The Skull Throne

For an instant, Ashia lost her center, swept away by a memory.

“Let him defeat you,” the Damajah told Ashia.

“Eh?” Ashia asked. She had only just been raised to Sharum’ting, she and her spear sisters to be sent to the young Sharum Ka for the first time.

Inevera had claimed the young women as her bodyguard, but they were still Sharum, and subject to Jayan. He was to “assess” them this night, to deem their worthiness and where he would position them in alagai’sharak.

“Jayan is proud,” Inevera said. “He will seek to dominate you in front of your sisters, to ensure you do not threaten him. He will challenge you to spar under the guise of assessing your sharusahk, but the fight will be very real.”

“And you wish me to … lose?” Impossible. Unthinkable. How many years had she been forced to feign weakness—Asome the push’ting’s timid bride? The Damajah had promised that would change when she was given the spear.

“I command you to lose,” Inevera said, her tone sharpening. “Show him your mettle. Earn his respect. And then lose. If you do not, he will kill you.”

Ashia swallowed, knowing she should be silent and nod. “And if I kill him?”

“He is the firstborn son of the Deliverer,” Inevera said. “If you kill him, every Sharum and dama in Krasia will call for your head, and the Shar’Dama Ka will not deny them.”

She said nothing of her own part in that, but Jayan was her firstborn, as well. Ashia knew Inevera’s oldest son vexed her, but she loved him, too.

“I know this command pains your Sharum heart,” Inevera said. “But I give it in love. I am the Damajah. Your pride, your life, are mine.” She laid a gentle hand on Ashia’s shoulder. “I value the first less than the second. Everam has a plan for you, and it is not to die for the sake of a man’s frail ego.”

Ashia nodded, shrugging off the hand as she knelt, putting her hands on the floor and pressing her forehead between them. “As the Damajah commands.”

There had not been many witnesses. Jayan knew the Sharum’ting had his father’s favor, and did not wish to discredit them publicly. It was just her and Shanvah, Jayan, Jurim, and Hasik. Shanvah’s father Shanjat, first among the kai’Sharum, should by rights have been there as well. His absence was telling.

The Sharum Ka and two elite Spears of the Deliverer. Even if she and Shanvah could kill them all before they raised the alarm—a prospect of which she was by no means certain—dozens of warriors had seen them enter the audience chamber. There would be no lasting escape.

Jayan grinned as the two women placed their hands on the floor before him. “My timid cousins! Shying from every sound and never speaking in more than a whisper. Who but Everam could have imagined you spent years learning sharusahk in secret?”

“There are many mysteries in the Dama’ting Palace,” Ashia said.

Jayan chuckled. “Of that, I have no doubt.” He undid the clasp of his cape and opened his armored robe, standing bare-chested in his pantaloons. “But while you learned at the hands of women, I studied at the feet of Shar’Dama Ka himself. I must judge your prowess, if I am to find a place for you in sharak.” He held a hand out, beckoning.

Ashia’s breathing was steady as she rose. She, too, removed her cape and unslung the shield from her shoulder, passing them to Shanvah. She did not remove her robe, but she slid her hands into its many pockets with practiced efficiency, removing the ceramic armor plates within and stacking them neatly on the floor.

She was lighter when she rose to her feet, gliding out onto the floor to begin circling opposite Jayan.

His stance was strong. Jayan was not lying when he said the Shar’Dama Ka had taught him, and her uncle was the greatest known sharusahk master. Perhaps he could win the battle fairly. It would bring no shame to Enkido to be defeated by the Deliverer’s son, and Ashia would prefer to lose in truth than dishonor them both by throwing the match.

But then he came at her, and Ashia was the faster. Instinctively she tripped him, jabbing her toe into a convergence point that numbed his foot momentarily. He lost balance as he passed, and Ashia stole the energy, slipping her hand under his armpit and using it to throw him onto his back.

A hush fell on the room. The men looked dumbstruck, having expected a very different result. Ashia wondered if she had already gone too far; if the men would kill her to save face for their Sharum Ka.

But after a moment, Jayan forced a laugh, getting back to his feet, stomping to restore feeling to the numbed appendage. “A fine throw! Let us see what else you have.”

He kept better guard this time, delivering a flurry of punches, kicks, and open-hand blows. Ashia dodged most of them, diverting the others with minimal contact. She made a few halfhearted strikes of her own, assessing his defenses.

He was good, as Sharum went. One of the best. But many of his blocks left convergences open, giving her points she could use to disable, cripple, and kill.

Instead she leapt over one of his circle kicks, somersaulting away to put space between them.

“You are wise to retreat, sister,” Jayan said. “I would have had you there.”

Ashia’s jaw tightened. She could have killed him three times over by now. Her eyes flicked to Shanvah.

Her spear sister knelt serenely, but she worked the fingers of one hand into a question. Why are you giving up advantages?

Why indeed? Ashia wondered. The Damajah had commanded it, of course, but what example was she setting for Shanvah and future Sharum’ting if she allowed Jayan to defeat her?

“You cannot circle forever,” Jayan called. “I have given you too much energy already. Come, show me what strength you have when you are not stealing mine.”

Ashia shot in so quickly Jayan was unprepared. She parted his arms with cobra’s hood, and then bent forward and held his waist as her right foot came up over her back to kick him in the face.

He stumbled back and she spun to the floor, hooking the back of his knee with hers and pulling him off his feet.

Jayan was no novice at ground fighting, twisting and shifting his weight to offer minimal targets and leverage. But Ashia was in close now, where the dama’ting sharusahk Enkido had taught was its deadliest. Precise strikes broke his lines of power as she worked into a submission hold atop him, her forearm cutting off his windpipe and the artery supplying blood to his brain.

Jayan shook, sweat broken out on his face, and she saw fear in his eyes. And, at last, respect. She imagined herself forcing a submission from him, but the Damajah’s words came to her again.

Show him your mettle. Earn his respect. And then lose.

Jayan made a weak pull at her choking arm, and Ashia eased back slightly, as if the effort had made a difference.

Jayan caught a breath, and with a surge, he came forward, punching her hard in the face. Unprepared for such ferocity, Ashia fell back as he landed blow after blow, striking her face, her body, blows meant to do lasting damage.

He rolled her onto her stomach, pinning her under his weight as he took hold of the collar of her robe from behind, pulling in opposite directions to close off the air and blood to her head, much as Ashia had done to him.

Did he mean to kill her? She did not know. If she had taken it too far, humiliated Jayan past reason, he would not hesitate. He was the Deliverer’s firstborn, and if he killed her, he would get no more than a scolding from his father and the support of all others.