The Daylight War (37 page)

– Make him a man –
the dice had said, and even at twelve, there was no doubt in Inevera’s mind that Ahmann Jardir was worthy of the black. But potential Deliverer or no, he was vulnerable now, as proven by the state Inevera had found him in. It was impossible for someone to rise so fast without making enemies. If anyone understood this fact, it was Inevera. And the dice had said if he was given the veil before his time, he would die.

– Deliverers are made, not born –
Was she expected to intercede? Was that why the dice had sent her to him, and now? Or were there a hundred other potential Deliverers out there among the tribes, waiting for a chance to be made?

Inevera shook her head. It was too great a risk to take. She had to protect the boy, her husband-to-be. Protect his honour, but, more importantly, his life.

There was only so much she could do, once he took the black. She could not deny him the Maze, or the
jiwah’Sharum
in the great harem. She could not protect him from every knife and spear aimed at his back.

– Make him a man,
but
not
before
his
time –
But how was she to know when that time came? Would the dice tell her? If she denied him the black, was there a way for him to regain it?

She turned a corner and, as expected, found Khevat waiting. The drillmaster must have fetched him. She found her centre and glided up to him, her eyes a mask of serenity.

‘The blessings of Everam be upon you, holy
jiwah
.’ Khevat bowed to her, and she acknowledged it with a nod.

‘You have foretold the death of Ahmann Jardir?’ he asked.

Inevera nodded silently, offering nothing more.

‘And?’ The barest hint of irritation entered Khevat’s voice.

Inevera kept her own voice level. ‘He is too young to take the black.’

‘He is unworthy?’ Khevat asked.

‘He is too young,’ Inevera said again.

Khevat frowned. ‘The boy has enormous promise.’

Inevera met Khevat’s gaze and shrugged. ‘Then you should never have sent him into the Maze so young.’

The
dama
’
s
face darkened further. He was powerful, and had the ear of those even more so. Not a man used to being questioned – or dictated to – by anyone, much less a woman. The
dama’ting
stood below the
dama
in the city’s hierarchy. ‘The boy netted a demon. Everam’s law is clear …’

‘Nonsense!’ Inevera snapped. ‘There are exceptions to every law, and putting a boy still half a decade from his full growth into the Maze was madness.’

The
dama
’s voice hardened. ‘That is not for you to decide, Dama’ting.’

Inevera drew in her brows and saw doubt cross the
dama
’s face. He might outrank her, but where they had sway, the
dama’ting
’s power was absolute.

‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed, ‘but whether he takes the black is, and he will not, because of your decision.’ She raised her
hora
pouch, and Khevat flinched. ‘Shall we take the matter to court? Perhaps Damaji Amadeveram will have me read you as well to determine if you are still worthy to run his
sharaj
after needlessly costing the Kaji a warrior of great promise.’

Khevat’s eyes widened, the muscles in his face trembling with barely contained fury. Inevera was pushing him to his limit. She wondered if he would lose control. It would be regrettable to have to kill him.

‘If the boy returns to the Maze before he is grown, he will die, and I will not abide such waste,’ she said. ‘Send him back to me in five years and I will reconsider.’

‘And what am I to do with him until then?’ Khevat demanded. ‘He cannot go back to
sharaj
after setting foot in the Maze, nor back to the Kaji pavilion without the black!’

Inevera shrugged as if the boy’s fate meant nothing to her. ‘That is not my concern, Dama. The dice have spoken. Everam has spoken. You created this problem, and you must find a solution. If the boy is as exceptional as you say, I’m sure you can find a place for him. If not, there is no doubt use for a strong back among the
khaffit
.’

With that, she turned and walked away, her steady glide belying the emotions roiling inside her like a sandstorm. She had purposely enraged the
dama
so that he would be determined to keep the boy’s honour intact, if only to spite her. There was only one place Khevat could do that: Sharik Hora.

Ahmann was old to be called as
nie’dama
, and ill suited in any event, but perfect for
kai
training. So far as Inevera knew, no
nie’Sharum
had ever been called before taking the black, but the Evejah did not forbid it. In Sharik Hora, Ahmann would learn letters and mathematics, philosophy and strategy, warding, history, and higher forms of
sharusahk
.

Knowledge a Shar’Dama Ka would need.

I
must
seize
for
him
every
advantage,
Inevera thought.

As Inevera had hoped, Ahmann was sent to Sharik Hora the very next day. Dama Khevat smirked the next time they met, believing he had outmanoeuvred her. Inevera allowed him the notion.

She watched Ahmann’s progress often, lurking in the shadowed alcoves of the undertemple where the
nie’dama
trained. The boy was woefully behind in many regards, and took special resentment to his early lessons, believing he had already learned all there was to know in
sharaj
.

