The Desert Spear
Page 34
But it seemed everything Inevera did was unheard of.
“There need be no delay,” she said loudly. “Let the brides of the Sharum Ka step forth!”
Jardir’s jaw dropped. She had chosen his brides already? Impossible!
But eleven women strode out onto the great altar of Sharik Hora, kneeling before the flabbergasted Damaji of their tribes. Jardir saw them, and his heart sank.
They were all dama’ting.
The palace of the Sharum Ka was smaller than the Kaji palace, but where that housed dozens of kai’Sharum, dama, and their families, this palace was Jardir’s alone. He remembered his years spent sleeping on a filthy cloth on the crowded stone floor of the Kaji’sharaj, and gazed in wonder at the splendor of it all. Everywhere he stepped was plush carpet, velvet, and silk. He dined off porcelain plates so delicate he feared to touch them, and drank from golden goblets studded with gems. And the fountains! There was nothing in Krasia more valuable than water, yet even his mother’s bedroom tinkled with fresh flowing water.
He threw Qasha down onto a pile of pillows, delighting in the sway of her soft breasts, clearly visible through her diaphanous top. Her legs were clad in the same gossamer material, leaving her sex bare, shaved and perfumed. Lust filled him as he fell on her, and he mused that being wed to twelve dama’ting was not the chore he had feared.
Qasha of the Sharach was by far Jardir’s favorite of his new wives. Almost as beautiful as Inevera, she was far more obedient, dropping her robes at a moment’s notice. Her belly was still flat, but already, six weeks wed, she carried a son—the first that would come from his new brides. He knew he should be taking another now, filling the palace with swollen bellies to tie him to the tribes, but Qasha’s condition only aroused Jardir’s lust for her further. Inevera didn’t seem to care. Far less strict with her dama’ting Jiwah Sen, she let Jardir bed them as he pleased. He liked to keep Qasha close by, for she served him as a proper wife should.
Laughing, Qasha pushed him onto his back, mounting him wantonly.
“Everam’s bones, woman!” Jardir cried, gasping as she lowered herself down upon him.
“Should I seem demure when I am in the pillows with the Sharum Ka?” Qasha asked, rising up and slapping down hard. “Just last night, the Andrah himself spoke of the glory you’ve won in the Maze since ascending. It is an honor to sheathe your spear.” She leaned in close, moving rhythmically.
“A woman may bear two children in the same womb,” Qasha whispered between perfumed kisses. “Perhaps you can plant yet another son within me.” Jardir started to reply, but she giggled and muffled his words by giving him a full breast to suckle. For long minutes, they sweated and struggled in the only battle to rival alagai’sharak.
When they were finished, Qasha rolled off him, raising her legs to hold his seed.
“You were in the palace last night when I left at dusk,” Jardir said after a moment.
Qasha looked at him, and for an instant fear washed over her lovely face before being replaced with the cold dama’ting mask he had come to expect from his wives whenever he spoke of things other than lovemaking and children.
“I was,” she agreed.
“Then when did you see the Andrah?” Jardir asked. “Women with child, even dama’ting, are forbidden to leave the palace at night.”
“I misspoke,” Qasha said. “It was another night.”
“Which night?” Jardir pressed. “Which night did you take my unborn son from the safety of my palace without permission?”
Qasha drew herself up. “I am dama’ting, and owe you no—”
“You are my jiwah!” Jardir roared, and she quailed in the face of it. “The Evejah grants no exceptions to dama’ting when it commands wives to obedience!” It was bad enough that Inevera flaunted that sacred law as she pleased, but Jardir would be damned if he gave all his wives the same power. He was Sharum Ka!
“I did not leave the wards!” Qasha cried, holding out her hands. “I swear it!”
“Did you lie about the Andrah’s words?” Jardir asked, clenching a fist.
“No!” Qasha cried.
“Then the Andrah was here, in my palace?” Jardir asked.
“Please, I am forbidden to speak of it,” Qasha said, casting her eyes down in submission.
Jardir grabbed her roughly, forcing her to look him in the eye. “No one may forbid you anything over me!”
Qasha thrashed and pulled from his grasp, losing her balance and falling to the floor. She burst into tears, shaking as she covered her face in her hands. She looked so frail and afraid that all the anger fell from him. He knelt and put his hands gently on her shoulders.
