The Core

by Peter V. Brett

  Sikvah gave them no time to protest, returning to her knees and putting her forehead to the floor. “By Everam, it will be done, Shar’Dama Ka.”

  —

  Inevera studied the dice Amanvah had cemented in place, a marker on the slate noting direction and time. “Are you sure this is precise?”

  Irritation rippled across Amanvah’s aura, the abrasion of a child struggling to escape her parent’s shadow. It was something Inevera would need to be careful of, if her daughter were to be an effective Damaji’ting, but this was too important to spare her pride.

  “Yes, Mother,” Amanvah said.

  “You know what this means.” Inevera was careful to make it a statement. Her daughter was no fool.

  “It means Asome will stop at nothing to kill the child, if this is ever revealed,” Amanvah said. “It means in the eyes of Everam, Olive Paper is the true heir of Ahmann Jardir. It means the child has the potential to be the Deliverer reborn.”

  It was a bitter truth. Inevera had lain with the Deliverer countless times, given him four sons and three daughters, none of them with such potential. The Northern whore dallied with him for a week and gave birth to the first potential Shar’Dama Ka in a generation.

  Inevera shook her head. “Deliverers are not born, daughter, they are made.”

  Amanvah tilted her head. “If that were the case, why not make an army of them, as Arlen Bales purports to do?”

  “Would that we could,” Inevera said. “With your father and Arlen Bales missing, this child is the only potential Deliverer we know of. Perhaps the only one in the world.”

  “It must be protected,” Amanvah said.

  “She,” Inevera corrected. “You were correct in your advice to Mistress Paper. The child is safer if all believe it female. Asome’s sorcerers will find no lie in this, even if they have mastered some form of foretelling.”

  “She,” Amanvah agreed.

  “What did Mistress Paper demand, in exchange for your casting?” Inevera asked. The dice had told her to ask the question in person, when Amanvah was alone. They told her she would not like the answer.

  Indeed, Amanvah’s aura went cold, like a pickpocket caught with purse in hand. She closed her eyes and fell into her breath, finding her center before replying.

  “I cast with Mistress Leesha’s blood before the child was born,” Amanvah said. “I knew then the birth would be difficult, and the child special. Perhaps what you taught me all those years ago to search for.”

  “You’re stalling,” Inevera said.

  Amanvah breathed again. “Mistress Paper demanded I teach her to read the alagai hora.”

  “What?!” Inevera shouted.

  Amanvah kept her composure, eyes still closed, breathing even, hands folded on her lap as she knelt in the pillows of Inevera’s private chamber.

  “I know you have cause to hate Leesha Paper, Mother,” Amanvah said. “Did I not put blackleaf in her tea on your command?”

  She opened her eyes, meeting Inevera’s. “But you were wrong about her. She is an enemy of Nie, and has done as much as any I have ever seen to ready the world for Sharak Ka—even before she gave birth to this child. If the First War is to be won, she must have every advantage.”

  Inevera breathed hard through her nose, the only outward sign of the anger boiling within. Amanvah had overstepped herself in teaching dama’ting secrets to the greenland witch, in challenging her authority as Damajah.

  But she was also right. As she bent against the wind of her own emotions, Inevera saw the truth of it in her center.

  “Again you are correct, daughter,” Inevera said. “I feared you too young to take the black scarf, but I see that fear was misplaced. You will make a fine Damaji’ting.”

  Pride flushed through Amanvah’s aura, but she simply bowed. “You honor me, Mother.”

  “Mistress Leesha could not have learned much in the short time before you left the Hollow,” Inevera said.

  Amanvah nodded. “I left her the relevant sections of the Evejah’ting, but she will need a proper instructor. I promised to send a dama’ting to take my place in the Hollow. Jaia, perhaps, or Selthe.”

  Inevera pursed her lips. “They are too inexperienced. One of them may assist, but we must send someone wiser for such an important task.”

  “Who can be trusted?” Amanvah asked. “Most of the dama’ting would as soon slit the mistress’ throat and abscond with the child, styling themselves the next Damajah.”

