The Daylight War

Gone were her days of living in darkness. From now on, the dice would light her way.

The test for the veil came and went in moments. Inevera had no doubts, and answered instantly, even though Kenevah asked far more questions of her than she had of Melan, or indeed any of the girls who had taken the veil since.

The Damaji’ting threaded her questions with tricks and half-truths, trying again and again to confound Inevera. Around the chamber Bride and Betrothed alike began to murmur at this, wondering if Inevera had made an error early on that Kenevah was testing against. The dice were subjective, and errors did occur. One might be permitted, but never two.

But though she sensed the speculation, to Inevera it was only wind. She felt Everam’s wisdom flowing through the dice, and spoke with the assurance of His voice. There were no wrong answers, and both she and Kenevah knew it. At last the aged woman nodded. ‘Welcome, sister.’

The true dama’ting held their composure, though their quiet chatter halted instantly. There was a cheer from some of the nie’dama’ting, but not all. Inevera’s eyes passed over them, meeting Melan’s, staring back hard.

The girl gave an almost imperceptible nod of respect, but her eyes were hard. It was difficult to tell if she was humbled or vengeful. Inevera supposed it did not matter.

Right there in the Chamber of Shadows, with all watching, Inevera was stripped from her robes and bido wrap, making her oaths to Everam.

‘I, Inevera vah Kasaad am’Damaj am’Kaji, Betrothed of Everam, take Him as my first husband, His wishes above all others, His love my greatest desire, His will my greatest command, for He is the Creator of all things great and true, and all other men are but pale shadows of His perfection. I do this for now and all eternity, for on my death I will join my sister-wives in the Celestial Harem, and there know His sacred touch.’

‘I hear this oath, and hold you to it,’ Kenevah said, lifting her dice in the air and causing them to flare with magic.

‘I hear,’ Qeva said, lifting her own brightly glowing dice.

‘I hear,’ the other dama’ting echoed one by one, each lifting her dice in turn.

‘I hear. I hear.’

Inevera was led to a marble table and made to kneel, putting her hands down flat in front of her and pressing her forehead down. Worn depressions in the stone marked where countless knees, hands, and foreheads had been placed before her.

Kenevah produced a large piece of marble that looked as if it had once been shaped like a man’s organ, but centuries of use had worn the bulbous head down to little different from the shaft.

Qeva took a chalice of blessed water, pouring it over the phallus, whispering prayers as she did. Then she produced a vial of sacred kanis oil, dribbling it over the marble and stroking it in a circular pumping motion as if pleasuring a man. All seven sacred strokes were used, spreading the oil evenly over every inch.

Kenevah took the shaft from her, moving behind Inevera, who clenched her thighs in spite of herself, knowing it was the worst thing she could do.

‘Fear and pain …’ Kenevah said.

‘… are only wind,’ Inevera finished. She followed her breath, finding her centre, and let her thighs relax, opening herself.

‘With this, I consummate your union to Everam,’ Kenevah said, and did not hesitate as she thrust the phallus into Inevera, making her gasp. Kenevah pumped repeatedly, twisting it as she did. Pain blew over Inevera, but she bent as the palm, revelling instead in the elation of her wedding to Everam. He was her true husband, and spoke to her through the hora. Finally, she understood what it meant to be one of Everam’s Brides. She would never be alone again. Always, He would guide her.

At last Kenevah withdrew. ‘It is over, Bride of Everam.’

Inevera nodded, getting slowly to her feet, cognizant of the pain and the blood running down her thighs. Her legs buckled as she stood, but she kept her feet as she turned to Kenevah, who produced a cloth of smooth white silk, tying it around Inevera’s face.

She bowed. ‘Thank you, Damaji’ting.’ Kenevah bowed in return, and Inevera turned and strode, nude save for the hora pouch about her waist, past the other women and out of the chamber. Her back was straight. Her bearing proud.

She was given her own chambers in both the palace and the underpalace. They were huge, opulent things full of expensive carpets, silk bedclothes, and thick, velvet curtains; with services of silver, gold, and delicate porcelain. Lit by wardlights she could brighten or dim, there was a private marble bath, surrounded by heat wards that could warm or chill the water or her rooms as needed. A Damaji’s ransom in magic for her simple comfort, all controlled by one of the stone pedestals she had learned to manipulate while still in the bido.

As soon as she was alone, Inevera went to the closet where a dozen sets of pure white silk robes hung. She selected two. The first she laid out on the wide, four-poster bed. The second she took her knife to.

The eunuchs had already warmed the bath. She slipped into the deliciously hot water and scrubbed herself carefully. She felt the barest stubble on her bald head and smiled. She would never need to shave it again, but continued her daily shaving of her legs and nethers.

Smooth, she took brush and ink, painting wards around her womanhood. The blood had ceased to flow, its crust washed away, but Inevera could still feel the ache of her consummation with Everam.

She shut the thick curtains, calling wardlight from the room’s walls, and knelt on the floor, breathing to find her centre as she prayed. Then she reached into her hora pouch and drew forth her eighth bone. It was rough, like a chunk of obsidian hacked free of the ala with a pick.

It was a priceless gift – magic of her own discretion. The ichorous slurry that ran through the palace walls like blood was limited in its uses, but there were countless spells this bone could power. It would be a year before she could have another to use for anything outside the healing pavilion. No doubt there was already speculation about what Inevera would do with the bone, perhaps warding it as a weapon or defensive shield, as many dama’ting kept about their person.

But Inevera did not hesitate, touching it to the wards she had painted on her skin, feeling them warm and activate, flaring with power in the dim wardlight. She felt her thighs clench, and she shivered in something that was not quite pleasure, not quite pain.

Healing was the strongest of magics, the most draining. The eighth bone crumbled away to dust in her hand, and she reached between her legs, probing. It had done its work.

Her hymen was restored.

If there is even a chance I am to marry the Deliverer, I should come to him a proper bride, unknown to man.

She reached for the silk robe she had cut into one long, continuous strip, and fell into the familiar weave, retying her bido.

The familiar kiosk was gone, replaced with one much larger and finer.

‘Baskets!’ a call came, and Inevera’s head snapped up in surprise, seeing her father, dressed in khaffit tan and leaning on a cane as he walked on a peg leg. ‘The finest baskets in all of Krasia!’

Inevera waited until a customer entered the kiosk, drawing Kasaad’s attention, then slipped around behind him, gliding behind the counter and through the curtain in back.

Her mother was there, unchanged by time as she held a hoop between her feet, weaving. She was surrounded by a dozen other weavers, some young with bare faces, and others of middle years or venerable. There was a hiss as Inevera passed through the curtain, and all of them looked up sharply. Only Manvah returned to her work.