“Of all my wives,” he said, “you are the most favored. I ask only your loyalty. You will not be punished for your answer, I swear.”
She looked up at him with round, wet eyes, and he pushed back her hair, brushing away tears with his thumb. She pulled back, looking to the floor. When she spoke, it was so low he could barely make out her words.
“All is not always still in the palace of the Sharum Ka at night,” she said, “when the master is at alagai’sharak.”
Jardir choked down a blast of anger. “And when will the palace next be stirred?”
Qasha shook her head. “I do not know,” she whimpered.
“Then cast the bones and find out,” Jardir ordered.
She looked up at him, scandalized. “I could never!”
Jardir growled, his anger flaring again, as he silently cursed the day he had married dama’ting. Even if she were not carrying his child, Jardir could not strike Qasha, and she knew it. There was a layer of Nie’s abyss reserved for any man who harmed a dama’ting.
But Jardir refused to be dominated by every one of his wives because he could not discipline as the Evejah taught. There were other ways to frighten her.
“I tire of your disobedience, jiwah,” he said. “Cast them, or I will send the Sharach to the first layer, and your tribe will be consumed by the night. The boys will be cast from Hannu Pash as khaffit, and the women left to whore for lesser tribes.” He would do no such thing, of course, but she need not know that.
“You would not dare!” Qasha said.
“Why should I allow your tribe honor, when you deny me mine?” Jardir demanded.
She was crying openly now, but Qasha nevertheless reached for the thick bag of black felt every dama’ting carried at all times. Hers was secured to her bare waist with a strand of colored beads.
Used to the practice by now, Jardir moved to draw the heavy velvet curtains, blocking any hint of sunlight that might break the magic and render the dice useless.
Qasha lit a candle. She looked at him, fear in her eyes. “Swear to me,” she begged. “Swear that you will never tell the Jiwah Ka that I did this for you.”
Inevera. Of course Jardir expected his First Wife to be at the center of any intrigue in his palace, but it cut him to hear it. He was Sharum Ka now, and still not fit to know her plans.
“I swear by Everam and the blood of my sons,” Jardir said.
Qasha nodded and cast the bones. Jardir watched their evil light and wondered for the first time if perhaps they were not Everam’s voice on Ala.
“Tonight,” Qasha whispered.
“There need be no delay,” she said loudly. “Let the brides of the Sharum Ka step forth!”
Jardir’s jaw dropped. She had chosen his brides already? Impossible!
But eleven women strode out onto the great altar of Sharik Hora, kneeling before the flabbergasted Damaji of their tribes. Jardir saw them, and his heart sank.
They were all dama’ting.
The palace of the Sharum Ka was smaller than the Kaji palace, but where that housed dozens of kai’Sharum, dama, and their families, this palace was Jardir’s alone. He remembered his years spent sleeping on a filthy cloth on the crowded stone floor of the Kaji’sharaj, and gazed in wonder at the splendor of it all. Everywhere he stepped was plush carpet, velvet, and silk. He dined off porcelain plates so delicate he feared to touch them, and drank from golden goblets studded with gems. And the fountains! There was nothing in Krasia more valuable than water, yet even his mother’s bedroom tinkled with fresh flowing water.
He threw Qasha down onto a pile of pillows, delighting in the sway of her soft breasts, clearly visible through her diaphanous top. Her legs were clad in the same gossamer material, leaving her sex bare, shaved and perfumed. Lust filled him as he fell on her, and he mused that being wed to twelve dama’ting was not the chore he had feared.
Qasha of the Sharach was by far Jardir’s favorite of his new wives. Almost as beautiful as Inevera, she was far more obedient, dropping her robes at a moment’s notice. Her belly was still flat, but already, six weeks wed, she carried a son—the first that would come from his new brides. He knew he should be taking another now, filling the palace with swollen bellies to tie him to the tribes, but Qasha’s condition only aroused Jardir’s lust for her further. Inevera didn’t seem to care. Far less strict with her dama’ting Jiwah Sen, she let Jardir bed them as he pleased. He liked to keep Qasha close by, for she served him as a proper wife should.
Laughing, Qasha pushed him onto his back, mounting him wantonly.
“Everam’s bones, woman!” Jardir cried, gasping as she lowered herself down upon him.
“Should I seem demure when I am in the pillows with the Sharum Ka?” Qasha asked, rising up and slapping down hard. “Just last night, the Andrah himself spoke of the glory you’ve won in the Maze since ascending. It is an honor to sheathe your spear.” She leaned in close, moving rhythmically.
