama’ting! What have you taught her? She did not know so much as cobra’s hood or the first turn of the hips.’

She lifted a finger and put it in Melan’s face. ‘You must learn to take your responsibility seriously. Until Inevera can keep pace with the class, you are denied the Chamber of Shadows.’

All the other girls gasped, and Melan’s eyes bulged.

‘Point those wilful eyes at me a moment longer,’ Qeva said, ‘and you will find yourself living in the great harem, a plaything of the Sharum.’

Melan dropped her eyes, bowing deeply. ‘Yes, Dama’ting.’

After sharusahk, the girls lined up by the kitchens where a pair of aging eunuchs gave each a ladle of thin porridge. Inevera could see in the eyes of Melan and the other girls that they meant to shove her to the back of the line, so she gave way freely. There was nothing to be gained in pointless confrontation. It was best to appear meek as she learned the ways of the nie’dama’ting.

Inevera’s bowl was less than half full, the final watery remains of the porridge pot. Even so, she barely had time to gulp it down before Melan came for her.

‘It is nearly dawn,’ Melan said. ‘The dama’ting leave for the pavilion shortly, and Nie take us if we are late.’

‘The pavilion?’ Inevera asked.

Melan looked at her as if she were an idiot. ‘The Sharum will be returning from the Maze at dawn, and the injured are taken to the pavilion. We assist the dama’ting in the healing.’

Inevera remembered the screams of injured Sharum filtering through the canvas walls the day before, and imagined men all around her, covered in blood, howling as she helped the dama’ting cut and stitch their flesh.

She felt suddenly dizzy, and her face flushed hot. The thin porridge rose back up her throat.