He turned, sweeping his eyes over the room. “Sharak Ka is coming!” he boomed. “Both the Deliverer and the Damajah have said it is so. Yet still we stand divided, coming up with petty excuses why some should be allowed to fight while others stand by and do nothing. But I say when the Deliverer returns with all the armies of Nie biting at his heels, there will be glory and honor enough for all in the great battle. We must be ready, one and all, to fight.”
He pointed to Ashia. “It is true I argued against my wife taking the spear. But she has brought us nothing save honor and glory. Hundreds owe their lives to her and her spear sisters. They carry the Damajah’s honor on the field, trusted with her protection. They elevate us all. Women give us strength. The Deliverer was clear on this. All who have the will for Sharak Ka must be allowed to stand.”
He paused, and Asukaji stepped into the gap as smoothly as if it had been rehearsed. The two were ever the first to support each other.
Ashan shook his head. “Everam, not you, too.”
Asukaji pointed to the Sharum husbands. “What have these men to hide, that they fear the witness their wives might bear against them if raised? Perhaps the threat of it will make some husbands wiser. These women have fought alagai. Should our walls fail, they will be the last defense of our children. With so much resting upon them, why should they not have rights?”
“Why not indeed?” Inevera asked, before any of the older men had time to formulate a retort. She smiled. “You men argue as if the choice were yours, but the Deliverer gave the Sharum’ting to me, and I will decide who shall be raised and who shall not.”
Ashan’s scowl was belied by the relief in his aura, spared responsibility for a decree that would make him enemies regardless of how he ruled.
“Umshala.” She beckoned her sister-wife, Damaji’ting of the Khanjin. “Foretell them.”
Eyes widened. Foretellings were private things. The dama’ting were secretive with their magic, and with good reason. But the men needed reminders that there was more than politics at work here. It was Everam’s will that should guide them, not their own petty needs.
The women knelt in a crescent about Umshala’s casting cloth. All of them wore reddened bandages, and the Damaji’ting touched her dice to the wounds, wetting them with blood for the prophecy.
Inevera dimmed the wardlight in the chamber. Not to aid the casting, for wardlight did not affect the dice. Rather, she did it so all would see the unmistakable glow of the hora, pulsing redly with Umshala’s prayers. Hypnotized, men twitched at the flash of light each time she threw.
At last, Umshala sat back on her heels. She turned, ignoring Ashan to address Inevera. “It is done, Damajah.”
“And what have you seen?” Inevera asked. “Did these women stand fast in the night? Are they worthy?”
“They are, Damajah.” Umshala turned, pointing to the woman who had been beaten. “Save for this one. Illijah vah Fahstu faltered in her strike and fled the demon, causing the death of Chabbavah and the injury of several others. The kill is not hers.”
Illijah’s aura went white with terror, but the other women stood by her, reaching out in support—even the woman who had been badly burned. Inevera gave them a moment for pity’s sake, but there was nothing she could do. The dice cut both ways.
“Six are raised,” she said. “Rise, Sharum’ting. Illijah vah Fahstu is returned to her husband.” It was a cruelty, but better than if Inevera had left her fate to Damaji Ichach, who would likely have had her publicly executed for bearing false witness before the throne.
Illijah screamed as Fahstu walked up behind her, grabbing the top of her hair in one thick fist, dragging her backward off her knees. She stumbled, unable to rise fully, as Fahstu dragged her from the room, her wails echoing off the walls as the Damaji watched with cold satisfaction.
Bring me the hand he uses to drag her before the sun sets, her fingers told Ashia.
Ashia’s fingers replied in their customary hidden whisper. I hear and obey, Damajah.
“Wait!” one of the women cried, drawing everyone’s attention. “As Sharum’ting, I wish to testify on Illijah’s behalf to bring witness against the crimes of Fahstu asu Fahstu am’Ichan am’Khanjin.”
Inevera waved, and the guards lowered their spears, preventing Fahstu from leaving the throne room. Illijah was released, and both were escorted back to the throne.
Damaji Ichach threw up his hands. “Is this what the Andrah’s court has become? A place for ungrateful women to complain about their husbands like gossiping washerwomen?”
Several of the Damaji nodded with agreement, but Damaji Qezan of the Jama, Ichach’s greatest rival, smiled widely.
“Surely not,” Qezan said, “but your tribe has brought such drama to the court, we of course must see it through.” Ichach glared at him, but other Damaji, even some of those who had supported him a moment ago, nodded. They might not be washerwomen, but the Damaji loved gossip as much as any.
“Speak,” Ashan commanded.
