“Enough talk of brides!” the Andrah barked. “You have your boon, Sharum Ka. Go now before you disturb my court further!”
Jardir bowed and left.
“Are you a fool?” Amadeveram demanded. Jardir had not made it out of the Andrah’s palace before the old Damaji had caught up to him, dragging him into a private room.
“Of course not, my Damaji,” Jardir said.
“Only ‘yours’ for a few hours more, it seems,” Amadeveram said.
Jardir shrugged. “I will still be ruled by the council of Damaji, who speak with your voice. But as Sharum Ka, I must represent warriors of all tribes.”
“The Sharum Ka does not represent warriors, he rules them!” Amadeveram shouted. “That you are Kaji is proof that Everam wishes the Kaji to rule! You cannot go through with this mad plan.”
“For the good of all Krasia, I can and will,” Jardir said. “I will not be a weak figurehead for you, like the last Sharum Ka. The warriors need unity if they are to be strong. Becoming one with all of them is the only way to win their devotion.”
“You are turning your back on your tribe!” Amadeveram shouted.
“No, I am turning to face the others,” Jardir said. “I implore you, turn with me.”
“Face our blood enemies?” Amadeveram said, aghast. “I would sooner die in shame!”
“There was only one tribe in the time of Kaji,” Jardir reminded him. “Our blood enemies are also our blood.”
“You are no blood of Kaji,” Amadeveram said, spitting at Jardir’s feet. “The blood of the Shar’Dama Ka has turned to camel’s piss in your veins.”
Jardir’s face grew dark and, for a moment, he considered attacking him. Amadeveram was a sharusahk grand master, but Jardir was younger and stronger and faster. He could kill the old man.
But he was not Sharum Ka yet. Killing Amadeveram would only unravel Inevera’s plans and cost him the Spear Throne.
Am I doomed to always have success without pride? he asked himself.
“The Sharum Ka is dead!” the Andrah cried to the assembled warriors in Sharik Hora. The Sharum filling the rows of the great temple howled at the news, banging spear against shield in a great cacophony meant to announce the First Warrior’s coming to Everam.
“But we will not cede the night like those to the north!” the Andrah cried when the noise died down. “We are Krasian! Blood of Shar’Dama Ka himself! And we will fight till the Deliverer returns, or the spear falls from the hands of the last nie’Sharum and Krasia is buried in the sand!”
The warriors hooted at that, thrusting spears in the air.
“And thus, I have chosen a new Sharum Ka to lead alagai’sharak,” the Andrah said. “When he was nie’Sharum, he was made Nie Ka and stood on the walls at twelve, the youngest in a hundred years! He was not there six months before he netted a wind demon that had killed his Watcher and knocked his drillmaster prone. For this, he was brought to the Kaji pavilion, the youngest to come since the Return. He fought so well on his first night of alagai’sharak that he was sent to Sharik Hora, studying five years with the dama to first don his blacks as kai’Sharum, the youngest such since the time of the Deliverer himself!”
There was a murmur at this among the Kaji, who knew Jardir’s accomplishments well. The Andrah paused a moment to let the sense of excitement travel, then continued. “Two nights ago, he led his warriors in a daring rescue of the Sharach, who stood on the brink of destruction, killing alagai with his bare hands while his men still readied their spears!”
The murmuring grew to a buzz. There was not a man, woman, or child in all Krasia who had not heard that tale by now.
“Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, stand before the Skull Throne!” the Andrah commanded, and the warriors cheered and banged spear and shield as Jardir appeared, dressed in his Sharum blacks, his head bare.
Inevera walked silently at his side as he went to the Skull Throne and prostrated himself, kneeling quickly to lay the Andrah’s Evejah under his forehead as he pressed it to the rug. The holy book was inked with dal’Sharum blood on vellum made from kai’Sharum skin, bound in leather from a Sharum Ka. It would sear his skull if he should utter a lie while touching it.
“Do you serve Everam in all things?” the Andrah asked.
“I do, Holiness,” Jardir swore.
“Will you be His strong arm in the night, giving all honor to the thrones of Sharik Hora?”
“I will, Holiness.”
“Are you prepared to hold the reins of alagai’sharak until the Shar’Dama Ka comes again, or you be dead?” the Andrah asked.
“I am, Holiness.”
“Then rise,” the Andrah said, lifting the white turban of the Sharum Ka high for all to see. “The night awaits its Sharum Ka.”
Jardir rose, and the Andrah turned to Inevera. He handed her the turban, and she placed it on Jardir’s head.
The Sharum roared and stamped their feet, but Jardir barely noticed. Why did the Andrah not put the turban on his head himself, as was the custom? Why give the honor to Inevera?
“Stop basking in your glory and speak your words,” Inevera whispered, breaking him from his musing. Jardir started, then turned to face the assembled Sharum—nearly six thousand spears. It had been ten thousand not long ago, but the previous Sharum Ka had wasted lives. Jardir promised himself he would not do the same.
“My brothers in the night,” Jardir said. “This is a glorious time to be Sharum! Alone, the tribes of Krasia make the alagai quail with fear, but when we stand together, there is nothing we cannot do!”
The warriors roared, and Jardir waited until it died. “But when I look out at you, I see division!” he cried. “The Majah sit across the aisle from the Kaji! The Jama avoid the Khanjin! There is not one tribe who does not see enemies in this room! We are supposed to be brothers in the night, but who among you has volunteered to stand with the Sharach, whose numbers have been decimated?”
There was silence now, the warriors unsure how to respond. They knew the truth of his words, but tribal hatreds ran deep and were not easily let go even if one wished it—and few did.
“The Sharum Ka is said to be of no tribe,” Jardir continued, “but to me, that is worse! What loyalty might a tribeless man have? The Evejah tells us that the only true loyalty is that of blood. And so,” he swept a hand back toward the Andrah and the Damaji on their thrones, “I have beseeched our leaders to join my blood to all of you.
“With the Andrah’s blessing,” Jardir said, “the Damaji have each agreed to wed me to one fertile daughter of their tribe, to bear me a Sharum son to whom I will be forever loyal.”
There was a shocked silence, then the room erupted in a roar of approval from every tribe save the Kaji. Clearly, they had believed Jardir would retain his loyalty to their tribe, as all previous Sharum Ka had done, no matter what the Evejah said.
Let them sulk, Jardir thought. I will win them back in the Maze.
“And so,” he intoned, quieting the temple once more, “once my Jiwah Ka selects my brides, the Damaji will perform the wedding rites.”
But then Inevera stepped forward unrehearsed, surprising Jardir no less than the Sharum or assembled leaders. Did she mean to speak? Any woman, dama’ting or no, speaking in Sharik Hora was unheard of.