“Nie’s black heart!” The words echoed in the hall. “Is there half a mind among you? Apple juice, I said!”
One of her moods? Ashia’s fingers asked the eunuch guarding the door.
She only has one, the eunuch’s fingers replied.
Ashia sighed, finding her center before she pushed open the door. Kajivah’s chambers were large and lavish, with servants to attend her every need. At the moment all of them were on their knees, auras ripe with fear.
“Holy Mother,” one of the servants said. “The greenland fruit is not in season. There are none to be had in all Everam’s Bounty.”
Kajivah drew breath to shout what would no doubt have been a terrible reply, but she caught sight of Ashia in the doorway and the rage dissipated with her exhale. She strode over, arms extended. “Give him to me.”
Ashia’s jaw tightened beneath her veil, but she undid the fastenings, catching the sleeping Kaji in the crook of her arm long enough for Kajivah to take him.
The woman’s whole demeanor changed the moment she held him, and Ashia knew that whatever came to pass, Kajivah would never harm her great-grandson—would stand between him and all the demons of the abyss.
“Will you take him for the night?” she asked. It would be Ashia’s first night apart from her son since the Night of Hora when they walked the edge of the abyss together.
“Of course, of course.” Kajivah did not take her eyes off the child.
“Thank you, Tikka,” Ashia said.
Now the woman looked up. “Do not call me that. Not ever again.”
Ashia swallowed. Once, she had been the favorite of Kajivah’s many granddaughters. It was Kajivah’s own insistence that sent Ashia and her spear sisters to the Dama’ting Palace, putting them on the path to Sharum’ting. Now they were nothing to her.
She dropped her eyes, bowing. “As you wish, Holy Mother.”
She turned on her heel, striding quickly from Kaji lest she lose her resolve and rush back to him.
Even at night, infiltrating Asome’s wing of the palace was difficult. The new Shar’Dama Ka had found and sealed the secret passages the Sharum’ting used to move unseen about the palace. Guards and armed dama patrolled the halls, eyes warded to see in Everam’s light. Tapestries, rugs, and tiles were warded against alagai, but Ashia could see, too, wardings much like those the dama’ting used. Symbols to raise alarm if even a human were to cross them, and to seal this part of the palace from prying eyes. The hora stones the Damajah hoped to use to eavesdrop would be of little use, their magic blocked.
But Ashia, Micha, and Jarvah were clad in their kai’Sharum’ting robes, embroidered in electrum thread with wards of unsight. Whether in human sight or Everam’s light, they blended with their surroundings as easily as a sand demon in the dunes. It was only when they moved swiftly that they could be seen.
Their jewelry was similarly magicked, rings and bracelets on their hands and feet allowing them to cling to walls and ceilings like spiders. Slowly they slithered deeper and deeper into her husband’s sanctum.
Check the lower levels, Ashia told Jarvah when they were past the barriers. Asome will have an underpalace of his own. Find and penetrate it if you can.
Yes, Sharum’ting Ka.
Jarvah disappeared as Ashia and Micha made their way up to the residential floors. The palace had seven levels, one for each pillar in Heaven, but the outer stair only went to six, landing doors guarded by an alert kai’Sharum, bright in Everam’s light.
The sixth floor was reserved for the royal family, a place Ashia knew well. She and Kajivah both had chambers there. Technically they had been Asome’s chambers, but her husband had only seen the pillows there once.
The Damajah believed her blessed mother would be housed on the sixth as well.
The topmost floor, Asome’s private level, could only be reached by an inner stair, no doubt guarded as well.
The young women paused, clinging to the ceiling as the door guard came into clear view. Even with his white night veil in place, Ashia recognized her cousin Iraven, the Deliverer’s firstborn Majah son. Stripped of rank by Damaji Aleveran, he was now relegated to guard duty for his elder brother.
Micha took one hand from her hold on the ceiling, making the sign for the sleeping potion they carried. Applied to a cloth and forced over the mouth and nose, it could render even a large man unconscious for some time, waking with only fuzzy memories of his last moments. Her littlest finger curled, indicating a question.
