Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  “Honored Damaji,” she said, drawing a touch of power from a piece of warded jewelry to carry her voice through the room like the word of Everam. “No doubt my son has informed you that my divine husband, Shar’Dama Ka and Everam’s Deliverer, has disappeared.”

  There was a buzz of conversation at the confirmation of Jayan’s tale. Ashan and Aleverak were nodding, though they were not foolish enough to give any detail until they learned what exactly Jayan had said.

  “I have cast the alagai hora,” Inevera said after a moment, her enhanced voice cutting through the chatter without being raised. She held up the dice and called upon them to glow brightly with power. “The dice have informed me the Deliverer pursues a demon to the very edge of Nie’s abyss. He will return, and his coming shall herald the beginning of Sharak Ka.”

  Another rash of conversation broke out at this, and Inevera gave it just a moment to build before pressing on. “Per Ahmann’s own instructions, his brother-in-law Ashan will sit the Skull Throne in his absence, as Andrah. Asukaji will become Damaji of the Kaji. Upon the Shar’Dama Ka’s return, Ashan will greet him from the base of the dais, but retain his title. A new throne will be built for him.”

  There was a collective gasp, but only one voice cried out in shock.

  “What?!” Jayan shouted. Even without Ahmann’s talent for reading auras, the anger radiating from him was unmistakable.

  Inevera glanced to Asome, standing quietly beside Ashan, and saw simmering rage at the injustice in his aura as well, though her second son was wise enough not to show it. Asome had ever been groomed for the role of Andrah, and had chafed since his brother took the Spear Throne, seeking the white turban more than once.

  “This is ridiculous,” Jayan shouted. “I am the eldest son. The throne should fall to me!” Several of Damaji murmured their agreement, though the strongest wisely kept silent. Aleverak’s dislike of the boy was well known, and Damaji Enkaji of the Mehnding, the third most powerful tribe, was known to never publicly take sides.

  “The Skull Throne is not some bauble, my son, to be passed without a thought,” Inevera said. “It is the hope and salvation of our people, and you are but nineteen, and have yet to prove worthy of it. If you do not hold your tongue, I despair you never will.”

  “How are we to know it was the Deliverer’s wish that his own son be passed over?” Damaji Ichach of the Khanjin tribe demanded. Ichach was ever a thorn in the council’s ass, but there were nods from many of the other Damaji, including Aleverak.

  “A fair question,” the aged cleric said, turning to address those gathered, though his words were no doubt meant for Inevera. With Ashan’s claim for the throne announced, he had relinquished control of the council of Damaji, and none dared challenge venerable Aleverak as he assumed the role. “The Shar’Dama Ka did not speak them openly, nor even in private that we know of.”

  “He spoke them to me,” Ashan said, stepping forward. “On the first night of Waning, as the Damaji filed from the throne room, my brother bade me take the throne, if he should fall against Alagai Ka. I swore by Everam’s name, lest the Deliverer punish me in the afterlife.”

  “Lies!” Jayan said. “My father would never say such a thing, and you have no proof. You betray his memory for your own ambition.”

  Ashan’s eyes darkened at that. He had known the boy since birth, but never before had Jayan dared speak to him so disrespectfully. “Say that again, boy, and I will kill you, blood of the Deliverer or no. I argued in your favor when Ahmann made his request, but I see now he was right. The dais of the Spear Throne has but four steps, and you have yet to adjust to the view. The dais of the Skull Throne has seven, and will dizzy you.”

  Jayan gave a growl and lowered his spear, charging for Ashan with murder in his heart. The Damaji watched with cool detachment, ready to react when Jayan closed in.

  Inevera cursed under her breath. Regardless of who won the fight, they would both lose, and her people with them.

  “Enough!” she boomed. She raised her hora wand and manipulated its wards with nimble fingers, calling upon a blast of magic that leapt forth, shattering the marble floor between the men.

  Both Jayan and Ashan were knocked from their feet by the shock wave, along with several of the Damaji. As the dust settled, there was an awed silence, save for the sound of debris falling back to the floor.