  “It is a danger,” Inevera agreed. “We will need to cast on it. I would kill the mistress and steal the child myself, but the palace is not safe so long as your brother sits the throne. The farther Olive is from him, the more likely she will grow old enough to take up the mantle of Shar’Dama Ka and save Ala.”

  “Or destroy it,” Amanvah said.

  Inevera nodded. “Such is the weight upon the Deliverer’s shoulders.”

  —

  Sikvah knelt before the Skull Throne, naked but for her bido, a simple strip of black cloth wrapped around her breasts and crisscrossed between her legs. Her face and hair were uncovered, and she wore none of her warded jewelry, not even her famed choker. Next to her lay a spear of plain wood and steel, unwarded, yet coated in ichor that sizzled in the morning sun.

  It was scandalous by anyone’s standard. Inevera relished how it put the men off balance. Half were unsettled, averting their gazes. Others stared openly. None was thinking clearly.

  Seven black-veiled Sharum’ting knelt behind her, each bearing a bag of thick black velvet.

  “You did not specify which type of alagai would bear me the greatest glory, Honored Shar’Dama Ka,” Sikvah said, “so I brought one for each pillar of Heaven.”

  On cue, her warriors opened the bags, dropping the severed heads of wind, flame, rock, field, bog, stone, and bank demons onto the marble floor.

  The moment sunlight struck the heads, they burst into flame.

  If the display rankled Asome, he gave no sign. “Rise, Sharum’ting Ka.”

  Amanvah stepped forward with a helm wrapped in a white turban, placing it on Sikvah’s head as she rose to her feet. Sikvah was given a simple black robe, donning it unhurriedly.

  “Enough ting politics.” Asome gave a sweep of his spear, dismissing them. “It is time we attend to the Majah.”

  Guards opened the chamber doors to admit Damaji Aleveran and his entourage. Chavis was with him, followed meekly by Belina, once again in the white headscarf and black veil of nie’Damaji’ting. Iraven was with them as well, his eyes on the floor. Everam only knew what oaths Aleveran and Chavis had extracted to restore him to some semblance of status in the tribe, but it was a good sign, if the Majah were to have any hope of returning to the fold.

  As agreed in advance, a table was set on the courtroom floor, Asome and Inevera descending to meet the Majah delegation. Asome looked regal with his crown and spear, but Aleveran seemed unimpressed, impatient to get on with the proceedings.

  Jamere presented the contracts, two copies of a lengthy document granting the Majah rights to leave Everam’s Bounty and return to the Desert Spear.

  Inevera hated Asome for forcing them into this, but there was nothing for it now. Asome and Aleveran pierced their fingers, squeezing till blood welled and dipping pens in the drops to sign in blood.

  The other Damaji followed suit, including the Majah’s protectorate tribes, which would remain in Everam’s Bounty to serve Asome. The lesser tribes, such as the Sharach, were no great loss, but the Nanji Watchers had served the Majah for centuries. Aleveran’s face was bitter as Asome’s Nanji brother signed his name and sundered that alliance.

  “This concludes our business,” Aleveran said, rolling his copy of the document and securing it in a warded tube. “We part in peace, but not forgiveness. Ala is wide and varied. Everam grant we never meet again.”

  He strode to the door, snapping his fingers. Belina and Iraven cast one last glance at Inevera, then followed with the rest of his entourage as
he left the room.

  —

  The days that followed were long, with endless lines of supplicants to the throne, some vying for positions to fill the vacuum left by the Majah, others seeking protection, or the renegotiation of land rights. The Majah had stripped their territories, but the lands they controlled were vast, full of the rich, arable soil that had made the greenlanders so soft.

  At first, Asome adjourned an hour before the call to sunset prayer, but as the days wore on he worked later and later, until finally the sun set with court still in session. Inevera thought it might have been a simple oversight, but as her jeweled headpiece activated and she began to see in Everam’s light, she knew it was no accident.

  The Damaji all glowed with power now, warded jewels on their fingers and in their turbans, gold-coated rods and hora pouches at their belts. Dama sorcerers walked openly, their heavy demon bone staves providing great wells of power.

