The Daylight War
Page 51
The girls sat in a semicircle before Qeva in the entrance hall to the Chamber of Shadows – seven Betrothed aspiring to one day take the white veil.
There was always a lesson before carving began, the dama’ting’s robes blood red in the dim wardlight – the only light allowed in the chamber.
Throughout the lesson, Melan fidgeted, shifting her weight and pursing her lips, rolling the velvet bag with her dice with one hand, eager to get back to carving.
It was always thus. Inevera and Melan had entered the Chamber of Shadows together, but even though Melan had years of work on Inevera and sneered about it publicly, she seemed to take seriously Inevera’s threat to finish her dice first. When Qeva ended the lesson each day, Melan practically ran to a carving chamber, always last to emerge when the dama’ting called an end to the day’s work. Inevera imagined she could hear the frantic scraping of her tools even through the thick stone walls.
If Melan took the veil before Inevera, it could be dangerous … perhaps deadly. All the Betrothed had heard Inevera’s vow to finish first, and any power she had gained among the other girls with her defeat of Melan would vanish if her threat proved hollow. More, Melan would gain the near-limitless privilege of dama’ting, and her opportunities to have Inevera killed would increase manifold. There were others among the Brides of Everam who would surely support her.
The girls were finally dismissed, and padded down the cold stone passage to the long tunnel filled with small carving chambers. There were no wardlights in the tunnel, but Melan and the other girls lifted their unfinished dice, casting a red glow to see by. Only wardlight was permitted in the carving chambers, but even that was not given freely. It had to be earned by the girls’ own hands. Without light, they would not be able to see their tools, their hands, or even the dice themselves.
The circlets of wardsight they left behind, forbidden in the carving cells. Inevera had heard it whispered in the Vault that a girl once tried to sneak her circlet into the cells that she might carve in Everam’s light. Her eyes had been cut out before she was cast from the Dama’ting Palace.
Inevera walked unhurriedly as the other girls slipped into carving chambers. Qeva shut the doors behind them, leaving only the faint glow of wardlight leaking from under the door frames. One by one, the lights winked out until it was only by this faint glow that Inevera came to her own chamber. Qeva shut the door behind her, and she slipped off her robe, using it to stuff the bottom of the door, leaving her in perfect darkness.
Inevera, too, could call light from her dice, but chose not to in the Chamber of Shadows. The Evejah’ting warned that even wardlight could weaken the dice, leaching their power unnecessarily. The Damajah had carved in utter darkness, and Inevera saw no reason to do differently. Everam will guide your hands, if you are worthy, the holy book said.
Kneeling in the darkness, she said a prayer to her namesake as she took out her dice and warding tools, laying them out in a neat, evenly spaced row. She had finished the four-sided die, and the six, now working on the eight. Her work was slow and meticulous – shaping, smoothing, etching, all in rhythm with her breath.
Time passed. She did not know how long. Her trance was broken by a ringing sound that echoed through the silence of the chamber.
Melan had completed her dice.
Inevera quickly gathered her hora back into their pouch and put away her tools. There would be no more work tonight. She drew deep breaths and emerged from her chamber.
The other girls had already gathered, Melan in their centre, her face elated in the wardlight. She held up her dice and basked in the sounds of adoration and envy. When she caught sight of Inevera, her smile was one of cold triumph.
Inevera smiled in return, bowing politely.
They gathered in the lesson room, Melan kneeling with the nie’dama’ting surrounding her in a semicircle. Before long, dama’ting began to file into the room as well, nearly every Bride in the tribe forming an outer ring. Kenevah was the last to arrive, moving to the centre and kneeling to face her granddaughter. Her face was unreadable as she produced an ancient, faded deck of cards. The sound of her shuffling echoed in the silent chamber.
The Damaji’ting laid three cards facedown on the floor between them. She produced a knife and handed it to Melan, who cut her own hand and let the blood coat her dice. As she did, the wards began to softly glow.
Kenevah pointed to the first card. Melan shook the dice until they glowed fiercely, then threw them to the floor, scattering them in the precise method the girls had been taught. Inevera strained to see the markings, but the angle was wrong for any but Melan and Kenevah to read the pattern.
‘Seven of Spears,’ Melan said after a moment.
Kenevah pointed to the next card, and again Melan threw. ‘Damaji of Skulls.’
Again. ‘Three of Shields.’
Kenevah nodded, her face still unreadable. ‘One of the Brides announced to me this day that she carries a daughter. Which?’
