She did not wait for a reply, whisking off into the night with her spear sisters in tow.
Our spear brothers would as soon strike us as accept our aid, Jarvah signed as they ran.
For now, Ashia signed. They will learn to respect the Sharum’ting. We are blood of the Deliverer, who will remake this rabble before Sharak Ka.
And if my holy father does not return? Jarvah signed. What state will the Armies of Everam be in without him?
He will, Ashia signed. He is the Deliverer. In his absence, we must set an example to all. Come. We have killed not half the alagai needed to ease our master’s passage into Heaven.
They ranged farther, but most Sharum respected the night—and their own limitations—and they found nothing else needing attention. Deeper they went, leaving the dal’Sharum patrols behind as they passed from the Maze into what Northerners called the naked night.
Ashia found the tracks of a large passing reap, and the others followed silently as she tracked them. They fell upon nearly thirty alagai unawares, cutting into the center of the reap and forming a ring of shields. Ashia trusted her sisters to either side to keep her safe, and they she. Free from fear of counterattack, they began to stab at the demons with calm efficiency, like snuffing candles, one by one. Each kill sent a jolt of magic through the group, making them stronger. The power pushed against their control, but it was only a gentle breeze to the centered women.
Half the reap was dead before the demons got it in their heads to flee. By then Ashia and her sisters had coaxed them into a narrow ravine with steep sides not suited for their loping strides. At a signal from Ashia, her sisters broke into smaller formations, each cornering several demons.
Ashia let a group of alagai cut her off from her sisters, baiting them to surround her and draw close. She could see the lines of power that ran through their limbs, and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
In your honor, master. Her spear and shield fell from limp fingers as she opened her eyes, dropping into a sharusahk stance.
The demons shrieked and launched themselves at her, but Ashia could see the strikes before they came, written clearly in the lines of their auras. Stolen magic gave her speed as she bent and turned a half circle, slapping the jaw of the quickest to redirect the full force of its attack into the path of two others. She sidestepped the jumble, stabbing stiffened fingers into one demon’s belly to knock it aside.
The wards on her fingernails flared with power, and the magical feedback that came from direct contact was a hundred times stronger than that which filtered through the wood of her spear. The field demon was thrown back, rib cage scorched and flattened, and struggled to rise. Ashia kicked the strength from another demon’s leg just as it was about to spring, sending it sprawling. The next she chopped to the temple, blinding it.
How dare that man strike her from behind? She should have killed him as an example to the others.
The alagai slashed wildly at her, but two simple blocks diverted sharp talons, walking her to her next strike. Inside the creature’s guard, she stabbed her fingers into its throat. The skin stretched and tore, as much from the strength of the blow as the searing magic that accompanied it.
Ashia shoved her entire forearm into the demon’s chest. Inside, the creatures were as vulnerable as any surface animal. She caught a grip where she could and yanked free a fistful of gore. The magic was thunder in her soul now.
The Deliverer gone. The Damajah living on a knife’s edge. Enkido dead. And her own spear brothers would as soon kill her for emasculating them as accept her aid. It was too much to bear.
She grew more aggressive, leaving her neutral stance to pursue retreating demons instead of lulling them in. She had scolded the dal’Sharum for this very thing, but she was blood of the Deliverer. She was in control.
She caught the next demon to leap at her by the head, turning a circle to use its own strength to break its neck.
Ashia took another pass, kicking, punching, and positioning herself for deadly strikes of her fingernails to the alagai lines of power.
Her vision grew red around the edges, and all she could see was the next demon. She did not even look at their bodies, only their true forms, the lines of power in their auras. It was these alone she saw, these alone she struck.
Suddenly her vision went dark, and she stumbled in her next strike. Another target appeared and she struck hard, but it rebounded off a shield of warded glass.
“Sister!” Micha cried. “Find your center!”
Ashia came to her senses. She was covered in ichor, and all around her lay dead alagai. Seven of them. The ravine was cleared, and Micha, Jarvah, and the others were staring at her.
Micha caught her elbow. “What was that?”
“What?” Ashia said. “I was honoring our master with sharusahk.”