  Inevera rose to her feet, straightening her robes with a deliberate snap. All eyes were upon her now. The Damaji’ting, schooled in the secrets of hora magic, retained their serenity, though the display was one none of them could match. A scorched crater now stood in the center of the thick marble floor, big enough to swallow a man.

  The men stared wide-eyed and openmouthed. Only Ahmann himself had ever displayed such might, and no doubt they had thought they could quickly erode Inevera’s power with him gone.

  They would be rethinking that assessment now. Only Asome kept his composure, having witnessed his mother’s power on the wall at Waning. He, too, watched her, eyes cold, aura unreadable.

  “I am Inevera,” she said, her enhanced voice echoing throughout the room. The name was pregnant with meaning, literally translating as “Everam’s will.” “Bride of Everam and Jiwah Ka to Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji. I am the Damajah, something you seem to have forgotten in my husband’s absence. I, too, witnessed Ahmann’s command to Damaji Ashan.”

  She raised her hora wand high, again manipulating the wards etched in the electrum, this time to produce a harmless flare of light. “If there are any here who would challenge my command that Ashan take the throne, let them step forward. The rest will be forgiven your insolence if you touch your foreheads to the floor.”

  All around the room, men dropped to their knees, wisely pressing their foreheads to the floor. No doubt they were still scheming, grating at the indignity of kneeling before a woman, but none, even Jayan, were fool enough to challenge her after such a display.

  None save ancient Aleverak. As the others fell to the floor, the ancient Damaji strode to the center of the room, his back straight. Inevera sighed inwardly, though she gave no outward sign. She had no wish to kill the Damaji, but Ahmann should have killed him years ago. Perhaps it was time to correct that mistake and end the threat to Belina’s eldest son, Maji.

  The submission of the other tribes had been total. Only Aleverak had fought Ahmann and lived to tell the tale. The old man had earned so much honor in the battle that Ahmann had foolishly granted him a concession denied the others.

  Upon the hour of his death, Aleverak’s heir had the right to challenge Ahmann’s Majah son to single combat for control of the Majah tribe.

  Ahmann no doubt thought Maji would grow into a great warrior and win out, but the boy was only fifteen. Any of Aleverak’s sons could kill him with ease.

  Aleverak bowed so deeply his beard came within an inch of the floor. Such grace for a man in his eighties was impressive. It was said he had been Ahmann’s greatest challenge as he battled to the steps of the Skull Throne. Ahmann had torn the Damaji’s arm off, but it had done nothing to strike fear into his heart. It was not surprising her blast of magic similarly failed to deter him.

  “Holy Damajah,” Aleverak began, “please accept my apologies for doubting your words, and those of Damaji Ashan, who has led the Kaji people, and the council of Damaji, with honor and distinction.” He glanced to Ashan, still standing at the base of the dais, who nodded.

  “But no Andrah has been appointed since the position was first created,” Aleverak went on. “It runs counter to all our sacred texts and traditions. Those who wish to wear the jeweled turban must face the challenges of the other Damaji, all of whom have a claim to the throne. I knew well the son of Hoshkamin, and I do not believe he would have forgotten this.”

  Ashan bowed in return. “The honored Damaji is correct. The Shar’Dama Ka instructed me to announce my claim without hesitation, and kill any who stand in my path to the throne before any of the Damaji dare murder his dama s
ons.”

  Aleverak nodded, turning to look Inevera in the eye. Even he had lost a moment’s composure at her show of power, but his control was back, his aura flat and even. “I do not challenge your words, Damajah, or the Deliverer’s command, but our traditions must be respected if the tribes are to accept a new Andrah.”

  Inevera opened her mouth to speak, but Ashan spoke first. “Of course, Damaji.” He bowed, turning to the other Damaji. Tradition dictated that they could each challenge him in turn, starting with the leader of the smallest tribe.

  Inevera wanted to stop it. Wanted to force her will on the men and make them see she could not be denied. But the pride of men could only be pushed so far. Ashan was the youngest Damaji by a score of years, and a sharusahk master in his own right. She would have to trust in him to make good his claim, as Ahmann had.

