The Daylight War
Page 55
‘Drillmasters.’ Qeva spat the word. ‘That boy is the last of the Jardir line, his father killed senselessly in a Majah well raid. Bad enough our men are slaughtered in the night, but I tire of patching up boys in sharaj. Many never even reach the Maze, crippled or killed just in the training. It must stop.’
‘It will stop,’ Inevera said. ‘I will find a way.’
‘You?’ Qeva scoffed. ‘Do you think yourself the Damajah, then?’
Inevera shrugged. ‘Is it better to wait idly by waiting for her to appear?’
Qeva’s eyes narrowed. ‘’Ware your words, girl. They ring close to blasphemy.’
Inevera bowed. ‘None was meant, Dama’ting.’
Inevera watched the boy as he slept, long after she might have gone back to the palace. He was good looking, perhaps enough to catch a dama’ting’s eye, but she did not imagine this one would give up his stones for life as a eunuch. There was power in him. She could sense it. Perhaps that was why she felt the need to speak to him again.
He stirred, opening his brown eyes, and she smiled. ‘The young warrior awakens.’
‘You speak,’ the boy croaked.
‘Am I a beast, that I should not?’ Inevera asked, though she knew full well what he meant. Dama’ting did not deign to speak to nie’Sharum in the pavilion. They left that duty to the girls.
‘To me, I mean,’ the boy said. ‘I am only nie’Sharum.’
Inevera nodded. ‘And I am nie’dama’ting. I will earn my veil soon, but I do not wear it yet, and thus may speak to whomever I wish.’
She lifted a bowl of porridge to his lips. ‘I expect they are starving you in the Kaji’sharaj. Eat. It will help the dama’ting’s spells to heal you.’
The boy nodded, sipping hungrily, and soon emptied the bowl. He looked up at her. ‘What is your name?’
Inevera smiled again as she wiped a bit of porridge from his mouth. ‘Bold, for a boy barely old enough for his bido.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the boy said.
Inevera laughed. ‘Boldness is no cause for sorrow. Everam has no love for the timid. My name is Inevera.’
‘As Everam wills,’ the boy translated, and nodded his head, as if pointing to his chest with his chin. ‘Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin.’
Inevera bit back a laugh. Did he mean to court her, this boy? She nodded politely, wondering what it was that drew her to him. She wondered if this bold, strong boy would be one of those killed in training, his life wasted before it truly began, or if he would be sacrificed to the Maze and the will of fools, like Soli.
Inevera returned to the palace, going directly to the Chamber of Shadows. There was no more time to delay. She had questions only the dice could answer. She went right to a chamber and laid out her tools, running sensitive fingers over the bones as she took them from her hora pouch. Smoothed by ten thousand handlings and polished with holy oils, their surface was like glass, broken only by the grooves of the symbols.
A ward of prophecy for each, and then one symbol of foretelling for each side and the centre of the remaining faces. The four-sided die alone had sixteen symbols. The six had thirty. The eight, thirty-two. And so on. One by one, Inevera traced the symbols in the darkness, testing their perfection as she had countless times before. They grew smaller as the sides increased, but she knew them all as if etched into her soul.
Finally, she lifted the twenty-sided die. The last of the set. Still in her hora pouch lay the eighth bone, untouched since Kenevah had first given it to her. Most girls made mistakes along the way and needed the spare. There was no shame in using it, but to ‘make it in seven’ was a special honour, and it was only with great reluctance that a bone was discarded. That eighth was hers to use if it was kept pure. Magic of her discretion.
The twenty was almost complete, with but three more symbols to carve. In the past, she had done it slowly, running her etching tool gently over the precise spot, barely scratching the surface as she drew a symbol so shallow it could be polished away in moments. Then, after running her fingers over it, she would trace it again, this time slightly deeper. And again. And again. A hundred times if necessary, until the lines were deep and unmistakable.
But not this day. This day she felt Everam’s power in her fingers, and she dug deep with her tool, etching the first symbol in a single smooth motion. It was reckless – foolish – but she could not help herself, turning the die and going right into the next tiny symbol, and after that the third, accomplishing in seconds what had taken weeks with the other sides. Her hands shook as she took her polishing cloth and buffed away the shavings, afraid to run her fingers over the symbols. Had she made a mistake? Had she ruined the die? It would be a year’s work if she did, and no third chance. Not without a burning.