  Asome caught her looking, giving his mother a predatory smile. Dama’ting mastery of the night was fading. How long before he decided he no longer needed her at all?

  Inevera breathed, struggling to find her center. It was she who had begun the gender imbalance, giving women the spear, but it had never been her desire to replace the men of the tribe.

  Asome might not feel the same. There were many in his court who believed they should return to the old ways, when women were silent. Obedient.

  Slaves.

  She shuddered. Enough that it was a moment before she noticed one of her earrings was buzzing.

  She reached up, sliding a manicured nail down the cartilage, counting to see who was attempting to contact her. It would have to be important, to disturb the Damajah while court was in session.

  It wasn’t one of her sister-wives, or the Sharum’ting. It wasn’t one of her daughters.

  At last her finger came to rest on the lobe, and her heart froze in her chest. That earring had not vibrated in many months.

  Not since Ahmann fell into darkness.

  CHAPTER 16

  BELOVED

  334 AR

  The Par’chin walked Jardir out to a clearing from the tower. “Think you got the hang of it?” Concern showed in the Par’chin’s aura, and it was touching. Twice now, Jardir had tried to kill him, and still his greenland brother fretted for his well-being.

  “I will be fine, Par’chin,” Jardir said, quelling his own doubts.

  “Gets windy, gotta be ready…” the Par’chin began.

  Jardir chortled. “Enough, Par’chin! I have a doting mother and fifteen wives. I don’t need you trying to suckle me as well.”

  “Had to make it awkward.” The Par’chin put out a hand, but Jardir disdained it, wrapping his ajin’pal in a tight embrace.

  “Time’s against us,” the Par’chin said. “Take care of your business, but don’t get pulled in.”

  “And you, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “Take care with your jiwah away. Shanvah’s honor is boundless, but her love for her father is a weakness Alagai Ka will exploit, given the chance.”

  The Par’chin nodded. “Got this. Just…hurry back, ay?”

  “Ay,” Jardir said, taking the Spear of Kaji from his back and holding it crosswise like a dama’s whip staff. There were thousands of wards etched into the weapon’s electrum head and shaft. As with the crown, Jardir had come to understand the purpose of many of them, but others remained a mystery, and some he had only just discovered.

  He laid his thumbs on wards of air and gathered his will, calling forth the power contained in the ancient weapon as he leapt, winds gathering to lift him high into the sky.

  He climbed higher and higher, laughing aloud as he watched the land shrink beneath him. The wind on his face was exhilarating, fresh and cold in his lungs. The stars of the night sky brightened, and he felt at one with the beauty of Everam’s creation as never before.

  As the Par’chin warned, the currents were stronger in the sky, but he compensated well until he entered a low patch of cloud. Suddenly blinded and lashed with water and ice, Jardir lost his concentration, plummeting toward the ala.

  He managed to gather the power again, buffeting the ground, but while it blunted the impact it did not keep him from tumbling into an open field, tearing through the tall, half-frozen grass.

  He got to his feet, cursing and spitting straw as he attempted to brush the filth from his robes. The power gathered in his body kept him from harm, but Leesha’s Cloak of Unsight was dirtied—a sully to her honor that pained him. He sent power through the cloak’s wards, burning away the stains like water from a pan.

  At least I am too far for the Par’chin to have seen, he thought.

  He began to gather his will for another attempt, but checked himself at a low growl. There was only an instant’s notice before the field demon pounced, but Jardir, trained by decades of fighting alagai, needed no more. He spun, impaling the beast on the end of his spear and Drawing its magic like sipping through a straw.

  Again he leapt into the sky, wobbling slightly as he gained altitude and speed, but eventually leveling off. It was cold up in the clouds, but he Drew more power, warming himself as he streaked northwest toward Everam’s Bounty.

  A shriek rang out in the night, and Jardir turned to see three wind demons following him, their great leathery wings beating hard as they sought to close the gap.

  He could have increased his speed, but it felt beneath him to flee the beasts, leaving them to prey on Ala. He pulled up instead, climbing higher and looping back to put the demons in front of him. Careful not to upset the delicate interplay of wards and Draw that kept him aloft, he pointed the Spear of Kaji at one of them, sending a blast of magic that streaked the sky, only to miss the speeding creature. He fired again, and again, before finally puncturing its wing and sending it tumbling through the air. The ala was more than a mile below them. Even the powerful healing magic of the alagai could not recover from such an impact.

