Ashan turned to Jayan. “I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness, Sharum Ka. I assure you she will be disciplined.”
Jayan nodded, waving a hand. “Unnecessary, Uncle. A warrior my cousin may be, but she is a woman, and cannot be expected to control her emotions.”
“Indeed,” Ashan agreed. “What does the Sharum Ka have to say on this matter?”
“These women are outlaws,” Jayan said. “They have brought shame to their families with their reckless actions, endangering their fellow villagers and causing the death of an innocent woman.”
“Serious accusations,” Ashan said.
Jayan nodded. “With deliberate planning and forethought, they violated the curfew of the local dama and disobeyed the commands of their Sharum husbands, sneaking out of their homes at night and crossing the village wards. They lured a lone flame demon into a crude trap and surrounded it. Using improvised weapons and shields, poorly painted with stolen wards copied from their honored husbands’ equipment, they attacked. Without training, one woman was killed, and several others injured. The fires started in their battle threatened to burn the entire village down.”
“That isn’t … !” one of the woman blurted, but the others grabbed her, covering her mouth. Women were not to speak in the Andrah’s presence save when spoken to, and under Evejan law, they could not bear legal witness in any event. Their husbands would speak for them.
Jayan’s eyes flicked to the commotion, but he said nothing. They were only women, after all.
Ashia bowed deeply, an artfully executed show of deference, just enough to mock without giving true offense. “The words of the honored Sharum Ka of Krasia, firstborn son of the Deliverer, my cousin the esteemed Jayan asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Kaji, may he live forever, are true, Father, if exaggerated in detail.”
Jayan crossed his arms, the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
“They are also irrelevant,” Ashia said.
“Eh?” Ashan said.
“I, too, violated curfew and disobeyed my husband to go into the night,” Ashia said. “The curfews are designed to make it illegal for any woman to go into the night.” She met her father’s eyes. “You debated these very points with the Deliverer on the day he named me Sharum, and they did not deter him then. They should not deter you now. By the Shar’Dama Ka’s own words, any woman who kills a demon is to be made Sharum’ting.”
Ashan frowned, but Jayan was not finished.
“Indeed,” he said. “But I count seven women, and only one demon killed. Who is to say who struck the killing blow? Or if all of them struck at all?”
“Also irrelevant,” Ashia said, drawing a glare from Jayan. “All warriors share kills, especially when blooding nie’Sharum. By your measure, there is not a warrior in Krasia who does not claim more than are his due. The Deliverer himself was one of more than a dozen spears in the push guard on his first night in the Maze.”
“The Deliverer was twelve years old that night, daughter,” Ashan said, “and was sent to Sharik Hora for five more years before he was given his blacks.”
Ashia shrugged. “Nevertheless, if you discount shared kills, you will need to strip the blacks from every warrior raised before the Deliverer returned fighting wards to us, and half the rest. The purpose of the blooding is not to kill a demon unassisted. It is to test a warrior’s courage in standing fast against the alagai. These women have done so. In truth, their test was the greater for the lack of proper training and equipment. Are these not the very hearts we need with Sharak Ka nigh?”
“Perhaps,” Ashan agreed.
“And perhaps not,” Damaji Ichach cut in. “Andrah, surely you cannot mean to raise these women? They are Khanjin. Let me see to the matter personally.”
“I do not see that I have a choice, Damaji,” Ashan said. “I am of no tribe at all, and must follow the Deliverer’s commands.”
“You are Andrah,” Aleverak snapped. “Of course you have a choice. Your daughter twists the Deliverer’s words to trap you, but she does not speak the whole truth. ‘Any woman who takes a demon in alagai’sharak shall be Sharum’ting,’ the Deliverer said. I do not believe this qualifies. Sharum blooding does not come without the approval of a drillmaster. Alagai’sharak is a sacred ritual, not some fools stealing out into the night on a whim.”
The other Damaji grunted along, and Inevera felt her jaw tighten. Again the rasping chorus as the old men quoted scripture, related irrelevant anecdotes, and warned sagely against being too free with the rights of Sharum. She stroked the hora wand at her belt, imagining for a moment what it would feel like to blast the lot of them into the abyss.
