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.
Ashia and the others were no strangers to bathing alongside other girls, but there was a frightening difference between these baths and those in the women’s wing of her father’s palace—here every girl’s head was shaved bald.
Ashia reached up, touching the lush, oiled hair she had cultivated for a lifetime, in hope of pleasing her future husband.
Melan caught the look. “Enjoy the touch, girl. It will be your last for some time.”
Her cousins gasped, and Shanvah put her hands to her head protectively.
Ashia forced herself to let go, dropping her hands to her sides, drawing a calming breath. “It is only hair. It will grow back.” Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched her cousins calm as well.
“Amanvah!” Melan called, and a girl Sikvah’s age came forward. She was too young for a woman’s curves, but her eyes and face were much as the Damajah’s.
Ashia felt a wave of relief. Holy Amanvah was their cousin, firstborn daughter of the Deliverer and Damajah. Once, they had been as close as Asome and Asukaji.
“Cousin!” Ashia greeted her warmly, holding her arms out. It had been years since she had last played with Amanvah, but it did not matter. She was their blood, and would help them in this strange and unfamiliar place.
Amanvah ignored her, refusing to meet Ashia’s eyes. She was years younger and inches shorter than Ashia, but her bearing made it clear she considered her cousins beneath her now. She moved with liquid grace, stepping around the girls to face Melan, meeting the nie’Damaji’ting’s eyes boldly for a Betrothed.
“Here to study pillow dancing?” she smirked. It was common for young women, mostly from poor families, to be taken into the palace for pillow dancing lessons before they were sold to the great harem. Some were returned to their fathers, brides that could bring a fortune in dowry.
Melan nodded. “An hour each day. And an hour of singing. Another at writing, and a fourth to bathe.”
“And the other twenty?” Amanvah asked. “You cannot mean they will be granted the Chamber of Shadows.” Ashia’s skin goosebumped at the name, and she struggled not to shiver despite the hot air.
But Melan shook her head. “The other twenty, they will study sharusahk. They belong to Enkido.”
There were gasps from some of the other girls, and even Amanvah’s face lost its smug look.
Ashia suppressed a snarl. She was blood of the Deliverer. Enkido was but half a man. She might have to obey his instruction, but Nie take her before she think herself his property.
“Shave them, and teach them the bido weave,” Melan said.
Amanvah bowed. “Yes, Nie’Damaji’ting.”
“Thank you, cous …” Ashia began, but as soon as Melan left, Amanvah turned away. She snapped her fingers, pointing to three of the older girls, who immediately went over to Ashia and the others, leading them to the water.
Amanvah went back to a group of other girls, resuming an idle conversation and totally ignoring Ashia, Shanvah, and Sikvah as the nie’dama’ting cut away their beautiful hair and shaved their heads. Ashia stared forward, willing herself not to feel the loss as her heavy locks fell away.
The nie’dama’ting came at her with a cake of soap and a razor next. Ashia froze as the girl lathered her scalp, wielding the blade with expert strokes.
Amanvah returned when they were finished. Kept her gaze above their heads, letting none meet her eyes. “Dry off.” She pointed to a pile of pristinely white, freshly folded drying cloths. “Then follow.”
Again she turned away, as Ashia and the others dried off and followed their haughty cousin back to the dressing area. Behind trailed the same three girls who had cut their hair.
Amanvah walked past the many rolls of white bido silk to a lacquered box at the far end of the chamber. “You are not dama’ting.” She threw them each a roll of the black silk from the box. “Unworthy to wear the white.”
“Unworthy,” the older girls echoed at their backs. Ashia swallowed at that. Betrothed or not, they were blood of the Deliverer, not some common dal’ting.
Enkido was waiting for them when they emerged from the baths with thin, black silk scarves and robes over their bidos. Shanvah and Sikvah had stopped weeping, but still they clutched at each other, eyes on the floor.
Ashia boldly raised her gaze to meet the eunuch’s eyes. She was blood of the Deliverer. Her father would cut off more than this man’s cock if he dared lay a hand on her. She would not be afraid.
She would not.
The eunuch paid her no mind, staring instead at Sikvah, who shook like a hare before the wolf. He made a sharp, dismissive gesture. Sikvah only stared, uncomprehending, beginning to weep once more.
Enkido raised a finger sharply in Sikvah’s face, causing the girl to gasp and stand up straight. Her eyes, wide with fear, crossed as they watched the finger.
Again, Enkido made the dismissive gesture. As if his finger in the air alone had been supporting her, Sikvah bent again, sobbing harder. This put Shanvah over the edge as well, the two of them clutching each other as they shook.
“She doesn’t understand what you want!” Ashia cried. She couldn’t tell if the eunuch was deaf as well as mute, for he did not look at her.
Instead, Enkido’s hand whipped out, slapping Sikvah’s cheek so hard her head struck Shanvah’s and they were both driven hard into the wall.
Ashia was moving before she knew it, interposing herself between the eunuch and the other girls. “How dare you?!” she cried. “We are princesses of the Kaji, blood of the Deliverer, not camels in the bazaar! The Shar’Dama Ka will see you lose that hand.”
Enkido regarded her a moment. Then his hand seemed to flicker, and she was launched backward, an odd tingling in her jaw. She heard more than felt the rebound of the rock wall as she struck it. The sound echoed in her head as she struck the floor, and she knew pain would soon follow.