At last she found her centre and dared touch the surface, marvelling at its perfection. Without a moment’s hesitation, she took her sharpest carving tool and sliced the web of flesh between her thumb and forefinger, letting her blood mingle with the dice, settling into the ward grooves. As she did, she prayed.
‘Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your children are dying. We fight among ourselves when we should band together, throw away lives when we should succour them. How can we return to your favour and be saved from passing from this world?’
As she whispered the words, she shook the dice gently in her cupped hands, feeling them warm to her touch as the magic activated. Light peeked through her fingers, making her hands glow red and sending thin beams to dance along the walls of the chamber.
It was forbidden to test the dice alone. The law was clear that she ring the chime for a testing before trusting in her dice, but Inevera did not care. She felt the power building in her hands, and could wait no longer.
She threw.
The dice scattered on the floor, flaring with magic. Inevera watched as they turned unnaturally, the pattern dictated by the wards rather than laws of physics and geometry. Then they lay still, some symbols throbbing dully, others glowing brightly, and still more dark. Reading them was an art as much as a science, but to Inevera, their meaning was as clear as words on parchment.
– A boy will weep in the Maze on the 1,077th dawn. Make him a man to start the path to Shar’Dama Ka.—
Inevera felt her face flush, and breathed deeply to find her centre. She was to find the Shar’Dama Ka reborn? Did this mean she truly was the Damajah, as Qeva had scoffed? She would never know, for the dice could read the fortunes of others, but never the thrower.
‘Make him a man,’ she whispered. The symbols here were vague. Did they represent the traditional veiling ceremony all Sharum went through? Sexual deflowering? Education and training? Marriage? The dice did not say.
She shook again. ‘Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, what must I do to make this boy a man?’
Again the symbols spoke to her, though their answer was no clearer, and only filled her with new dread.
– Sharak Ka is near. The Deliverer must have every advantage.—
Sharak Ka. The First War. Without the Deliverer, the well of humanity would dry out for good, the last of Everam’s light extinguished from the Ala.
The Deliverer must have every advantage.
Quickly she gathered the bones, holding them aloft. Using her fingers to manipulate the symbols, she cast bright light over a chamber she had spent countless hours in, yet never truly seen. The light reflected off a tiny nook cut into the rock wall where the silver chimes lay.
‘It will stop,’ Inevera said. ‘I will find a way.’
‘You?’ Qeva scoffed. ‘Do you think yourself the Damajah, then?’
Inevera shrugged. ‘Is it better to wait idly by waiting for her to appear?’
Qeva’s eyes narrowed. ‘’Ware your words, girl. They ring close to blasphemy.’
Inevera bowed. ‘None was meant, Dama’ting.’
Inevera watched the boy as he slept, long after she might have gone back to the palace. He was good looking, perhaps enough to catch a dama’ting’s eye, but she did not imagine this one would give up his stones for life as a eunuch. There was power in him. She could sense it. Perhaps that was why she felt the need to speak to him again.
He stirred, opening his brown eyes, and she smiled. ‘The young warrior awakens.’
‘You speak,’ the boy croaked.
‘Am I a beast, that I should not?’ Inevera asked, though she knew full well what he meant. Dama’ting did not deign to speak to nie’Sharum in the pavilion. They left that duty to the girls.
‘To me, I mean,’ the boy said. ‘I am only nie’Sharum.’
Inevera nodded. ‘And I am nie’dama’ting. I will earn my veil soon, but I do not wear it yet, and thus may speak to whomever I wish.’
She lifted a bowl of porridge to his lips. ‘I expect they are starving you in the Kaji’sharaj. Eat. It will help the dama’ting’s spells to heal you.’
The boy nodded, sipping hungrily, and soon emptied the bowl. He looked up at her. ‘What is your name?’
Inevera smiled again as she wiped a bit of porridge from his mouth. ‘Bold, for a boy barely old enough for his bido.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the boy said.
Inevera laughed. ‘Boldness is no cause for sorrow. Everam has no love for the timid. My name is Inevera.’
‘As Everam wills,’ the boy translated, and nodded his head, as if pointing to his chest with his chin. ‘Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin.’
Inevera bit back a laugh. Did he mean to court her, this boy? She nodded politely, wondering what it was that drew her to him. She wondered if this bold, strong boy would be one of those killed in training, his life wasted before it truly began, or if he would be sacrificed to the Maze and the will of fools, like Soli.