Micha’s brows tightened as she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper the others could not hear. “You know what, sister. You lost control. You seek to honor our master, but Enkido would be ashamed of you for such a display, especially in front of our little sisters. You are lucky the Sharum did not see as well.”
Ashia had been struck many times over the years, but no blow had ever hit as hard as those words. Ashia wanted to deny them, but as her full senses returned she saw the truth.
“Everam forgive me,” she whispered.
Micha gave her elbow a comforting squeeze. “I understand, sister. I feel it too, when the magic is high. But it has always been you we look to for example. With our master dead, there is only you.”
Ashia took Micha’s hands in hers, squeezing tightly. “No, beloved sister. There is only us. With Shanvah gone, the Sharum’ting will look to you and Jarvah as well. You must be strong for them as you have been for me, this night.”
Ashia’s robes were still wet with demon gore as she made her way back to the palace chambers she shared with Asome and their infant son, Kaji.
Normally she would change from her Sharum robes to proper women’s blacks before returning, that she might not further the rift with her husband. Asome had never approved of her taking the spear, but it was not his decision to make. Both had petitioned the Deliverer to divorce them when he named her Sharum’ting, but her uncle had refused the request, his wisdom a mystery.
Ashia was tired of hiding, though, tired of pretending to be a helpless jiwah in her chambers even as she broke men and bled alagai in the night. All to protect the honor of a man who cared nothing for her.
Enkido would be ashamed of you. Micha’s words echoed in her mind. What was her husband’s displeasure compared to that?
She was silent as a spirit, but there was no sign of Asome—her husband likely sleeping in Asukaji’s embrace in the new Damaji’s palace. The only one present was Ashia’s grandmother Kajivah, asleep on a divan outside the nursery of her son Kaji. Her first great-grandchild, the Holy Mother doted on the boy, refusing a proper nurse.
“Who could love the boy better than his own grandmother?” she would always say. Implicit in that statement, of course, was her belief that Ashia herself was unsuitable, now that she had taken up the spear.
Ashia slipped by without disturbing her, closing the nursery door behind her as she looked down upon her sleeping son.
She had not wanted the child. She had feared what bearing would do to her warrior’s body, and there was no love lost between her and Asome. Her brother’s need to have his own sister bear his lover’s child had seemed an abomination.
But Kaji, that perfect, beautiful child, was no abomination. Having spent months with him suckling at her breast, sleeping in her arms, reaching his tiny hands up to touch her face, Ashia could not bring herself to wish any change upon her life that might undo him. His existence was inevera.
Enkido would be ashamed of you.
There was a creak, and the edge of the crib broke off in her hands with a loud crack. Kaji opened his eyes and let out a shriek.
Ashia tossed the broken wood aside, reaching for the boy. Always
his mother’s touch could calm him, but this time Kaji thrashed in her arms, struggling wildly. She tried to still him, but he screamed louder at her clutch, and she saw his skin bruising at her touch.
The night strength was still upon her.
Quickly, Ashia laid her son back in his pillows, seeing in horror his soft, smooth skin bruised and stained with the demon ichor that still clung to her. The stink of it was thick in the air.
The door slammed open, and Kajivah stormed into the room. “What are you doing, disturbing the child at this hour?!”
Then she saw the child, bruised and covered in ichor, and let out a wail. She turned to Ashia, enraged. “Get out! Get out! You should be ashamed of yourself!”
She shoved hard, and Ashia, fearing her own strength, allowed herself to be driven from the room. Kajivah took the child in her arms, kicking the door shut behind her.
For the second time that night, Ashia lost her center. Her legs turned to water as she stumbled to her room, slamming the door and slumping to the floor in darkness.
Perhaps the abomination is me.
For the first time in years, Ashia put her hand to her face and wept. She wanted nothing more than the comforting presence of her master.
But Enkido was on the lonely path, and like her grandmother, he would be ashamed of her.
CHAPTER 4
SHARUM BLOOD
327–332 AR
“Sit up straight,” Kajivah snapped. “You’re a princess of the Kaji, not some kha’ting wretch! I despair of ever finding you a husband worthy of your blood who will take you.”