Melan threw again. This time she took longer, studying the dice carefully. She glanced at the assembled dama’ting, and sweat trickled from her brow.
‘Dama’ting Elan,’ she said at last, naming one of the younger Brides who had yet to produce an heir.
Kenevah said nothing, turning over the first card. The nie’dama’ting gasped as the Seven of Spears revealed itself. Inevera felt her heart clench.
The next card was turned. The Damaji of Skulls. Inevera’s heart moved into her throat.
Kenevah turned the third card, and there was a gasp from all. It was the Damaji’ting of Water.
Suddenly Kenevah lashed out, smacking Melan hard on the face. ‘No Bride is pregnant, you idiot girl!’
She snatched the dice from Melan’s hand, holding them up and studying them in the wardlight. ‘Sloppy! Wasteful! Good enough for light, but naught else. Your dice of wood, carved when you were barely in your bido, were better! Where is your eighth?’
Melan’s face was a mask of shock and horror, her centre lost. Numbly, she reached into her hora pouch, producing her eighth bone and handing it to the Damaji’ting.
Even from her vantage, Inevera could see it was a twisted ruin.
Kenevah held the dice under Melan’s nose. ‘Each of these is a year of your life. They will be shown the sun, and you will return to ivory. When you have made three perfect sets, you may return to the Chamber of Shadows, and carve one hora each year until you have completed a new set. Each die will be examined before you are given another, and Everam help you if there should be the slightest flaw.’
Melan’s eyes widened, and the shocked look left her face as her shame and fate dawned on her fully. Inevera breathed deeply, finding her centre and suppressing the smile that threatened to pull at her lips.
Kenevah thrust the dice back into Melan’s hands and pointed to the exit. Melan was weeping openly now, but she rose and stumbled out. Asavi gave a wail and tried to go to her, but Qeva caught the girl’s arm and threw her roughly back.
Outside the chamber, the younger nie’dama’ting were waiting. They gasped as one to see Melan weeping, and all fell in line as Kenevah and every other Bride and Betrothed followed the procession.
They walked to the highest tower in the Dama’ting Palace. When Melan failed to climb fast enough, Kenevah shoved her with surprising strength. More than once the girl stumbled, and Kenevah kicked her until she rose and continued on up the spiralling stairs, coming at last to a high balcony that gave a view of all the Desert Spear.
There was always a lesson before carving began, the dama’ting’s robes blood red in the dim wardlight – the only light allowed in the chamber.
Throughout the lesson, Melan fidgeted, shifting her weight and pursing her lips, rolling the velvet bag with her dice with one hand, eager to get back to carving.
It was always thus. Inevera and Melan had entered the Chamber of Shadows together, but even though Melan had years of work on Inevera and sneered about it publicly, she seemed to take seriously Inevera’s threat to finish her dice first. When Qeva ended the lesson each day, Melan practically ran to a carving chamber, always last to emerge when the dama’ting called an end to the day’s work. Inevera imagined she could hear the frantic scraping of her tools even through the thick stone walls.
If Melan took the veil before Inevera, it could be dangerous … perhaps deadly. All the Betrothed had heard Inevera’s vow to finish first, and any power she had gained among the other girls with her defeat of Melan would vanish if her threat proved hollow. More, Melan would gain the near-limitless privilege of dama’ting, and her opportunities to have Inevera killed would increase manifold. There were others among the Brides of Everam who would surely support her.
The girls were finally dismissed, and padded down the cold stone passage to the long tunnel filled with small carving chambers. There were no wardlights in the tunnel, but Melan and the other girls lifted their unfinished dice, casting a red glow to see by. Only wardlight was permitted in the carving chambers, but even that was not given freely. It had to be earned by the girls’ own hands. Without light, they would not be able to see their tools, their hands, or even the dice themselves.
The circlets of wardsight they left behind, forbidden in the carving cells. Inevera had heard it whispered in the Vault that a girl once tried to sneak her circlet into the cells that she might carve in Everam’s light. Her eyes had been cut out before she was cast from the Dama’ting Palace.
Inevera walked unhurriedly as the other girls slipped into carving chambers. Qeva shut the doors behind them, leaving only the faint glow of wardlight leaking from under the door frames. One by one, the lights winked out until it was only by this faint glow that Inevera came to her own chamber. Qeva shut the door behind her, and she slipped off her robe, using it to stuff the bottom of the door, leaving her in perfect darkness.
