The Desert Spear
Page 157
The door opened, and Rojer cracked an eye as one of Abban’s wives, or perhaps one of his daughters—Rojer could never tell the difference—entered. She was clad as they all were in loose black robes that hid everything save her eyes, which were cast down in his presence.
“You have a visitor, son of Jessum,” the woman said.
She moved to throw back the heavy velvet curtains and Rojer groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes as light streamed in through the windows of his richly appointed bedroom. Leesha might have a whole floor of the giant manse, but Rojer had still been given a full wing of the second floor, more rooms than the entire inn his parents had run in Riverbridge. Elona had been furious to learn of the largesse the Krasians had heaped upon him, having only gotten a bedroom and sitting room herself, luxurious though they were.
“What hour is it?” Rojer asked. He felt he couldn’t have slept more than an hour or two.
“Just after sunrise,” the woman said.
Rojer groaned again. He hadn’t slept an hour. “Tell whoever it is to come back later,” he said, flopping back into the mattress.
The woman bowed deeply. “I cannot, master. Your visitor is the Damajah. You must see her at once.”
Rojer sat bolt upright, all thoughts of sleep forgotten.
The whole palace was astir by the time Rojer felt presentable enough to leave his chambers. His Jongleur’s paintbox had taken the circles from beneath his eyes, and his bright red hair was brushed and tied back. He wore his best motley.
The Damajah, he thought. What in the Core does she want with me?
Gared was waiting for him in the hall, and fell in behind him. Rojer could not deny that he felt safer with the big Cutter, and by the time he made it to the stairs, Leesha and Wonda were descending from above with Erny and Elona in tow.
“What does she want?” Leesha asked. She had gotten no more sleep than him, but she showed it less, even without paint and powder.
“Search my pockets,” Rojer said. “You’ll find no answers.”
They all followed Rojer down the stairs, making him feel as if he were leading them to a cliff. Rojer was a performer, used to being the center of attention, but this was different. He put his hand to his chest, clutching his medallion through his shirt. The hard shape gave him comfort as he followed the gestures of Abban’s women into the main receiving hall.
As before, Rojer felt his face heat at the sight of the Damajah. He had bedded dozens of village girls and more than one cultured Angierian royal, all of them fetching or pretty or even beautiful. While Leesha surpassed them all in beauty, she seemed almost unaware of that fact, making no effort to take advantage of her power.
But the Damajah knew. The perfect curve of her chin and gentle shape of her nose behind her transparent veil. The wide exotic eyes with long sweeping lashes, and the oiled black curls that spilled in rivulets down her shoulders. Her diaphanous robe covered everything and nothing, showcasing the smoothness of her arms and curving thighs, the round fullness of her breasts and the darkness of her areolae, her hairless sex. The air about her was sweet with perfume.
But more, her every gesture, every stance, every expression, brought all these things into a harmony that sang to every man in her presence. What Rojer did to demons with his fiddle, the Damajah did to men with her body. He felt himself stiffen, and was thankful for the looseness of his motley pants.
She stood in the receiving hall, two girls standing behind her, covered in the Krasian fashion Inevera disdained, though their robes were fine silk. One was clad in the white of a dama’ting, the other in black. Long black braids fell from the back of their headscarves, bound in gold bands and reaching past their waists. Their eyes danced at him from behind their veils.
“Rojer asu Jessum am’Inn am’Bridge,” Inevera said in a thickly accented tongue that made Rojer shiver with pleasure. He tried to remind himself she was his enemy, but it seemed futile. “I am honored to meet you,” the Damajah went on, bowing so deeply Rojer feared her breasts would fall free of her robe. He wondered if she would care if they did. The girls behind her bowed even deeper.
Rojer made his best leg in return. “Damajah,” he said simply, not knowing the proper form of address. “The honor is mine, that you have come here to meet one as insignificant as I.”
“Don’t lay it too thick, Rojer,” Leesha muttered.
“My husband bade me come,” Inevera said, “telling me you accepted his offer to find brides for you, that your magic be passed on to a new generation.”
