“It is true my honored father said that the demons must be taken in alagai’sharak,” Asome said, “but what is alagai’sharak, truly? It literally means ‘demon war,’ and war is no ritual. The alagai have made all humanity, male and female, their enemy. Any battle against them is alagai’sharak.”
Jayan snorted. “Leave it to my dama brother to fail to understand war.”
It was the wrong thing to say in a court dominated by clerics, further proof of Jayan’s tendency to speak without thought. Ashan and the Damaji all turned angry glares upon him.
At last, Ashan found his spine, using the same deep boom he had used on his daughter a moment before. “You forget your place, Sharum Ka. You serve at the will of the white.”
Jayan blanched, and anger blossomed in his aura. His hand tightened on his spear, and if he had been a single grain more the fool he might have used it, even if it plunged all Krasia into civil war.
Asome was wise enough to keep his expression neutral, but it did not save him from the dark gaze Ashan turned his way. “And you, nie’Andrah. Did you not argue long and hard against women taking the spear before this very throne a fortnight ago?”
Asome bowed. “Indeed I did, Uncle. I spoke with passion and belief. But I was wrong, and my honored father was right to ignore my pleas.”
He turned, sweeping his eyes over the room. “Sharak Ka is coming!” he boomed. “Both the Deliverer and the Damajah have said it is so. Yet still we stand divided, coming up with petty excuses why some should be allowed to fight while others stand by and do nothing. But I say when the Deliverer returns with all the armies of Nie biting at his heels, there will be glory and honor enough for all in the great battle. We must be ready, one and all, to fight.”
He pointed to Ashia. “It is true I argued against my wife taking the spear. But she has brought us nothing save honor and glory. Hundreds owe their lives to her and her spear sisters. They carry the Damajah’s honor on the field, trusted with her protection. They elevate us all. Women give us strength. The Deliverer was clear on this. All who have the will for Sharak Ka must be allowed to stand.”
He paused, and Asukaji stepped into the gap as smoothly as if it had been rehearsed. The two were ever the first to support each other.
Ashan shook his head. “Everam, not you, too.”
Asukaji pointed to the Sharum husbands. “What have these men to hide, that they fear the witness their wives might bear against them if raised? Perhaps the threat of it will make some husbands wiser. These women have fought alagai. Should our walls fail, they will be the last defense of our children. With so much resting upon them, why should they not have rights?”
“Why not indeed?” Inevera asked, before any of the older men had time to formulate a retort. She smiled. “You men argue as if the choice were yours, but the Deliverer gave the Sharum’ting to me, and I will decide who shall be raised and who shall not.”
Ashan’s scowl was belied by the relief in his aura, spared responsibility for a decree that would make him enemies regardless of how he ruled.
“Umshala.” She beckoned her sister-wife, Damaji’ting of the Khanjin. “Foretell them.”
Eyes widened. Foretellings were private things. The dama’ting were secretive with their magic, and with good reason. But the men needed reminders that there was more than politics at work here. It was Everam’s will that should guide them, not their own petty needs.
The women knelt in a crescent about Umshala’s casting cloth. All of them wore reddened bandages, and the Damaji’ting touched her dice to the wounds, wetting them with blood for the prophecy.
Inevera dimmed the wardlight in the chamber. Not to aid the casting, for wardlight did not affect the dice. Rather, she did it so all would see the unmistakable glow of the hora, pulsing redly with Umshala’s prayers. Hypnotized, men twitched at the flash of light each time she threw.
At last, Umshala sat back on her heels. She turned, ignoring Ashan to address Inevera. “It is done, Damajah.”
“And what have you seen?” Inevera asked. “Did these women stand fast in the night? Are they worthy?”
“They are, Damajah.” Umshala turned, pointing to the woman who had been beaten. “Save for this one. Illijah vah Fahstu faltered in her strike and fled the demon, causing the death of Chabbavah and the injury of several others. The kill is not hers.”
Illijah’s aura went white with terror, but the other women stood by her, reaching out in support—even the woman who had been badly burned. Inevera gave them a moment for pity’s sake, but there was nothing she could do. The dice cut both ways.
“Six are raised,” she said. “Rise, Sharum’ting. Illijah vah Fahstu is returned to her husband.” It was a cruelty, but better than if Inevera had left her fate to Damaji Ichach, who would likely have had her publicly executed for bearing false witness before the throne.
Illijah screamed as Fahstu walked up behind her, grabbing the top of her hair in one thick fist, dragging her backward off her knees. She stumbled, unable to rise fully, as Fahstu dragged her from the room, her wails echoing off the walls as the Damaji watched with cold satisfaction.
Bring me the hand he uses to drag her before the sun sets, her fingers told Ashia.
Ashia’s fingers replied in their customary hidden whisper. I hear and obey, Damajah.
“Wait!” one of the women cried, drawing everyone’s attention. “As Sharum’ting, I wish to testify on Illijah’s behalf to bring witness against the crimes of Fahstu asu Fahstu am’Ichan am’Khanjin.”
Inevera waved, and the guards lowered their spears, preventing Fahstu from leaving the throne room. Illijah was released, and both were escorted back to the throne.
Damaji Ichach threw up his hands. “Is this what the Andrah’s court has become? A place for ungrateful women to complain about their husbands like gossiping washerwomen?”
Several of the Damaji nodded with agreement, but Damaji Qezan of the Jama, Ichach’s greatest rival, smiled widely.
“Surely not,” Qezan said, “but your tribe has brought such drama to the court, we of course must see it through.” Ichach glared at him, but other Damaji, even some of those who had supported him a moment ago, nodded. They might not be washerwomen, but the Damaji loved gossip as much as any.
“Speak,” Ashan commanded.
“I am Uvona vah Hadda am’Ichan am’Khanjin,” the woman said, using a man’s full name for the first time in her life. “Illijah is my cousin. It is true she ran from the alagai, and is not worthy to stand in the night. But her husband, Fahstu asu Fahstu am’Ichan am’Khanjin, has been forcing her to prostitute herself for years to earn money for his couzi and dice. Illijah is an honorable daughter of Everam and refused his initial demands, so Fahstu beat her so badly she was forced to keep to her bed for days. I witnessed her shame personally.”
“Lies!” Fahstu cried, though Inevera could see the truth in his aura. “Do not listen to this vile woman’s falsehoods! What proof does she have? Nothing! It is the word of a woman against mine.”
The woman whose arm and face were wrapped to cover her firespit burns moved to stand beside Uvona. Pain lanced across her aura, but she stood straight, and her voice was firm. “Two women.”