“What is your purpose in this life?” Qeran cried.
“To kill alagai!” Jardir screamed.
His hand shot out, clutching Jardir around the throat and pulling him close. “And how will you die?” he asked quietly.
“On alagai talons,” Jardir choked. The drillmaster released him, and he gasped in a breath, standing back to attention before Qeran could find further reason to beat him.
“On alagai talons!” Khevat cried. “Dal’Sharum do not die old in their beds! They do not fall prey to sickness or hunger! Dal’Sharum die in battle, and win into paradise. Basking in Everam’s glory, they bathe and drink from rivers of sweet cool milk, and have virgins beyond count devoted to them.”
“Death to alagai!” the boys all screamed at once, pumping their fists. “Glory to Everam!”
After these sessions, they were given their bowls, and the gruel pot was set out. There was never enough for all, and more than one boy each day went hungry. The older and larger boys, led by Hasik, had established their pecking order and filled their bowls first, but even they took but one ladle each. To take more, or to spill gruel in a scuffle at the pot, was to invite the wrath of the ever-present drillmasters.
As the older boys ate, the youngest and weakest of nie’Sharum fought hard among themselves for a place in line. After his first night’s beating and the day in the pits, Jardir was in no shape to fight for days, but Abban had taken well to using his weight as a weapon, and always secured them a place, even if it was close to the back.
When the bowls were emptied, the training began.
There were obstacle courses to build endurance, and long sessions practicing the sharukin—groups of movements that made up the forms of sharusahk. They learned to march and move in step even at speed. With nothing in their bellies but the thin gruel, the boys became like speartips, thin and hard as the weapons they drilled with.
Sometimes the drillmasters sent groups of boys to ambush nie’Sharum in neighboring sharaji, beating them severely. Nowhere was safe, not even when sitting at the waste pits. Sometimes the older boys like Hasik and his friends would mount the defeated boys from other tribes from behind, thrusting into them as if they were women. It was a grave dishonor, and Jardir had been forced to kick more than one attacker between the legs to avoid such a fate for himself. A Majah boy managed to pull down Abban’s bido once, but Jardir kicked him in the face so hard blood spurted from his nose.
“At any moment, the Majah could attack to take a well,” Kaval told Jardir when they came to him after the assault, “or the Nanji come to carry off our women. We must be ready at every moment of every day to kill or be killed.”
“I hate this place,” Abban whined, close to tears, when the drillmaster left. “I cannot wait for the Waning, when I can go home to my mother and sisters, if only for the new moon.”
Jardir shook his head. “He’s right. Letting your guard down, even for a moment, invites death.” He clenched his fist. “That may have happened to my father, but it won’t happen to me.”
After the drillmasters completed their lessons each day, the older boys supervised repetition, and they were no less quick to punish than the dal’Sharum.
“Keep your knees bent as you pivot, rat,” Hasik growled as Jardir performed a complicated sharukin. He punctuated his advice by kicking behind Jardir’s knees, driving him into the dust.
“The son of piss cannot perform a simple pivot!” Hasik cried to the other boys, laughing. His s’s still came out with a whistle through the gap where Qeran had knocked out one of his teeth.
Jardir growled and launched himself at the older boy. He might have to obey the dama and dal’Sharum, but Hasik was only nie’Sharum, and he would accept no insult to his father from the likes of him.
But Hasik was also five years his senior, and soon to lose his bido. He was larger than Jardir by far, and had years of experience at the deadly art of the empty hand. He caught Jardir’s wrist, twisting and pulling the arm straight, then pivoted to bring his elbow down hard on the locked limb.
Jardir heard the snap and saw the bone jut free of his skin, but there was a long moment of dawning horror before the blast of pain hit him.
And he screamed.
Hasik’s hand snapped over Jardir’s mouth, cutting off his howls and pulling him close.
“The next time you come for me, son of piss, I will kill you,” he promised.
Abban ducked under Jardir’s good arm and half carried him to the dama’ting pavilion at the far end of the training grounds. The tent opened as they approached, as if they had been expected. A tall woman clad in white from head to toe held the flap open, only her hands and eyes visible. She gestured to a table inside, and Abban hurried to place Jardir there, beside a girl who was clad all in white like a dama’ting. But her face, young and beautiful, was uncovered.
Dama’ting did not speak to nie’Sharum.
Abban bowed deeply when Jardir was in place. The dama’ting nodded toward the flaps, and he practically fell over himself in his haste to exit. It was said the dama’ting could see the future, and knew a man’s death just by looking at him.
The woman glided over to Jardir, a blur of white to his pain-clouded eyes. He could not tell if she was young or old, beautiful or ugly, stern or kind. She seemed above such petty things, her devotion to Everam transcending all mortal concern.
The girl lifted a small stick wrapped many times in white cloth and placed it in Jardir’s mouth, gently pushing his jaw closed. Jardir understood, and bit down.
“Dal’Sharum embrace their pain,” the girl whispered as the dama’ting moved to a table to gather instruments.
There was a sharp sting as the dama’ting cleansed the wound, and a flare of agony as she wrenched his arm to set the bone. Jardir bit hard into the stick, and tried to do as the girl said, opening himself to the pain, though he did not fully understand. For a moment the pain seemed more than he could endure, but then, as if he were passing through a doorway, it became a distant thing, a suffering he was aware of but not part of. His jaw unclenched, and the stick fell away unneeded.
As Jardir relaxed into the pain, he turned to watch the dama’ting. She worked with calm efficiency, murmuring prayers to Everam as she stitched muscle and skin. She ground herbs into a paste she slathered on the wound, wrapping it in clean cloth soaked in a thick white mixture.
With surprising strength, she lifted him from the table and set him on a hard cot. She put a flask to his lips and Jardir drank, immediately feeling warm and woozy.
The dama’ting turned away, but the girl lingered a moment. “Bones become stronger after being broken,” she whispered, giving comfort as Jardir drifted off to sleep.
He woke to find the girl sitting beside his cot. She pressed a damp cloth to his forehead. It was the coolness that had woken him. His eyes danced over her uncovered face. He had once thought his mother beautiful, but it was nothing compared with this girl.
“The young warrior awakens,” she said, smiling at him.
“You speak,” Jardir said through parched lips. His arm seemed encased in white stone; the dama’ting’s wrappings had hardened while he slept.
“Am I a beast, that I should not?” the girl asked.
“To me, I mean,” Jardir said. “I am only nie’Sharum.” And not yet worthy of you by half, he added silently.
The girl 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 set the cloth aside, lifting a steaming 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.”
Jardir swallowed the hot food quickly. “What is your name?” he asked when done.
The girl smiled as she wiped his mouth with a soft cloth. “Bold, for a boy barely old enough for his bido.”
“I’m sorry,” Jardir said.
She laughed. “Boldness is no cause for sorrow. Everam has no love for the timid. My name is Inevera.”
“As Everam wills,” Jardir translated. It was a common saying in Krasia. Inevera nodded.
“Ahmann,” Jardir introduced himself, “son of Hoshkamin.”