He was quickly disabused of this notion, and the resentment beaten out of him. Before long he applied himself fully to his studies, and progressed quickly from there on.

Almost seven years to the day after her burning, Melan rang the chimes once more. Inevera watched her testing calmly, though she knew there were many who would flock to Melan if she passed.

Kenevah’s voice was sharp, her examination of the dice scrutinous, and her questions complex. Melan passed all without flaw, gathering the dice with her good hand and casting with the claw.

Later that day, Inevera was walking through the long hall of the underpalace to her personal chambers when she found Melan waiting by her door. She was newly robed and veiled, but even if the older woman’s stance were not already familiar, the twisted hand, nails long and sharp like
alagai
talons, marked her.

Melan pointed one of those claws at Inevera, the rest curling back stiffly. ‘You tricked me.’

There was no one else in the passageway, but Inevera did not back away. The dice had not warned her to expect an attack, but that did not mean one would not come. The
hora
revealed mysteries beyond what a woman could discern on her own. They might warn her of a hidden poison, but an attack that she saw coming was her own concern. Everam had no sympathy for the weak.

She shook her head. ‘No, Melan, you tricked yourself. All I had to do was nudge, and you were off running. If you’d kept your centre, you’d have finished your dice a year before me. But you let your pride and your jealousy rule you, and were fool enough to treat carving the sacred dice like a camel race. You didn’t deserve the veil.’

Melan’s eyes darkened. ‘And do I deserve it now?’

‘It must have been crushing to fall as you did,’ Inevera said. ‘The pain, the humiliation, and the scars – a constant reminder. Most girls would have been broken by that and left the Dama’ting Palace. Even a failed
nie’dama’ting
is a sought-after bride. Wealthy
dama
would have happily overlooked the scarred hand for your training at pillow dancing alone, not to mention knowledge of healing and
sharusahk
and
hora
magic. You could have arranged a marriage and secured yourself a comfortable position as
Jiwah
Ka
to a worthy husband.’

Melan breathed hard, causing her veil to suck in, then billow.

‘But it didn’t break you,’ Inevera went on. ‘It took incredible courage to ignore the stares and derision and return to the chamber day after day these long years, and indomitable will to keep centred enough to carve a perfect seven. You deserve the veil.’

Inevera flicked her eyes to Melan’s clawed hand for an instant. Not in fear, just a reminder to Melan of her stance, attempting to menace Inevera like a bully in the bazaar.

Melan looked at her hand and shook her head, as if coming out of a reverie. She breathed again and took a half step back, dropping her arm.

Without giving any indication, Inevera readied herself. If an attack was to come, it would come now. ‘We can end this right here, Melan. I bear you no ill will. Whatever our motives, I needed the lessons you gave me, as you, I think, needed mine. Now we are reborn as Brides of Everam, and should leave the feud between us in the Vault where it belongs.’

Inevera held out her arms. ‘Welcome, sister-wife.’

Melan stood there, eyes wide, for a long moment. Stiffly, she moved into Inevera’s arms, meaning a token embrace, but Inevera held her tightly, in part to cement the moment, and in part to keep a lock on that dangerous, clawed hand.

Slowly, and then more powerfully, as if a dam were cracking and then finally gave way, Melan began to cry.

On the day Jardir took the black – the first ever to do so with a white veil – Inevera strode through the halls of the Dama’ting Palace to the
Damaji’ting
’s wing.

She encountered a group of Brides, and they made a show of stepping from her path in a precise, orderly flow that reminded Inevera of a flock of birds. The first to clear her path were the youngest and least influential, the last the oldest and most powerful.

Tea politics. Kenevah served Waxing Tea each month without fail, controlling the seating precisely to show the women their place in her regard. The places closest to the
Damaji’ting
seldom shifted, but those farther out did often, and there was a constant struggle for a rise in status. The
dama’ting
wasted endless hours fretting over every opportunity to impress the
Damaji’ting
and her closest advisors.

Inevera suppressed her derision. Over the years, she had moved up the table to sit at Kenevah’s left hand, second only to Qeva at her right. The concerns of the other Brides meant nothing to her. Sharak Ka was coming, and she had little patience for petty feuds over imagined slights, talk of who had which
dama
by the bido, whether he had the Andrah’s ear, how much gold was in his purse or how many wives in his harem.

To some, her refusal to play at tea politics only made her seem more powerful. What secrets did she hide, that let her rise above the intrigues of the palace? Most gave her a wide berth, believing – rightfully – that she knew something they did not.

But others saw weakness in her lack of involvement in palace intrigues. Kenevah was an expert at playing the Brides against one another, and by keeping Inevera at her left, her veil still white rather than black, she signalled that Inevera had not been formally named her heir. This led some to speculate that Kenevah was not convinced Inevera was fit to lead the tribe and might have her killed and name Qeva
Damaji’ting
until the dice called another.