Inevera returned to the palace, going directly to the Chamber of Shadows. There was no more time to delay. She had questions only the dice could answer. She went right to a chamber and laid out her tools, running sensitive fingers over the bones as she took them from her hora pouch. Smoothed by ten thousand handlings and polished with holy oils, their surface was like glass, broken only by the grooves of the symbols.
A ward of prophecy for each, and then one symbol of foretelling for each side and the centre of the remaining faces. The four-sided die alone had sixteen symbols. The six had thirty. The eight, thirty-two. And so on. One by one, Inevera traced the symbols in the darkness, testing their perfection as she had countless times before. They grew smaller as the sides increased, but she knew them all as if etched into her soul.
Finally, she lifted the twenty-sided die. The last of the set. Still in her hora pouch lay the eighth bone, untouched since Kenevah had first given it to her. Most girls made mistakes along the way and needed the spare. There was no shame in using it, but to ‘make it in seven’ was a special honour, and it was only with great reluctance that a bone was discarded. That eighth was hers to use if it was kept pure. Magic of her discretion.
The twenty was almost complete, with but three more symbols to carve. In the past, she had done it slowly, running her etching tool gently over the precise spot, barely scratching the surface as she drew a symbol so shallow it could be polished away in moments. Then, after running her fingers over it, she would trace it again, this time slightly deeper. And again. And again. A hundred times if necessary, until the lines were deep and unmistakable.
But not this day. This day she felt Everam’s power in her fingers, and she dug deep with her tool, etching the first symbol in a single smooth motion. It was reckless – foolish – but she could not help herself, turning the die and going right into the next tiny symbol, and after that the third, accomplishing in seconds what had taken weeks with the other sides. Her hands shook as she took her polishing cloth and buffed away the shavings, afraid to run her fingers over the symbols. Had she made a mistake? Had she ruined the die? It would be a year’s work if she did, and no third chance. Not without a burning.
At last she found her centre and dared touch the surface, marvelling at its perfection. Without a moment’s hesitation, she took her sharpest carving tool and sliced the web of flesh between her thumb and forefinger, letting her blood mingle with the dice, settling into the ward grooves. As she did, she prayed.
‘Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your children are dying. We fight among ourselves when we should band together, throw away lives when we should succour them. How can we return to your favour and be saved from passing from this world?’
As she whispered the words, she shook the dice gently in her cupped hands, feeling them warm to her touch as the magic activated. Light peeked through her fingers, making her hands glow red and sending thin beams to dance along the walls of the chamber.
It was forbidden to test the dice alone. The law was clear that she ring the chime for a testing before trusting in her dice, but Inevera did not care. She felt the power building in her hands, and could wait no longer.
She threw.
The dice scattered on the floor, flaring with magic. Inevera watched as they turned unnaturally, the pattern dictated by the wards rather than laws of physics and geometry. Then they lay still, some symbols throbbing dully, others glowing brightly, and still more dark. Reading them was an art as much as a science, but to Inevera, their meaning was as clear as words on parchment.
– A boy will weep in the Maze on the 1,077th dawn. Make him a man to start the path to Shar’Dama Ka.—
Inevera felt her face flush, and breathed deeply to find her centre. She was to find the Shar’Dama Ka reborn? Did this mean she truly was the Damajah, as Qeva had scoffed? She would never know, for the dice could read the fortunes of others, but never the thrower.
‘Make him a man,’ she whispered. The symbols here were vague. Did they represent the traditional veiling ceremony all Sharum went through? Sexual deflowering? Education and training? Marriage? The dice did not say.
She shook again. ‘Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, what must I do to make this boy a man?’
Again the symbols spoke to her, though their answer was no clearer, and only filled her with new dread.
– Sharak Ka is near. The Deliverer must have every advantage.—
Sharak Ka. The First War. Without the Deliverer, the well of humanity would dry out for good, the last of Everam’s light extinguished from the Ala.
The Deliverer must have every advantage.
Quickly she gathered the bones, holding them aloft. Using her fingers to manipulate the symbols, she cast bright light over a chamber she had spent countless hours in, yet never truly seen. The light reflected off a tiny nook cut into the rock wall where the silver chimes lay.