“Yes, Tikka.” Ashia shivered, though the palace baths were warm and steamy. She was but thirteen, and in no rush to marry, but Kajivah had seen the reddened wadding and seized upon it. Nevertheless, she straightened as her mother, Imisandre, scrubbed her back.
“Nonsense, Mother,” Imisandre said. “Thirteen and beautiful, eldest daughter of the Damaji of Krasia’s greatest tribe, and niece to the Deliverer himself? Ashia is the most desirable bride in all the world.”
Ashia shivered again. Her mother had meant the words calm her, but they did the opposite.
Kajivah was apt to be vexed when her daughters disagreed with her, but she only smiled patiently, signaling her daughter-in-law Thalaja to add more hot stones to the water. She always held court thus, from the nursery to the kitchen to the baths.
Her subjects were her five dal’ting daughters—Imisandre, Hoshvah, Hanya, Thalaja, and Everalia—and granddaughters Ashia, Shanvah, Sikvah, Micha, and Jarvah.
“It appears Dama Baden agrees,” Kajivah said.
Every head turned sharply to look at her. “His grandson Raji?” Imisandre asked.
A wide grin broke across Kajivah’s face now that the secret was out. “They say no man has ever offered such wealth for a single bride.”
Ashia couldn’t breathe. A moment ago she would have put this moment off for years, but … Prince Raji? The boy was handsome and strong, heir to the white and a fortune that dwarfed even the Andrah’s. What more could she want?
“He is not worthy of you, sister.”
All eyes turned to Ashia’s brother Asukaji, standing in the doorway with his back to the women. It was not an uncommon sight. No man would have been allowed entry to the women’s bath, but Asukaji was but twelve and still in his bido. More, he was push’ting, and all the women knew it, more interested in the gossip in a woman’s head than what was under her robes.
All the women of the family adored Asukaji. Even Kajivah did not mind that he preferred men, so long as he did his duty and took wives to provide her with grandchildren.
“Beloved nephew,” Kajivah said. “What brings you here?”
“My last visit to the women’s bath, I am afraid,” the boy said, to a chorus of disappointment. “I was called to Hannu Pash this morning. I will be taking the white.”
Kajivah led the cheers. “That’s wonderful! Of course we all knew it would be so. You are the Deliverer’s nephew.”
Asukaji gave a shrug. “Are you not the Deliverer’s mother? His wives and sisters, his nieces? Why is it none of you is in white, yet I should be?”
“You are a man,” Kajivah said, as if it were obvious.
“What does that matter?” Asukaji said. “You ask whom Ashia should be worthy of, but the true question is what man is worthy of her?”
“Who in the Kaji is higher than Dama Baden’s heir?” Ashia asked. “Father wouldn’t marry me into another tribe … would he?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Kajivah snapped. “The very notion is absurd.”
But there was doubt on her face as she looked to her grandson. “Who is worthy, then?”
“Asome, of course,” Asukaji said. The two boys were nearly inseparable.
“He is our cousin!” Ashia said, shocked.
Asukaji shrugged. “What of it? The Evejah speaks of many such unions in the time of Kaji. Asome is the son of the Shar’Dama Ka, beautiful, rich, and powerful. More, he can cement the ties between my father and the house of Jardir.”
“I am of house Jardir,” Kajivah said, her voice strengthening. “Your father is his brother-in-law, and I, his mother. What further tie is required?”
“A direct one,” Asukaji said. “From the Deliverer and father to a single son.” He dared to look into the room for a moment, meeting Ashia’s eyes. “Your son.”
“You have a direct one,” Kajivah said. “I am the Holy Mother. You are all blood of the Deliverer.”
Asukaji turned back away and bowed. “I mean no disrespect, Tikka. Holy Mother is a fine title, but it has not turned your black robes white. Nor my blessed sister’s.”
Kajivah fell silent at that, and Ashia began to consider. Marrying a first cousin was not unheard of in powerful families, and Asome was beautiful, as Asukaji said. He had taken after his mother in appearance, and the Damajah’s beauty was without equal. Asome had her face and slender build, and he wore them well.