“Did any men witness the event?” Ashan asked when the hubbub had faded. He still had not consulted the women themselves, and likely would not.
Jayan bowed again. “Andrah, the women’s husbands are waiting outside, and beg to speak before you make your decision.”
Ashan nodded, and the men were brought in. All wore blacks, though by their look and equipment none was a warrior of note. Their auras were colored with rage, shame, and awe at the grandeur of the throne. One of the men was particularly distraught, barely contained violence radiating from him like a stink.
The widower. Inevera shifted slightly on her bed of pillows. Watch that one, her fingers said.
I see him, Damajah. Ashia’s hand hung loose at her side, her reply a whisper of nimble fingers.
“These women killed my wife, Holy Andrah,” the distraught warrior said, pointing. “My Chabbavah would not have disobeyed me and acted so foolishly without their foul influence. I demand their lives in recompense.”
“Lies!” another of the men shouted. He pointed to his own wife, the dal’ting who had been beaten. “My wife fled to me after the disaster, and made clear Chabbavah had been one of the ringleaders pressuring the others. I regret my spear brother’s loss, but he has no right to claim vengeance for his own failings as a husband.”
The widower turned and struck at him, and for a moment the two warriors traded blows. Ahmann had tolerated no violence in his court, but none of the men, even Ashan, seemed inclined to stop them until the second man had put the widower onto the floor in a painful hold.
Ashan clapped his hands loudly. “The argument stands. Everam would not give victory to a liar.”
Inevera breathed. Not a liar. Only a warrior who had beaten his wife.
The second man bowed. “I ask the holy Andrah to remand these women to us, their rightful husbands, for punishment. I swear by Everam they will not bring shame to their families, our tribe, or your throne again.”
Ashan sat back on the throne, steepling his fingers and staring at the women. Ashia had made a compelling case, but Inevera could see in his eyes that the new Andrah would still refuse them. Given the opportunity, Ashan would take the spears from every Sharum’ting, Ashia included.
She should have brought the women to me first, Inevera thought. But perhaps this, too, was Everam’s will.
Living in the Northland where women had as many rights as men had shown Krasian women that there was an alternative to living their lives under a husband’s sandal. The greenlanders had not been able to stand against the Krasian spears, but they had struck at the very heart of their enemy in the Daylight War. More and more women would seek their due, and sooner or later the clerics must be confronted on the matter.
Inevera did not want to overrule Ashan publicly on his first day on the Skull Throne, but if he would not see reason, so be it.
She opened her mouth to speak, but was checked as Asome loudly cleared his throat and spoke with a voice that carried through the room. “My honored wife is correct.”
Ashan’s face went slack with surprise, and even Inevera was struck dumb as Asome stepped down from the dais to take the floor. The boy had argued vehemently against the formation of Sharum’ting and his wife and cousin’s raising.
“It is true my honored father said that the demons must be taken in alagai’sharak,” Asome said, “but what is alagai’sharak, truly? It literally means ‘demon war,’ and war is no ritual. The alagai have made all humanity, male and female, their enemy. Any battle against them is alagai’sharak.”
Jayan snorted. “Leave it to my dama brother to fail to understand war.”
It was the wrong thing to say in a court dominated by clerics, further proof of Jayan’s tendency to speak without thought. Ashan and the Damaji all turned angry glares upon him.
At last, Ashan found his spine, using the same deep boom he had used on his daughter a moment before. “You forget your place, Sharum Ka. You serve at the will of the white.”
Jayan blanched, and anger blossomed in his aura. His hand tightened on his spear, and if he had been a single grain more the fool he might have used it, even if it plunged all Krasia into civil war.
Asome was wise enough to keep his expression neutral, but it did not save him from the dark gaze Ashan turned his way. “And you, nie’Andrah. Did you not argue long and hard against women taking the spear before this very throne a fortnight ago?”
Asome bowed. “Indeed I did, Uncle. I spoke with passion and belief. But I was wrong, and my honored father was right to ignore my pleas.”