Ashia shook her head. Too slow, her fingers said. Precise Strike.
The Precise Strike, their master Enkido’s school of sharusahk, targeted the natural convergences in the body. Places where muscle, vein, and nerve met. The targets were small and always in motion, each unique as their owner, but a sharp, precise blow could temporarily cripple an opponent, or knock them out instantly.
They edged slowly into position, clinging to the ceiling directly over their cousin. Micha would hold him, and Ashia would strike. But before Ashia signaled the drop, a pair of nie’dama carrying food trays ascended the steps. She could tell from body language that Iraven recognized them and would let them pass unhindered.
Micha needed no orders as they opened the doors, following instantly as Ashia sprang through. They landed in identical rolls on opposite sides of the hall, warded bracelets absorbing the sound. Their robes blurred for a moment, but they were effectively invisible again by the time the boys passed through the door.
The floor was warded, a puzzle of steps that would sound an alarm if crossed improperly. Ashia memorized the path the boys took, but she and Micha followed along the walls, blending perfectly with the paint. They reached an inner stair guarded by a pair of clerics with warded staves, and the nie’dama split up, one continuing down the hall as the other ascended to the seventh floor.
Follow. Ashia used a finger to indicate the first boy. Her mission was to find the Damajah’s parents, but this close, Ashia could not resist looking in on her treacherous husband. She followed the second boy up the stairs, slithering along the ceiling faster than he could climb. She was his shadow as he passed guards and doors, coming at last to an anteroom where the boy laid the tray on a table, knocked at the far door, and then quickly scurried out, closing the hall door behind him.
Ashia was ready to leap when the door opened, but when she saw Asome, her breath caught and she nearly missed her opportunity. In their entire marriage, had she ever seen her husband answer a door? That was a task for women and servants.
Then Asome did the unthinkable. The Shar’Dama Ka, supreme leader of all Krasia, bent and picked up the tray himself. Ashia slipped in while his back was turned, thoughts reeling. Had Asome become a recluse since Asukaji died? A haunted shell of a man? Part of her hoped it was so. A taste of the judgment he would find in Heaven.
“Dinner, my sun,” Asome called, and Ashia blinked. His wife and lover murdered, and he had already found another? Anger threatened her center, but she brushed it aside, skittering along the ceiling to follow her husband to the pillow chamber. Who would she find? Dama Jamere? Cashiv? One of Asome’s half brothers?
The last person she expected was her brother, Asukaji, whose neck she had broken.
—
“I am not hungry.” Asukaji’s voice was a harsh whisper. “Take it away.”
Asome set the tray by the bedside. Asukaji lay prone, his body unmoving, its aura flat. Not dead, but not truly alive.
That changed at his neck. The aura about her brother’s head was hot and raw, his eyes focused and his face full of emotion.
Paralyzed, Ashia realized with horror. For a warrior, it was a fate worse than death. Even now after he had tried to strangle her, she did not wish this upon her brother. They had been close when they were young, and part of her loved him still.
“You must eat, my love,” Asome said. “You cannot feel your hunger, but it is there. Without food, you will waste away.”
“And what if I do?” Asukaji demanded. “
Better I eat, and lie helpless as I shit the bed an hour from now? I could have died with honor. Instead you force me to linger, a prisoner in this worthless shell.”
Asome sat on the edge of the bed, taking one of Asukaji’s limp hands. “I cannot do this without you. Half my plans and stratagems are yours.”
“That is not what you thought when you fucked that heasah.” Asukaji’s head lolled with the force of his snarl.
Asome was quick to steady him, kissing his forehead. “She is your sister, whom you yourself insisted become my Jiwah Ka.”
Ashia’s cheek twitched. She fell deeper into her breath, silent as stone.
“I am your Jiwah Ka!” Asukaji’s cry was hoarse. “She was a womb to carry the son I could not.”
Asome lifted the cover from the tray, steam rising off a bowl of thin gruel that was likely all her brother could swallow. Asome blew on a spoonful like a mother preparing to feed an infant. “We needed her trust, cousin. For her to believe me loyal to her and humble before my mother. And if I’d created another son for us, so much the better.”