“Why not Jayan?” she asked.
“What?” Asukaji said.
“If I should marry a cousin as you say, why not the Deliverer’s firstborn?” Ashia asked. “Unless he weds his sister, who is more worthy than I, Shar’Dama Ka’s eldest niece?”
Unlike slender Asome, Jayan took after the Deliverer in form—broader and thick with muscle. He was not kind, but Jayan radiated power enough to make even Ashia flush.
Asukaji spat. “Sharum dog. They are animals bred for the Maze, sister. I would as soon let you marry a jackal.”
“That is enough!” Kajivah snapped. “You forget yourself, boy. The Deliverer himself is Sharum.”
“Was Sharum,” Asukaji said. “Now he wears the white.”
That very day, Kajivah set a fire under Ashan and dragged Ashia, Shanvah, and Sikvah before the Shar’Dama Ka, demanding they be made dama’ting.
But one did not make demands of the Deliverer and Damajah. Kajivah and her daughters were given white veils. Ashia and her cousins were sent to the Dama’ting Palace.
“It is good, sister,” Asukaji said, as the girls were pushed toward the waiting Damajah. “There is no reason why our father or the Deliverer should refuse your match to Asome now.”
Kajivah did not seem satisfied, but Ashia could not see why. The Deliverer had named them his blood and heaped honor upon them. Ashia had no wish to be dama’ting, but who knew what mysteries she might learn in their palace?
Kai’ting. She liked the sound. It was powerful. Regal. Shanvah and Sikvah were afraid, but Ashia went gladly.
The Damajah escorted the girls out of the great chamber through her own personal entrance. An honor in itself. There waited Qeva, Damaji’ting of the Kaji, and her daughter and heir, Melan, along with one of the Damajah’s mute eunuch guards.
“The girls will be taught letters, singing, and pillow dancing for four hours each day,” the Damajah told Damaji’ting Qeva. “The other twenty, they belong to Enkido.”
She nodded to the eunuch, and Ashia gasped. Shanv
ah clutched at her. Sikvah began to cry.
The Damajah ignored them, turning to the eunuch. “Make something worthy out of them.”
Nie’Damaji’ting Melan led them through the Dama’ting Underpalace. It was said the dama’ting could heal any wound with their hora magic, but the woman’s hand and forearm were horrifically scarred, twisted into a frightening claw not unlike those in the paintings Ashia had seen of alagai.
Sikvah was still weeping. Shanvah had her arms around her, her own eyes wet with tears.
You are an example to every other young woman in the tribe, her father told her once. And so I shall be harsher with you than any other, lest you ever shame our family.
And so Ashia had learned to hide fear and keep tears at bay. She was as terrified as her cousins, but she was eldest, and they had always looked to her. She kept her back arched proudly as they were brought to a small door. Enkido put his back to the wall beside the portal as Melan led through to a large tiled chamber. The walls were lined with pegs holding white robes and long strips of white silk.
“Remove your robes,” Melan said as the door closed.
Her cousins gasped and hesitated, but Ashia knew it was foolish—and useless—to argue with a Bride of Everam. Keeping her dignity intact, she removed her hood and pulled her fine black silk robe over her head. Beneath, a wide strip of silk around her chest flattened the beginnings of her woman’s shape. Her bido, too, was fine black silk, wrapped in a loose, simple weave for ease and comfort.
“Everything,” Melan said. Her eyes flicked to Shanvah and Sikvah, still hesitating, and her voice became a lash. “Now!”
A moment later, all three girls stood naked, and they were taken out the far side of the room into the baths, a great natural cavern lit by wardlights in the stone far above. The floor was tiled marble, deep with water. Ornate fountains kept the water moving, and the air was hot and thick with steam. It put even Kajivah’s baths to shame.
There were dozens of girls in the water, ages ranging from children to just shy of a woman grown. All stood washing in the stone bath, or lounged on the slick stone steps at its edges, shaving and paring nails. As one, they looked up to regard the new girls.
Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne Page 7
