“I will see for myself,” Jardir decided, “and you will come with me.” Everyone looked at him in surprise. “Hasik, find Shanjat. Tell him to assemble the Spears of the Deliverer.” Jardir’s Maze unit had taken the name when they became his personal bodyguard. The Spears of the Deliverer were fifty of the finest dal’Sharum in Krasia, serving under kai’Sharum Shanjat.
Hasik bowed, leaving immediately.
“Are you certain this is wise, Deliverer?” Ashan asked. “It is not safe to separate yourself from your armies in enemy lands.”
“Nothing in life is safe for those who fight Sharak Ka,” Jardir said. He put a hand on Ashan’s shoulder. “But if you are concerned, you may come with me, my friend.”
Ashan bowed deeply.
“This is foolishness,” Aleverak growled. “A thousand weakling chin can overwhelm even the Spears of the Deliverer.”
Jayan snorted. “I doubt that very much, old man.”
Aleverak turned to Jardir, who nodded his permission. The ancient Damaji reached out to Jayan, and suddenly the boy was on his back.
“I’ll kill you for that, old man,” Jayan growled, rolling quickly to his feet.
“Try it, boy,” Aleverak dared, setting his feet in a sharusahk stance and beckoning with his one arm. Jayan snarled, but at the last moment, he glanced at his father.
Jardir smiled. “By all means, try and kill him.”
A vicious smile broke out on Jayan’s face, but a moment later he was back on the floor, Aleverak pulling on his arm to increase the slow pressure of his heel on Jayan’s windpipe.
“Enough,” Jardir said, and Aleverak immediately released the hold and stepped back. Jayan coughed and rubbed his throat as he rose.
“Even my own sons must respect the Damaji, Jayan,” Jardir warned. “You would be wise to hold your tongue in the future.”
He turned to Aleverak. “The Damaji will rule Everam’s Bounty in my absence, with you leading the council.”
Aleverak narrowed his eyes, as if deciding whether or not to continue his protest. Finally, he bowed deeply. “As the Shar’Dama Ka commands. Who will speak for the Kaji until Damaji Ashan returns?”
“My son, Dama Asukaji,” Ashan said, nodding to the young man. Asukaji was not yet eighteen, but he was old enough for the white robe, which meant he was old enough for the black turban, if he was strong enough to hold it.
Jardir nodded. “And if Jayan will be humble, he will serve as Sharum Ka.”
All eyes turned to Jayan, whose face betrayed his shock. After a moment, he put one hand and one knee on the ground, perhaps for the first time in his life. “I will serve the council of Damaji, of course.”
Jardir nodded. “See to it the lesser tribes continue to subjugate the chin while I am gone,” he said to Asukaji and Aleverak. “I need fresh warriors for Sharak Ka, not bickering tribes stealing one another’s wells.” The two men bowed.
Inevera rose from her bed of pillows, her face serene behind the diaphanous veil.
“I would speak to my husband in private,” she said.
Ashan bowed. “Of course, Damajah.” He ushered the others quickly out of the room, all save Asome, who stood fast behind.
“Something troubles you, my son?” Jardir asked when the others were gone.
Asome bowed. “If Jayan is to be Sharum Ka while you are gone, then by rights I should be Andrah.”
Inevera laughed. Asome’s eyes narrowed, but he knew better than to cross her.
“That would put you above your elder brother, my son,” Jardir said. “Something no father does lightly. And Sharum Ka are appointed. Andrah is a title that must be earned.”
Asome shrugged. “Summon the Damaji. I will kill them all, if that is what is required.”
Jardir looked into his son’s eyes, seeing ambition, but also a fierce pride that might indeed carry the boy, barely past his eighteenth born day, through eleven death challenges, even if it meant killing one of his own brothers or Asukaji, who was his closest friend and rumored to be his lover. Asome’s white robe might forbid him to touch a weapon, but he was deadlier than Jayan by far, and even Aleverak would do well to step carefully around him.
Jardir felt a swell of pride in the boy. Already he thought his second son might well prove a better successor than Jayan, but not until he was seasoned, and firstborn Jayan would never allow his brother to surpass him while he still drew breath.
“Krasia needs no Andrah while I live,” Jardir said instead. “And Jayan will only wear the white turban while I am gone. You will assist Asukaji in maintaining control of the Kaji.”
Asome opened his mouth again, but Inevera cut him off.
“Enough,” she said. “The matter is closed. Leave us.”
Asome scowled, but he bowed and left.
“He will be a great leader one day, if he lives long enough,” Jardir said when the door closed behind his son.
“I often think the same of you, husband,” Inevera said, turning to face him. The words stung, but Jardir said nothing, knowing it was pointless until his wife had said her piece.
“Aleverak and Ashan were right,” Inevera said. “There is no need for you to lead the expedition personally.”
“Is it not the duty of the Shar’Dama Ka to gather armies to Sharak Ka?” Jardir asked. “By all accounts, these chin fight the Holy War. I must investigate.”
“You could at least have waited until I had a chance to throw the dice,” Inevera said.
Jardir scowled. “There’s no need to throw the dice every time I leave the palace.”
“Perhaps there is,” Inevera said. “Sharak Ka is no game. We must command every advantage, if we are to succeed.”
“If Everam wills me to succeed, that is all the advantage I need,” Jardir said. “And if He does not…”
Inevera lifted her felt pouch of alagai hora. “Pray, indulge me.”
Jardir sighed, but he nodded and they retreated to a chamber off the throne room that Inevera had claimed as her own. As always, the room was filled with bright pillows and cloying incense. Jardir felt his pulse quicken, his body conditioned to associate the smell with Inevera’s sex. The Jiwah Ka was more than happy to share him when she was sated, but she was almost a man in her hunger, and the side chamber was used frequently for that purpose, often while the Damaji and Jardir’s councilors waited in the throne room without.
Inevera moved to pull the curtains, and he watched her body through the translucent veils that were all she ever wore anymore. Even at more than forty years of age—she never said for certain—she was the most beautiful of his wives by far, her curves still round and firm, her skin smooth. He was tempted to take her right there, but Inevera was single-minded when the dice were concerned, and he knew she would only rebuff him until they were thrown.
They knelt on the silk pillows, allowing a broad space for the dice to fall. As always, Inevera needed his blood for the spell, releasing it with a quick slash of her warded knife. She licked the blade clean and returned it to her belt sheath, pressing her palm to the wound, and then emptying the dice into it. They glowed fiercely in the dark as she shook her hands and threw.
The demon bones scattered on the floor, and Inevera scanned them quickly. Jardir had learned that the pattern of the fall was as important as the symbols that showed, but his understanding of the dice ended there. He had seen his wives argue many times over the meaning of a throw, though none ever dared question Inevera’s interpretations.
The Damajah hissed angrily at the pattern before her, looking up sharply at Jardir.
“You cannot go,” she said.
Jardir scowled, moving to the window and grabbing the curtain angrily. “Cannot?” he demanded, pulling the heavy drapes aside and flooding the room with bright sunlight. Inevera barely got her dice back in the pouch in time.
“I am Shar’Dama Ka,” he said. “There is nothing I cannot do.”
