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.