“Little sisters,” Inevera said, and the Damaji’ting remained as the men filtered out, clustering at the base of the dais to take private audience with her.
“You did not tell all, Damajah. My dice foretell that Ahmann may never return.” Belina kept her voice steady, but her aura was like a raw nerve. Most of the Damaji’ting appeared the same. They had lost not only a leader, but a husband as well.
“What has happened? Truly?” Qasha asked. Less disciplined than Belina, the Sharach Damaji’ting could not keep her voice steady. The last word cracked with a whine like a flaw forming in glass.
“Ahmann spared the Par’chin in secret after claiming the spear,” Inevera said, disapproval in her tone. “The man survived and challenged him to Domin Sharum.”
The women began to chatter at this. Domin Sharum literally meant “two warriors,” the name given to the ritual duel first fought by Kaji himself against his murderous half brother Majah three thousand years ago. It was said they battled for seven days and nights atop Nie’s Breast, the tallest of the southern mountains.
“Surely there is more to the tale than that,” Damaji’ting Qeva said. “I have trouble believing any man could defeat the Shar’Dama Ka in fair combat.”
The other women voiced their assent. No man nor demon they could imagine could stand against Ahmann, especially with the Spear of Kaji in his hands.
“The Par’chin has covered his skin in inked wards,” Inevera said. “I do not understand it fully, but the symbols have given him terrifying powers, not unlike a demon himself. Ahmann held sway in battle and would have won, but as the sun set the Par’chin began misting like an alagai rising from the abyss, and the Shar’Dama Ka’s blows could not touch him. The Par’chin cast them both from the cliff, and their bodies were never found.”
Qasha gave out a wail at that. Damaji’ting Justya of the Shunjin moved to comfort her, but she, too, had begun to sob. All around the semicircle of women, there was weeping.
“Silence!” Inevera hissed, her enhanced voice cutting through the sobs like a lash. “You are Damaji’ting, not some pathetic dal’ting jiwah, weeping tear bottles over dead Sharum. Krasia depends on us. We must trust that Ahmann will return, and keep his empire intact until he can reclaim it.”
“And if he does not?” Damaji’ting Qeva asked, her words a calm breeze. She alone of the Damaji’ting had not lost a husband.
“Then we hold our people together until a suitable heir can be found,” Inevera said. “It makes no difference in what we must do here and now.”
She looked out over the women. “With Ahmann missing, the clerics will try to leech our power. You saw the magic I displayed to the Damaji. Each of you has combat hora you have been husbanding against need. You and your most powerful dama’ting must find excuse for displays of your own. The time to hide our strength is over.”
She looked around the semicircle of women, seeing determined faces where a moment ago there had been tears. “Every nie’dama’ting must be put to preparing new hora for spells, and all should be embroidering their robes with the Northlander’s wards of unsight. Abban will have spools of gold thread sent to every dama’ting palace for the task. Any attempts to prevent us walking in the night should be ignored. If men dare hinder you, break them. Publicly. Kill alagai. Heal warriors near death. We must show the men of Krasia we are a force to be feared by man and demon alike, and not afraid to dirty our nails.”
CHAPTER 3
ASHIA
333 AR AUTUMN
Ashia stiffened as her husband challenged her father for the Skull Throne. It was unthinkable that she should interfere, but she could not deny the outcome would greatly affect her, whomever the victor.
She breathed, finding her center once more. It was inevera.
Shifting slightly, she relaxed some muscles as she tensed others to maintain the pose that held her suspended over the alcove to the left of the Skull dais, braced against the arched ceiling with toes and fingers. In this way she could hold the position indefinitely, even sleeping without losing her perch.
Across the room, her spear sister Micha mirrored her in the opposite alcove, silently watching through a tiny pinhole in the ornate carving above the archway. Jarvah was positioned behind the pillar just past the Skull Throne, where none save the Deliverer and Damajah could tread without invitation.
Cloaked in shadow, the kai’Sharum’ting were imperceptible even to those stepping into the alcoves. But should the Damajah be threatened they could appear in an instant, launching a spray of sharpened, warded glass. Two breaths later, they could interpose themselves between her and any danger, spears and shields at the ready.
The kai’Sharum’ting and their growing number of spear sisters guarded the Damajah openly when she was on the move, but Inevera preferred them to keep to the shadows whenever possible.
At last the court was adjourned and the Damajah was left alone with her two most trusted advisors, Damaji’ting Qeva and her daughter, nie’Damaji’ting Melan.
The Damajah gave a slight flick of her fingers, and Ashia and Micha dropped silently from their perches. Jarvah appeared from behind the pillars, all three moving as escort to the Damajah’s personal chambers.
The Deliverer’s dal’ting wives, Thalaja and Everalia, were waiting with refreshment. Their eyes drifted to their daughters, Micha and Jarvah, but they knew better than to speak to the kai’Sharum’ting while they guarded the Damajah. There was little to say, in any event.
“A bath has been prepared for you, Damajah,” Thalaja said.
“And fresh silks laid,” Everalia added.
Ashia still could not believe these meek, obsequious women were wives of the Deliverer, though her holy uncle had taken them many years before coming to power. She had once thought the women hid their skills and power, much as she herself had been taught.
Over the years, Ashia had come to see the truth. Thalaja and Everalia were wives in name only now that the usefulness of their wombs had faded. Mere servants to the Deliverer’s wives in white.
But for inevera, Ashia thought, that could have been me.
“I will need new silks,” Inevera said. “The Deliverer is … traveling. Until his return, I will wear only opaque colors.” The women nodded, moving hurriedly to comply.
“There is more news.” Inevera turned back, first meeting the eyes of Qeva and Melan, then letting her gaze drift to rest on Ashia and her spear sisters.
“Enkido is dead.”
Ashia pictured the palm, and bent before the wind that rushed over her. She bowed to the Damajah. A step behind, Micha and Jarvah mirrored her. “Thank you for telling us, Damajah.” Her voice was steady and even, eyes carefully on the floor, seeing all in periphery. “I will not ask if he died with his honor intact, for it could be no other way.”
Inevera nodded. “Enkido’s honor was boundless even before he severed his tongue and tree to serve my predecessor and learn the secrets of dama’ting sharusahk.”
Melan stiffened slightly at the mention of Inevera’s predecessor, Qeva’s mother and Melan’s grandmother, Damaji’ting Kenevah. It was said the Damajah choked the old woman to death to wrest control of the tribe’s women from her. Qeva gave no reaction.