“I did?” Rojer asked. He remembered the exchange back in Deliverer’s Hollow, but he had thought it all a jest. They couldn’t possibly believe…
“Of course,” Inevera said. “My husband offers you his eldest daughter, Amanvah, for your Jiwah Ka.” The girl in dama’ting white stepped forward, kneeling on the thick carpet and pressing her face to the floor. It pulled her silk robe tight, hinting at a womanly figure beneath. Rojer tore his eyes away before he was caught staring, looking back at the Damajah like a terrified rabbit.
“There must be some…” mistake, he wanted to say, but the word caught in his throat as Inevera beckoned the other girl forward. “This is Amanvah’s servant, Sikvah,” she said, as the girl followed Amanvah to the floor. “Daughter of Hanya, sister to the Shar’Dama Ka.”
“His daughter and his niece?” Rojer asked in surprise.
Inevera bowed. “My husband has made it known that Everam speaks to you. He would not honor you with less than his own blood. Sikvah will make a suitable second wife, if you wish. Amanvah can then take over seeking future brides in accordance with your own taste.”
“Creator, how many wives does one man need?” Leesha said.
Jealous? Rojer thought irritably. Good. Have a taste of it, for once.
Inevera looked at Leesha with disdain. “If he is worthy and they of him, a man should have as many as he can provide for and keep with child. But some,” she sneered at Leesha, “are not worthy.”
“Who is Amanvah’s mother?” Elona asked before Leesha could respond.
Inevera looked at her and raised a brow. Elona spread her skirts and dipped into a smooth, respectful curtsy that seemed utterly at odds with the woman Rojer knew. “Elona Paper of Deliverer’s Hollow. Leesha’s mother.”
Inevera’s eyes widened at this news, and she smiled widely and went over to the woman, embracing her. “Of course, I am honored to meet you. There are a great many matters for us to discuss, but that is for another time. I understand the son of Jessum’s mother is with Everam. Will you stand for her in these proceedings?”
“Of course,” Elona said, nodding, and Leesha glared at her.
“Stand for her, how?” Rojer asked.
Inevera smiled coyly. “To ensure you behave as they lift their veils, and to verify their virginity.” Rojer felt his face heat again, and he swallowed a lump in his throat.
“I…” he began, but Inevera ignored him.
“I am Amanvah’s mother,” she told Elona. “Does that meet with your approval?”
“Of course,” Elona said gravely, as if there were any other answer a sane person might dare speak.
Inevera nodded and turned to regard the others. “If you will excuse us, please?”
“You have a visitor, son of Jessum,” the woman said.
She moved to throw back the heavy velvet curtains and Rojer groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes as light streamed in through the windows of his richly appointed bedroom. Leesha might have a whole floor of the giant manse, but Rojer had still been given a full wing of the second floor, more rooms than the entire inn his parents had run in Riverbridge. Elona had been furious to learn of the largesse the Krasians had heaped upon him, having only gotten a bedroom and sitting room herself, luxurious though they were.
“What hour is it?” Rojer asked. He felt he couldn’t have slept more than an hour or two.
“Just after sunrise,” the woman said.
Rojer groaned again. He hadn’t slept an hour. “Tell whoever it is to come back later,” he said, flopping back into the mattress.
The woman bowed deeply. “I cannot, master. Your visitor is the Damajah. You must see her at once.”
Rojer sat bolt upright, all thoughts of sleep forgotten.
The whole palace was astir by the time Rojer felt presentable enough to leave his chambers. His Jongleur’s paintbox had taken the circles from beneath his eyes, and his bright red hair was brushed and tied back. He wore his best motley.
The Damajah, he thought. What in the Core does she want with me?
Gared was waiting for him in the hall, and fell in behind him. Rojer could not deny that he felt safer with the big Cutter, and by the time he made it to the stairs, Leesha and Wonda were descending from above with Erny and Elona in tow.
“What does she want?” Leesha asked. She had gotten no more sleep than him, but she showed it less, even without paint and powder.
“Search my pockets,” Rojer said. “You’ll find no answers.”
They all followed Rojer down the stairs, making him feel as if he were leading them to a cliff. Rojer was a performer, used to being the center of attention, but this was different. He put his hand to his chest, clutching his medallion through his shirt. The hard shape gave him comfort as he followed the gestures of Abban’s women into the main receiving hall.
As before, Rojer felt his face heat at the sight of the Damajah. He had bedded dozens of village girls and more than one cultured Angierian royal, all of them fetching or pretty or even beautiful. While Leesha surpassed them all in beauty, she seemed almost unaware of that fact, making no effort to take advantage of her power.