“A woman may bear two children in the same womb,” Qasha whispered between perfumed kisses. “Perhaps you can plant yet another son within me.” Jardir started to reply, but she giggled and muffled his words by giving him a full breast to suckle. For long minutes, they sweated and struggled in the only battle to rival alagai’sharak.
When they were finished, Qasha rolled off him, raising her legs to hold his seed.
“You were in the palace last night when I left at dusk,” Jardir said after a moment.
Qasha looked at him, and for an instant fear washed over her lovely face before being replaced with the cold dama’ting mask he had come to expect from his wives whenever he spoke of things other than lovemaking and children.
“I was,” she agreed.
“Then when did you see the Andrah?” Jardir asked. “Women with child, even dama’ting, are forbidden to leave the palace at night.”
“I misspoke,” Qasha said. “It was another night.”
“Which night?” Jardir pressed. “Which night did you take my unborn son from the safety of my palace without permission?”
Qasha drew herself up. “I am dama’ting, and owe you no—”
“You are my jiwah!” Jardir roared, and she quailed in the face of it. “The Evejah grants no exceptions to dama’ting when it commands wives to obedience!” It was bad enough that Inevera flaunted that sacred law as she pleased, but Jardir would be damned if he gave all his wives the same power. He was Sharum Ka!
“I did not leave the wards!” Qasha cried, holding out her hands. “I swear it!”
“Did you lie about the Andrah’s words?” Jardir asked, clenching a fist.
“No!” Qasha cried.
“Then the Andrah was here, in my palace?” Jardir asked.
“Please, I am forbidden to speak of it,” Qasha said, casting her eyes down in submission.
Jardir grabbed her roughly, forcing her to look him in the eye. “No one may forbid you anything over me!”
Qasha thrashed and pulled from his grasp, losing her balance and falling to the floor. She burst into tears, shaking as she covered her face in her hands. She looked so frail and afraid that all the anger fell from him. He knelt and put his hands gently on her shoulders.
“Of all my wives,” he said, “you are the most favored. I ask only your loyalty. You will not be punished for your answer, I swear.”
She looked up at him with round, wet eyes, and he pushed back her hair, brushing away tears with his thumb. She pulled back, looking to the floor. When she spoke, it was so low he could barely make out her words.
“All is not always still in the palace of the Sharum Ka at night,” she said, “when the master is at alagai’sharak.”
Jardir choked down a blast of anger. “And when will the palace next be stirred?”
Qasha shook her head. “I do not know,” she whimpered.
“Then cast the bones and find out,” Jardir ordered.
She looked up at him, scandalized. “I could never!”
Jardir growled, his anger flaring again, as he silently cursed the day he had married dama’ting. Even if she were not carrying his child, Jardir could not strike Qasha, and she knew it. There was a layer of Nie’s abyss reserved for any man who harmed a dama’ting.
But Jardir refused to be dominated by every one of his wives because he could not discipline as the Evejah taught. There were other ways to frighten her.
“I tire of your disobedience, jiwah,” he said. “Cast them, or I will send the Sharach to the first layer, and your tribe will be consumed by the night. The boys will be cast from Hannu Pash as khaffit, and the women left to whore for lesser tribes.” He would do no such thing, of course, but she need not know that.
“You would not dare!” Qasha said.
“Why should I allow your tribe honor, when you deny me mine?” Jardir demanded.
She was crying openly now, but Qasha nevertheless reached for the thick bag of black felt every dama’ting carried at all times. Hers was secured to her bare waist with a strand of colored beads.
Used to the practice by now, Jardir moved to draw the heavy velvet curtains, blocking any hint of sunlight that might break the magic and render the dice useless.
Qasha lit a candle. She looked at him, fear in her eyes. “Swear to me,” she begged. “Swear that you will never tell the Jiwah Ka that I did this for you.”
Inevera. Of course Jardir expected his First Wife to be at the center of any intrigue in his palace, but it cut him to hear it. He was Sharum Ka now, and still not fit to know her plans.
“I swear by Everam and the blood of my sons,” Jardir said.
Qasha nodded and cast the bones. Jardir watched their evil light and wondered for the first time if perhaps they were not Everam’s voice on Ala.
“Tonight,” Qasha whispered.
