The Daylight War

Qeva’s eyes were expressionless as she cleared the sand again.

When Inevera at last returned to the Vault, her arm ached from holding the stick almost as much as her bladder, which was ready to burst. Her robes were still spattered with Sharum blood.

But these seemed distant things, physical discomforts easily ignored. With Melan and Asavi occupied, she was finally able to empty her water and use the baths.

There were scented oils and cakes of soap, tools for paring nails, and rough stones for smoothing skin. The other girls pointedly ignored her as she took a razor and finished the job they had begun the night before, shaving away the last ragged bits of hair from her head until it was completely smooth to the touch. It felt alien, like someone else’s skin.

But while her body relaxed, Inevera’s mind was in free fall. Everything she had ever known, ever believed, had been stripped from her or revealed as a lie. Nothing made sense any more. Nothing seemed to matter.

Inevera felt as if she had stepped outside herself at dinner. She was dimly aware of her body as she served the dama’ting, hopping at their need and vanishing just as quickly. Ironically, this seemed to be just what the women wanted, and she served better when giving the task no conscious thought. Not that she had thought to spare, still struggling to find a constant or truth to cling to. Even the Evejah she had been raised to, once believed to be the ultimate truth, was proving subjective now, the great deeds of Kaji and the laws the dama drew from them unravelling before her eyes. The Evejah’ting included the Damajah’s perspective on those world-shaping events, and it was often very different from the male account.

Which was true? Kaji’s account, or the first Inevera’s? Or were both full of lies and half-truths? Did the events of thirty-three hundred years ago even matter?

She ached for her mother’s arms, for the safety she felt when Soli roughed her thick black hair. But that hair was gone now, and Soli with it. Perhaps she would see him again, but more likely he would be killed in the Maze before she became dama’ting, if she ever did. She even felt a pang of regret for Kasaad and his drunken Sharum friends. Could she truly judge the actions of men forced into the Maze to needlessly face hordes of demons each night?

But for all her pain and turmoil, Inevera realized that even if she could wave a hand and take back the last two days, she wouldn’t. She had spent nine years in darkness, and now for the first time there was a flickering light.

Magic. They were teaching her hora magic.

Inevera thought back to her revulsion at the sight of the tiny demon bone Qeva had used to light the way to her foretelling. Could it only be a day ago? It seemed a lifetime. Now she wanted nothing more than to clutch a demon bone in her hand and cure men’s wounds with a wave.

She felt her heart thudding, and forced herself back into the rhythmic breathing of her centre. Soon she felt her body relaxing and was able to step outside it once more. The problems and questions continued to swirl around her, but they were more like blowing sand now, a nuisance that could be ignored.

She shuffled wordlessly along at the back of the nie’dama’ting food line, and managed to scrape a full bowl’s worth from the eunuchs this time. She ate in silence and was escorted back to the Vault with the other girls.

Find your centre! Melan had snapped at breakfast, just before the slap. Inevera almost wished she would do it again, just so she could remember what it was like to feel.

Was this what finding one’s centre meant? What it meant to be dama’ting? Did these women truly feel nothing as they looked into the future and made decisions that meant life or death for men and women alike – all the while living like Damaji in their great palaces, their every desire catered to?

When they were back in the Vault, the dama’ting left them to their nightly liberty until the wardlight faded. There was a heavy clicking of locks as she pulled the doors shut behind her. Inevera moved directly for her cot and the Evejah’ting that lay upon it.

She was barely aware that Melan was approaching her until she found herself flying through the air. She struck the ground hard, and a flash of pain brought her back to herself.

She looked up as she put her hands under her to rise. As in the baths, the other girls had formed a ring around her and Melan as the older girl approached.

She sighed. Not this, again.

‘I am to teach you sharusahk,’ Melan said. ‘I am denied the Chamber of Shadows until you learn!’

Inevera slowly gave ground as Melan advanced until her back came to the ring of girls, and one of them shoved her forward.

‘Scorpion!’ Melan cried, bending smoothly at the waist and wrapping her arms around Inevera’s hips as her foot came up behind her, kicking Inevera square in the face.

Inevera fell back, stunned, and took several moments to recover herself before she got back to her feet. Melan continued to hold the pose.

‘Scorpion,’ the girls around them chanted, each falling into the pose themselves. ‘Scorpion. Scorpion …’

Inevera kept her breathing steady, and was surprised to find she was not afraid. Melan obviously meant to give her a beating, but it seemed pointless to resist. She doubted the girl would do her any lasting harm, and there was little she could do to stop it in any event. Best to submit for now, and learn what she could.

Her centre was strong as she assumed the scorpion pose, steady despite her rapidly swelling face.

Melan seemed more angry than ever at this response, as if expecting Inevera to cry and beg. Inevera pitied her in that moment. Melan’s own mother, Kenevah’s heir, had cast the bones that called her. What was all this anger and jealousy supposed to prove?

‘Wilting flower!’ Melan cried, moving in fast and low, thrusting the stiffened fingers of her right hand into Inevera’s abdomen.

There was a blunt pain, and Inevera lost all feeling in her legs, collapsing to the floor.

‘It is not just knowing how to strike,’ Melan said. ‘One must also know where.’ Before Inevera could find the control of her limbs to rise, Melan pinned her on her back, knees pressed into her upper arms, keeping them helpless and without leverage.

Melan reached out, pressing the knuckles of her index fingers hard into Inevera’s temples.

The pain was intense, like lightning arcing through her brain. She saw flashes of light and struggled helplessly, her breathing forgotten.

It seemed an eternity before Melan eased back, getting to her feet. Inevera lay there, breathing slowly until she could find her centre again.

‘Wilting flower,’ the other girls began to chant, each flowing into the gesture as they did. ‘Wilting flower. Wilting flower …’

Inevera rose shakily to her feet and copied the move.

‘This is a tunnel asp,’ Qeva said to the girls, presenting a glass box for the nie’dama’ting to observe. Inside was a hollow bit of stone sitting on a sand floor, and within that hollow, a small coiled snake with dull grey scales. ‘There is no deadlier creature under the sun.’

Inevera and the other Betrothed leaned in for a better look. Months had passed, and the days had fallen into a rhythm of sorts, beginning as always with sharusahk and treating injured Sharum, followed by lessons, some shared with other girls her age, and others with Qeva alone.

‘It’s so tiny,’ she whispered.

‘Do not be fooled by its size,’ Qeva said. ‘Tunnel asp venom makes scorpion stings feel like sweet kisses. A single bite can kill a Sharum in minutes. The tunnel asp strikes quickly, then retreats to wait for its prey to die. It can afford to wait. Other animals will not feed on those it poisons, lest the venom kill them in turn.’ As she spoke, she took the lid off the box, rolling one of her silk sleeves up to the elbow. In one hand she held a small sand mouse by the tail. It squeaked and squirmed desperately, sensing the danger. She dropped it into the asp’s box, just in front of the hollow stone.