  She cared nothing for the Damaji—not a one of them worth the trouble they caused. She would as soon be rid of the lot of them and let her sister-wives take direct control of the tribes through Ahmann’s dama sons.

  Aleverak was the only one that worried her, but hora magic could ensure that Maji win out against the ancient Damaji’s heirs.

  “Damaji Kevera of the Sharach,” Ashan called. “Do you wish to challenge me for the jeweled turban?”

  Kevera, still on his knees with his hands on the floor, sat back on his ankles to look Ashan in the eyes. The Damaji was in his sixties, but still robust. A true warrior-cleric.

  “No, Damaji,” Kevera said. “The Sharach are loyal to the Deliverer, and if it was his wish that you take the jeweled turban, we do not stand in your way.”

  Ashan nodded and called upon the next Damaji, but the answer was the same. Many of them had grown lax since taking the black turbans, no match for Ashan, and others were still loyal to Ahmann, or at least afraid of his return. Each man had his own reasons, but as Ashan went up through the tribes, none chose to face him.

  Until Aleverak. The one-armed old cleric stepped forward immediately, barring Ashan’s path to the steps of the dais and assuming a sharusahk stance. His knees were bent, one foot pointed toward Ashan, and the other perpendicular, a step behind. His single arm was extended forward, palm up and stiffened fingers aimed at Ashan’s heart.

  “Apologies, Damaji,” he said to Ashan, “but only the strongest may sit the Skull Throne.”

  Ashan bowed deeply, assuming a stance of his own. “Of course, Damaji. You honor me with your challenge.” Then, without hesitation, he charged.

  Ashan stopped short when he came in range, giving Aleverak a minimum of momentum to turn against him. His punches and kicks were incredibly fast, but Aleverak’s one hand moved so quickly it seemed to be two, batting them aside. He tried to latch on, turning the energy of the blows into a throw, but Ashan was wise to the move and could not be caught.

  Inevera had never thought much of dama sharusahk, having learned a higher form among the dama’ting, but she grudgingly admitted to herself that the men were impressive. They might as well have been relaxing in a hot bath for all their auras told.

  Aleverak moved like a viper, ducking and dodging Ashan’s kicks. He spun around a leg sweep and came out of it with a kick straight into the air that was impressive even for a dama’ting. Ashan tried to pull back out of range, but the blow was so unexpected he was clipped on the chin and knocked back a step, out of balance.

  Inevera breathed out the tension as the ancient Damaji moved to take advantage of Ashan’s momentary imbalance. His fingers were like a speartip as he thrust his hand at Ashan’s throat.

  Ashan caught the blow just in time, twisting Aleverak into a throw that would break the old man’s arm if he resisted.

  But Aleverak did not resist. Indeed, it became clear he was counting on the move, using Ashan’s own strength to aid his leap as he scissored his legs into the air, hooking them around Ashan’s neck. He twisted in midair, throwing his weight into the move, and Ashan had no choice but to go limp and let himself be thrown to the floor, lest Aleverak break his neck.

  But Ashan was not finished. As he rebounded off the floor with Aleverak above him, he used the energy to punch straight up. Even wooden Aleverak could not instantly embrace such a blow, and Ashan tucked his legs in, kicking himself upright and whirling to face the Damaji on even footing once more.

  Aleverak was angry now. Inevera could see it, a thin red film crackling on the surface of his aura. But the emotion did not claim him. His energy was centered, channeled into his movements, giving him terrifying strength and speed. He wielded his one hand like a knife, showing surprising knowledge of the pressure points dama’ting used in their own sharusahk. Ashan took a blow to the shoulder that would leave his right arm numb for a minute, at the least. Not long in Everam’s great scheme, but a lifetime in battle.

  Inevera began to wonder how much control she could keep if Aleverak ascended to the throne.

  But again Ashan surprised her, taking a similar stance to Aleverak and focusing his efforts on defense. His feet beat rapidly on the marble floor, back and forth, keeping Aleverak dancing but always stopping short of full attacks that might give the aged Damaji free energy to turn against him. Again and again Aleverak struck at him, but Ashan batted his hand aside every time, keeping up the dance. Aleverak’s kicks were dodged, or blocked smoothly with thighs, shins, and forearms.