But the Damajah knew. The perfect curve of her chin and gentle shape of her nose behind her transparent veil. The wide exotic eyes with long sweeping lashes, and the oiled black curls that spilled in rivulets down her shoulders. Her diaphanous robe covered everything and nothing, showcasing the smoothness of her arms and curving thighs, the round fullness of her breasts and the darkness of her areolae, her hairless sex. The air about her was sweet with perfume.
But more, her every gesture, every stance, every expression, brought all these things into a harmony that sang to every man in her presence. What Rojer did to demons with his fiddle, the Damajah did to men with her body. He felt himself stiffen, and was thankful for the looseness of his motley pants.
She stood in the receiving hall, two girls standing behind her, covered in the Krasian fashion Inevera disdained, though their robes were fine silk. One was clad in the white of a dama’ting, the other in black. Long black braids fell from the back of their headscarves, bound in gold bands and reaching past their waists. Their eyes danced at him from behind their veils.
“Rojer asu Jessum am’Inn am’Bridge,” Inevera said in a thickly accented tongue that made Rojer shiver with pleasure. He tried to remind himself she was his enemy, but it seemed futile. “I am honored to meet you,” the Damajah went on, bowing so deeply Rojer feared her breasts would fall free of her robe. He wondered if she would care if they did. The girls behind her bowed even deeper.
Rojer made his best leg in return. “Damajah,” he said simply, not knowing the proper form of address. “The honor is mine, that you have come here to meet one as insignificant as I.”
“Don’t lay it too thick, Rojer,” Leesha muttered.
“My husband bade me come,” Inevera said, “telling me you accepted his offer to find brides for you, that your magic be passed on to a new generation.”
“I did?” Rojer asked. He remembered the exchange back in Deliverer’s Hollow, but he had thought it all a jest. They couldn’t possibly believe…
“Of course,” Inevera said. “My husband offers you his eldest daughter, Amanvah, for your Jiwah Ka.” The girl in dama’ting white stepped forward, kneeling on the thick carpet and pressing her face to the floor. It pulled her silk robe tight, hinting at a womanly figure beneath. Rojer tore his eyes away before he was caught staring, looking back at the Damajah like a terrified rabbit.
“There must be some…” mistake, he wanted to say, but the word caught in his throat as Inevera beckoned the other girl forward. “This is Amanvah’s servant, Sikvah,” she said, as the girl followed Amanvah to the floor. “Daughter of Hanya, sister to the Shar’Dama Ka.”
“His daughter and his niece?” Rojer asked in surprise.
Inevera bowed. “My husband has made it known that Everam speaks to you. He would not honor you with less than his own blood. Sikvah will make a suitable second wife, if you wish. Amanvah can then take over seeking future brides in accordance with your own taste.”
“Creator, how many wives does one man need?” Leesha said.
Jealous? Rojer thought irritably. Good. Have a taste of it, for once.
Inevera looked at Leesha with disdain. “If he is worthy and they of him, a man should have as many as he can provide for and keep with child. But some,” she sneered at Leesha, “are not worthy.”
“Who is Amanvah’s mother?” Elona asked before Leesha could respond.
Inevera looked at her and raised a brow. Elona spread her skirts and dipped into a smooth, respectful curtsy that seemed utterly at odds with the woman Rojer knew. “Elona Paper of Deliverer’s Hollow. Leesha’s mother.”
Inevera’s eyes widened at this news, and she smiled widely and went over to the woman, embracing her. “Of course, I am honored to meet you. There are a great many matters for us to discuss, but that is for another time. I understand the son of Jessum’s mother is with Everam. Will you stand for her in these proceedings?”
“Of course,” Elona said, nodding, and Leesha glared at her.
“Stand for her, how?” Rojer asked.
Inevera smiled coyly. “To ensure you behave as they lift their veils, and to verify their virginity.” Rojer felt his face heat again, and he swallowed a lump in his throat.
“I…” he began, but Inevera ignored him.
“I am Amanvah’s mother,” she told Elona. “Does that meet with your approval?”
“Of course,” Elona said gravely, as if there were any other answer a sane person might dare speak.
Inevera nodded and turned to regard the others. “If you will excuse us, please?”