Asukaji spat at the spoon as it came near, but it came out as a dribble on his chin. “I am not a fool, Asome. Sons and plots were not on your mind when you bent her.”
“What does it matter?” Asome took a silk napkin, wiping Asukaji’s mouth. “She could never replace you in my heart. No one can. She could have been a valuable Jiwah Sen but for your jealousy. You insisted on killing her.”
He took Asukaji’s jaw in his hand, squeezing until his teeth opened enough to admit the spoon.
“But you were not her match, were you, sweet Asukaji?” Asome forced the gruel into his mouth. “Nor Melan and Asavi together a match for my mother. Now they are on the lonely path, you lie frozen, and my mother has hostaged half the throne.” Asome massaged Asukaji’s throat until he swallowed.
“Soon Amanvah will return to control the Kaji dama’ting, bringing with her a Jiwah Sen no doubt as deadly as your sister, and a husband blessed by Everam.”
“A chin and khaffit,” Asukaji growled. “Amanvah should have been mine, as Ashia was yours. That was our bargain.”
“Khaffit or no, his power over the alagai is undeniable,” Asome said. “What could I say when Father gave her to him? Mother’s power will grow when they return. We must balance the scales now, while there is still time.”
Asukaji stopped resisting, eating in silence. Asome was tender and attentive, massaging every swallow until the bowl was empty.
“I am sorry, cousin.” Asukaji looked pitiful as Asome wiped the last smudge from his lips. “I failed you. Everam judged me and found me unworthy.”
“You yet live,” Asome said. “We will find a way to heal you. Already the dama make great strides with hora magic. Soon we will unlock all the secrets of the dama’ting. You will be restored and given another chance at glory.”
“The Damajah could heal me now,” Asukaji rasped. “We have her parents. She would not dare refuse.”
“We should not underestimate what my mother will dare,” Asome warned. “Who knows what this dal’ting and a khaffit are truly worth to her?”
“Surely not as much…” Asukaji’s face reddened with the exertion of speaking, “…as Tikka or Kaji, or you would have them in the underpalace.”
Asome shook his head. “I do not trust them down among the dama’s experiments. An explosion in Dama Shevali’s laboratory killed one of his nie’dama and cost another his eye.”
“They had best be worth something,” Asukaji wheezed. “You traded my black turban for the hostages. If they cannot buy back our son, then let it be my limbs.”
“We cannot reveal such a weakness to my mother,” Asome said. “She will find a way to twist it against us. The turban will be returned to you when you are healed. Baden thinks he is holding it for Kaji. He knows he cannot keep it forever.”
“Do not underestimate Baden,” Asukaji whispered. “I know how you get around Cashiv. He makes you stupid.”
“I can handle Cashiv,” Asome said.
“That is what worries me.”
“What does it matter?” Asome growled. “We have gone to Baden’s parties with oil on our belts since we were in sharaj. You’ve lain with Cashiv as many times as I.”
“It matters because I could please you, then,” Asukaji said. “Because I was your Jiwah Ka, the first sheath for your spear.”
“You still are,” Asome said.
“Then take me.”
“Eh?” Asome’s face slackened.
“Now, before that cursed gruel runs through me,” Asukaji begged. “Roll me onto my stomach and have me.”
“Asukaji…” Asome said.
“No!” There were tears in her brother’s eyes. “I cannot stop you lying with others, but I swear by Everam I will never swallow another spoonful if you cease to lie with me.”
Asome took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. Ashia could not bear to watch as he took oil and began to work himself for the deed. She fled the chamber while her brother and husband were too occupied to notice.
Micha was waiting when Ashia made it back to the stairs, a welcome distraction from her thoughts.
Report, Ashia’s fingers commanded.
I have found them, Micha replied. There are guards, but together we might…
Ashia made the sign for Nie. Our duty is to report to the Damajah.
Jarvah joined them as they descended. Asome’s underpalace is protected by hora magic. I could not penetrate it.