  He kept it up, his aura calm, until, at last, Aleverak began to tire. Whatever reserves of energy the ancient Damaji had called upon depleted, and his moves began to slow.

  When he next stepped forward, he was not quick enough to stop Ashan from stomping on his foot, pinning it. Aleverak stabbed his right hand in, but Ashan caught the wrist, holding it as he snapped his hips around to add torque to a devastating punch to the chest with his now recovered right arm.

  Aleverak gasped and stumbled, but Ashan locked his arm and added several more punches before his opponent could recover, driving sharp knuckles into the shoulder joint of the Damaji’s one arm. He swept Aleverak’s feet from him and put him down hard on his back. The retort as he struck the marble echoed throughout the chamber.

  Aleverak looked up at Ashan, his eyes hard. “Well done, Andrah. Finish me with honor and take your place atop the steps.”

  Ashan looked at the ancient Damaji sadly. “It was an honor to face you, Damaji. Your fame among the masters of sharusahk is well earned. But tradition does not demand I kill you. Only that I clear you from my path.”

  He began to turn away, but Aleverak’s aura flared, as close to a loss of control as Inevera had ever seen. He clutched the hem of Ashan’s robe with quivering fingers.

  “Maji is still in his bido!” Aleverak coughed. “Kill me and let Aleveran have the black turban. No harm will come to the Deliverer’s son.”

  Ashan glanced up to Inevera at this. It was a tempting offer. Maji would be safe from the foolish vow Ahmann had made, but in exchange the Majah would have a younger Damaji who might rule for decades to come. She gave a slight shake of her head.

  “Apologies, Damaji,” Ashan said, pulling his robe free of the old man’s grasp, “but the Deliverer still has need of you in this world. It is not yet your time to walk the lonely path. And should any harm come to the Deliverer’s Majah son apart from an open challenge in court on the hour of your natural death, my respect for you will not stop me from having your entire male line killed.” He turned again, striding for the seven steps leading to the Skull Throne.

  Asome met him there, blocking the path.

  Inevera hissed. What was the fool boy doing?

  “Apologies, Uncle.” Asome gave a formal sharusahk bow. “I trust you understand this is not personal. You have been as a father to me, but I am the eldest dama son of the Deliverer, and have as much right as any assembled to challenge you.”

  Ashan seemed genuinely taken aback, but he did not dispute the claim. He bowed in return. “Of course, nephew. Your honor is boundless. But I would not leave my daughter a widow, nor my grandson without his father. I ask t
his once that you step aside.”

  Asome shook his head sadly. “Nor would I leave my cousin and wife without a father. My aunt without a husband. Renounce your claim and allow me to ascend.”

  Jayan leapt to his feet. “What is this?! I demand … !”

  “Silence!” Inevera shouted. There was no need to enhance her voice this time, the sound echoing around the room. “Asome, attend me!”

  Asome turned, climbing the steps swiftly to stand before Inevera’s bed of pillows. There was a flare in his aura as he passed by the throne. Was it covetousness? Inevera filed the information away in her mind as she manipulated polished stones on a small pedestal beside her, covering some wards and uncovering others. She could use the stones to control a number of effects, powered by hora placed around the room, and now placed a wall of silence around her pillows, that none save her son should hear her words.

  “You must give up this foolish claim, my son,” Inevera said. “Ashan will kill you.” Having seen Asome’s sharusahk, she wasn’t certain this was true, but now was not the time to flatter the young man.

  “Have faith, Mother,” Asome said. “I have waited my entire life for this day, and I will prevail.”

  “You will not,” Inevera said. “Because you will not continue your challenge. This is not what Everam wants. Or your father. Or I.”

  “If Everam does not wish me to take the throne, I will not,” Asome said. “And if He does, then it should be Father’s and your wish as well.”

  “Wait, my son,” Inevera said. “I beg you. We have always meant the jeweled turban for you, but it is too soon. Jayan will drive the Sharum into revolt if you take it now.”