  The other demons caught sight of him again, banking in opposite directions to circle back and come at him head-on, wing talons extended. Speeding toward them, Jardir did not trust his aim for another blast, nor did he relish attempting to absorb the impact of a direct clash and remain airborne.

  But there were other options at his disposal. He sketched wards of cold as one of the demons passed through a patch of cloud. The moisture clung to its leathery skin, freezing into a coating of ice that dropped it like a stone.

  The last demon was coming in fast, and Jardir made no attempt to strike or flee, simply hovering as best he could in place, an easy target. As he did, he called upon the power of his crown, forming a shield around himself, impenetrable to the servants of Nie.

  The demon struck the barrier with such force, its hollow bones shattered like a bird striking a thick glass window. Ichor spattered, leaving a black smear as the alagai fell away. The ichor blew away as Jardir dropped the shield, resuming his flight.

  In control now, he flattened himself to minimize resistance to the wind as he caught sight of the Messenger road, a tiny thread far below, leading him inexorably home.

  He waited until he was far from the tower before attempting to contact Inevera, lest he risk servants of Nie spotting the resonance in the air. The last thing he wanted was to lead them to Alagai Ka’s prison. He and the Par’chin had agreed an hour should be enough, but time was difficult to gauge in the sky, and it was a guess in any event.

  Everam’s Bounty was still hundreds of miles distant, too far for the tiny hora stone in his earring to reach, but Jardir was fully in control of his power for the first time in his life, and understood intimately how the delicate bit of magic worked. He needed only to concentrate, boosting the ring’s power with his crown to set its twin buzzing in his Jiwah Ka’s ear.

  No doubt she would be furious, but Jardir could not help but smile at the surprise in store for her, nor keep his heart from beating faster in anticipation of hearing her voice.

  It was long moments before he felt the connecti
on open, the magic flowing freely through Inevera’s ring and back into his own. “Who is this?” she demanded angrily. “Who dares…?!”

  “Peace, Jiwah,” Jardir said. “Whom did you expect, if not your husband?”

  “Ahmann Jardir is dead,” Inevera rasped. “I will not be fooled by some changeling speaking in his voice.”

  Jardir frowned. He had anticipated many reactions, but outright denial was not one of them. “It is I, wife. We met in the dama’ting pavilion, the day Hasik broke my arm. You taught me to embrace my pain. You were beautiful, and I carried your face in my mind’s eye for years, until I saw it again on our wedding day.”

  There was a pause, then a whisper more timid than Jardir had ever heard from his fearless bride. “Ahmann?”

  Jardir felt his throat tighten. “Yes, beloved.”

  “What is that sound?” Inevera’s voice was shaking. “Do you speak to me from Heaven?”

  It took a moment for Jardir to realize what she meant. He laughed. “No, jiwah. That is only the wind, rushing by as I speed my way to you.”

  “How can it be?” Inevera asked. “The dice said you were dead.”

  “Did they?” Jardir asked. “You taught me the alagai hora do not lie, but sometimes they do not mean what we think.”

  “They said the alagai went to desecrate the corpse of Shar’Dama Ka, half a year ago.”

  “That is true, but it was not me they sought to defile,” Jardir said.

  “It cannot have been the Par’chin,” Inevera said. “If you had defeated him, you would have returned.”

  “It was not the Par’chin,” Jardir agreed. “The alagai princes went to Anoch Sun, to lay waste to the city of Kaji and shit upon his bones.”

  Inevera’s gasp was nearly lost in the rush of wind in his ear. At the sound of her voice, he had instinctively put on speed, desperate to have her in his arms once more.

  “You could not allow that,” she guessed.

  “No,” Jardir agreed. “And yes. Knowing where the alagai princes would strike, this once, forged an alliance that might have been impossible otherwise. The Par’chin and I traveled to Anoch Sun together, and were waiting when they came to the resting place of Kaji.”