Irrelevant, Ashia told her. We have intelligence the Damajah needs. The three Sharum’ting slipped past the guards and out of Asome’s wing.
CHAPTER 11
SORCERERS
334 AR
“Nie’s slimy cunt!” Inevera scooped up the dice. They had not warned that her mother was in danger, and now they brought nothing but bad news and vagaries.
She breathed, trying to find her center, but peace eluded her. Had she fallen from Everam’s favor? How could He let this happen to Manvah, as honorable a woman as any alive? Always before He had warned her when her family was threatened.
But now her husband was dead, and the dice betrayed her.
She rolled back on her heels and stood, feeling the vibration in her earring. The connection with Ashia and her spear sisters had been severed when they entered Asome’s wing of the palace. A bad sign. Melan and Asavi had given Asome and his brothers the secret of hora magic, and it seemed they were quick studies.
“Damajah,” Ashia whispered in her ear from the other side of the palace. “We have found them, but there is more. We must speak immediately.”
“The west passage.” Inevera was already moving for the door. She was bedecked in warded jewelry, her hora pouch laden with spells. She had been overconfident, spoiled by the strength of her wand, when Melan and Asavi came to kill her. She would not make that mistake again.
She wore opaque robes of crimson silk, embroidered with wards in electrum thread. Like the robes of Everam’s spear sisters, all eyes—human and alagai—would slip from her when she wished it. At her belt was the curved knife she used to draw blood for her foretellings. It was not meant as a weapon, but the edge was razor-sharp and would do if all else failed.
The Sharum’ting were waiting for her in a hidden tunnel leading to the west wing. The Damajah had claimed the east wing to face the dawn, the Shar’Dama Ka west to face the sunset.
“Asukaji is alive,” Ashia said.
Inevera scowled. Another thing the dice had failed to tell her, though in fairness she had not asked. “You told me you killed him.”
“I snapped his neck,” Ashia confirmed. “But he clings to life, unable to move, hidden in Asome’s chambers. He wants to trade Manvah for you to make him whole again, but Asome does not trust you.”
“Nor I, him,” Inevera said. “This changes nothing. We go now to free my parents.”
Ashia stepped in front of her, kneeling with hands on the floor. “It is not necessary for the Da
majah to expose herself. We have penetrated my husband’s defenses. Everam’s spear sisters can effect the rescue.”
Inevera shook her head. On this, the dice had been clear. “You will die if you go without me, and the rescue fail.”
The women’s auras clouded at that. They were the finest warriors she had ever known, but their pride was as boundless as their honor.
“Will it succeed if the Damajah accompanies us?” Ashia asked.
Inevera blew out a breath. “Unclear.”
“Damajah, you must…”
Inevera clapped her hands, cutting the young woman off. “You do not tell me what I must, Sharum. Your duty is to be silent and obey.”
—
Inevera let the spear sisters surround her, Ashia in front and Micha and Jarvah to either side. All of them skittered quickly and quietly along, robes blending with the ceiling tiles. They penetrated the outer halls, making their way unseen to the sixth-floor stairwell were Iraven stood guard.
As Ashia warned, the boy was alert, clad in impenetrable armor of warded glass that glowed brightly in Everam’s light. She could see the demon bone cores of his weapon and armor, enough to give him inhuman strength and speed.
Inevera slipped her wand from her belt. Made from the arm bone of a demon prince coated in electrum, it had power enough to blow the entire roof from the palace. Still clinging to the ceiling, she drew a quick series of wards in the air, Drawing and shaping her spell before flinging it toward the unsuspecting warrior.
Ahmann might forgive her killing his son if there were no choice, but Iraven was the last hope of bringing the Majah tribe back to heel. Inevera’s spell would put him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Yet the moment she cast the magic, the wards on Iraven’s armor flared bright with magic. Instead of passing out, he set his feet, holding his spear defensively.
“Come out, servant of Nie!” His eyes scanned the walls, searching.
Inevera gave him no time to find them or raise the alarm, dropping down to stand before her son-in-law.
The Core Page 18