“I am Uvona vah Hadda am’Ichan am’Khanjin,” the woman said, using a man’s full name for the first time in her life. “Illijah is my cousin. It is true she ran from the alagai, and is not worthy to stand in the night. But her husband, Fahstu asu Fahstu am’Ichan am’Khanjin, has been forcing her to prostitute herself for years to earn money for his couzi and dice. Illijah is an honorable daughter of Everam and refused his initial demands, so Fahstu beat her so badly she was forced to keep to her bed for days. I witnessed her shame personally.”
“Lies!” Fahstu cried, though Inevera could see the truth in his aura. “Do not listen to this vile woman’s falsehoods! What proof does she have? Nothing! It is the word of a woman against mine.”
The woman whose arm and face were wrapped to cover her firespit burns moved to stand beside Uvona. Pain lanced across her aura, but she stood straight, and her voice was firm. “Two women.”
The other four moved in, the women standing together as one.
“Six women bear witness to your crime, Fahstu,” Uvona said. “Six Sharum’ting. We went into the night not to claim rights for ourselves, but for the sake of Illijah, that she might be free of you.”
Fahstu turned to Ashan. “Andrah, surely you will not take the word of women over a loyal Sharum?”
Umshala looked up as well. “I can consult the dice if you wish, Holy Andrah.”
Ashan scowled, knowing as well as any what answer the dice would bring. “Do you wish to confess, son of Fahstu, or shall we clear your name with hora?”
Fahstu blanched, then glanced around, seeking support where there was none. At last he shrugged. “What difference does it make what I do with my own wife? She is my property, and no Sharum’ting. I have committed no crime.”
Ashan looked to Ichach. “He is your tribesman, Damaji. What say you to this?”
“I rule in favor of the husband,” Ichach said without hesitation. “It is a wife’s duty to work and support her husband. If he cannot pay his debts, the failing is hers and she should pay the price, even if he decide it be on her back.”
“Or her knees,” Damaji Qezan said, and the other men laughed.
“The Damaji of the Khanjin has spoken,” Inevera said, drawing looks of surprise. “For prostituting his wife, Fahstu shall not be punished.” A wide smile broke out on Fahstu’s face at the words, even as the eyes of the new Sharum’ting fell. Illijah began to weep once more, and Uvona put an arm around her.
“However, for the crime of lying to the Skull Throne,” Inevera went on, “he is found guilty. The sentence is death.”
Fahstu’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Umshala,” Inevera said.
The Damaji’ting reached into her hora pouch, pulling out a small black lump—a piece of breastbone from a lightning demon. The Damaji’ting knew to avert their eyes, but the rest of the room looked on and was blinded by the flash of light, deafened by the thunder.
When their eyes cleared, Fahstu son of Fahstu lay halfway to the great doors, his chest a charred, smoking ruin. The smell of cooked meat permeated the room.
“You push fast and too hard, Damajah,” Qeva said. “The Damaji will revolt.”
“Let them, if they are such fools,” Belina said. “Ahmann will not weep if he returns to find the entire council reduced to a scorch on his throne room floor and his sons in control of the tribes.”
“And if he does not return?” Melan asked.
“All the more reason to cow the Damaji and recruit as many Sharum’ting as possible now,” Inevera said. “Even Abban the khaffit has more soldiers than I.”
“Kha’Sharum,” Qeva said derisively. “Not true warriors.”
“Tell that to Hasik,” Inevera said. “The Deliverer’s own bodyguard, brought down and gelded by the khaffit. They say the same about the Sharum’ting, but I would take any of Enkido’s spear daughters over a dozen Spears of the Deliverer.”
They reached Inevera’s private gardens, a botanical maze filled with carefully manicured plants, many cultivated from seeds brought all the way from Krasia. There were medicinal herbs and deadly poisons, fresh fruit, nuts and vegetables, as well as grasses, shrubs, flowers, and trees cultivated for purely aesthetic value.
It was easy for Inevera to find her center in the gardens, standing in the sun amidst so much flourishing vegetation. Even in the Palace of the Deliverer in Krasia, such a garden would have been impossible to maintain. The land was too harsh. In Everam’s Bounty, it seemed one had but to throw seeds in any direction and they would thrive unaided.
Inevera breathed deeply, only to be thrown from her center as she caught a hint of the perfume that always signaled an end to tranquility.
“Flee while you can, little sisters,” she said quietly. “The Holy Mother waits within the bowers.”
The words were enough to send her sister-wives hurrying from the garden as fast as their dignity would allow. As his Jiwah Ka, Ahmann’s mother was Inevera’s responsibility, a position the women were all too happy to yield.
Inevera envied them. She, too, would have fled had she been able. Everam must be displeased, not to have warned me in the dice.
Only Qeva, Melan, and Asavi dared to remain. Ashia had vanished into the leaves, though Inevera knew she was watching, never more than a breath away.