Inevera, too, could call light from her dice, but chose not to in the Chamber of Shadows. The Evejah’ting warned that even wardlight could weaken the dice, leaching their power unnecessarily. The Damajah had carved in utter darkness, and Inevera saw no reason to do differently. Everam will guide your hands, if you are worthy, the holy book said.
Kneeling in the darkness, she said a prayer to her namesake as she took out her dice and warding tools, laying them out in a neat, evenly spaced row. She had finished the four-sided die, and the six, now working on the eight. Her work was slow and meticulous – shaping, smoothing, etching, all in rhythm with her breath.
Time passed. She did not know how long. Her trance was broken by a ringing sound that echoed through the silence of the chamber.
Melan had completed her dice.
Inevera quickly gathered her hora back into their pouch and put away her tools. There would be no more work tonight. She drew deep breaths and emerged from her chamber.
The other girls had already gathered, Melan in their centre, her face elated in the wardlight. She held up her dice and basked in the sounds of adoration and envy. When she caught sight of Inevera, her smile was one of cold triumph.
Inevera smiled in return, bowing politely.
They gathered in the lesson room, Melan kneeling with the nie’dama’ting surrounding her in a semicircle. Before long, dama’ting began to file into the room as well, nearly every Bride in the tribe forming an outer ring. Kenevah was the last to arrive, moving to the centre and kneeling to face her granddaughter. Her face was unreadable as she produced an ancient, faded deck of cards. The sound of her shuffling echoed in the silent chamber.
The Damaji’ting laid three cards facedown on the floor between them. She produced a knife and handed it to Melan, who cut her own hand and let the blood coat her dice. As she did, the wards began to softly glow.
Kenevah pointed to the first card. Melan shook the dice until they glowed fiercely, then threw them to the floor, scattering them in the precise method the girls had been taught. Inevera strained to see the markings, but the angle was wrong for any but Melan and Kenevah to read the pattern.
‘Seven of Spears,’ Melan said after a moment.
Kenevah pointed to the next card, and again Melan threw. ‘Damaji of Skulls.’
Again. ‘Three of Shields.’
Kenevah nodded, her face still unreadable. ‘One of the Brides announced to me this day that she carries a daughter. Which?’
Melan threw again. This time she took longer, studying the dice carefully. She glanced at the assembled dama’ting, and sweat trickled from her brow.
‘Dama’ting Elan,’ she said at last, naming one of the younger Brides who had yet to produce an heir.
Kenevah said nothing, turning over the first card. The nie’dama’ting gasped as the Seven of Spears revealed itself. Inevera felt her heart clench.
The next card was turned. The Damaji of Skulls. Inevera’s heart moved into her throat.
Kenevah turned the third card, and there was a gasp from all. It was the Damaji’ting of Water.
Suddenly Kenevah lashed out, smacking Melan hard on the face. ‘No Bride is pregnant, you idiot girl!’
She snatched the dice from Melan’s hand, holding them up and studying them in the wardlight. ‘Sloppy! Wasteful! Good enough for light, but naught else. Your dice of wood, carved when you were barely in your bido, were better! Where is your eighth?’
Melan’s face was a mask of shock and horror, her centre lost. Numbly, she reached into her hora pouch, producing her eighth bone and handing it to the Damaji’ting.
Even from her vantage, Inevera could see it was a twisted ruin.
Kenevah held the dice under Melan’s nose. ‘Each of these is a year of your life. They will be shown the sun, and you will return to ivory. When you have made three perfect sets, you may return to the Chamber of Shadows, and carve one hora each year until you have completed a new set. Each die will be examined before you are given another, and Everam help you if there should be the slightest flaw.’
Melan’s eyes widened, and the shocked look left her face as her shame and fate dawned on her fully. Inevera breathed deeply, finding her centre and suppressing the smile that threatened to pull at her lips.
Kenevah thrust the dice back into Melan’s hands and pointed to the exit. Melan was weeping openly now, but she rose and stumbled out. Asavi gave a wail and tried to go to her, but Qeva caught the girl’s arm and threw her roughly back.
Outside the chamber, the younger nie’dama’ting were waiting. They gasped as one to see Melan weeping, and all fell in line as Kenevah and every other Bride and Betrothed followed the procession.
They walked to the highest tower in the Dama’ting Palace. When Melan failed to climb fast enough, Kenevah shoved her with surprising strength. More than once the girl stumbled, and Kenevah kicked her until she rose and continued on up the spiralling stairs, coming at last to a high balcony that gave a view of all the Desert Spear.
