“But you feel Ashan is not worthy to instruct you?” Khevat pressed. “After all, he is only nie’dama, a novice not yet old enough to speak, and you have stood with men in alagai’sharak.”
Jardir shrugged helplessly, feeling that very thing, but fearing a trap.
“Very well,” Khevat said. “You will spar with Ashan. When you defeat him, I will assign you a more worthy instructor.”
The other novices backed away, forming a ring on the polished marble floor. Ashan stood in its center and bowed to Jardir.
Jardir cast one last glance at Dama Khevat, then bowed in return. “Apologies, Ashan,” he said as they closed, “but I must defeat you.”
Ashan said nothing, assuming a sharusahk battle stance. Jardir did likewise, and Khevat clapped his hands.
“Begin!” the dama called.
Jardir shot forward, his stiffened fingers going for Ashan’s throat. The move would put the boy out of the fight quickly, yet do no permanent harm.
But Ashan surprised him, pivoting smoothly from Jardir’s path and delivering a kick to his side that sent him sprawling.
Jardir rolled quickly to his feet, cursing himself for underestimating the boy. He came in again, his defenses set, and feinted a punch to Ashan’s jaw. When the boy moved to block, Jardir spun, feinting an elbow jab to his opposite kidney. Again Ashan shifted, positioning himself correctly, and Jardir spun back again, delivering the real blow—a leg sweep that he would complement with an elbow to the chest, putting the nie’dama flat on his back.
But the leg Jardir meant to sweep was not where it was supposed to be, and his kick met only air. Ashan caught his leg, using Jardir’s own strength against him as he followed through with the exact move Jardir had planned. As Jardir fell, Ashan drove an elbow into his chest that blasted the breath from him. He hit the marble floor hard, banging his head, but was moving to rise before he felt the pain. He would not allow himself to be defeated!
Before he had set his hands and feet, though, they were kicked out from under him. He hit the floor again and felt a foot pin the small of his back. His flailing left leg was caught, as was his right arm, and Ashan pulled hard, threatening to twist the limbs from their sockets.
Jardir screamed, his eyes blurring in pain. He embraced the feeling, and when his vision cleared, he caught a glimpse of a dama’ting, watching him from the shadowed arch to the hall.
She shook her veiled head and walked away.
Deep in the bowels of Sharik Hora, Jardir could not tell night from day. He slept when the dama told him to sleep, ate when they gave him food, and followed their commands in between. There were a handful of dal’Sharum in the temple as well, training to be kai’Sharum, but no nie’Sharum save him. He was the least of the least, and when he thought of how those who had once leapt to his commands, Shanjat and Jurim and the others, might be losing their bidos even now, the shame threatened to overwhelm him.
For the first year, he was Ashan’s shadow. Without uttering a sound, the nie’dama taught Jardir what he needed to survive among the clerics. When to pray, when to kneel, how to bow, and how to fight.
Jardir had severely underestimated the fighting skills of the dama. They might be denied the spear, but the least of them was a match for any two dal’Sharum in the art of the empty hand.
But combat was something Jardir understood. He threw himself into the training, losing his shame in the endlessly flowing forms. Even after the lamps were extinguished each night, Jardir practiced the sharukin for hours in the darkness of his tiny cell.
After the tanners had taken Moshkama’s skin, Jardir and Ashan took the body and boiled it in oil, fishing out the bones and bleaching them in the sun atop the bone minarets that climbed into the desert sky. The jiwah’Sharum had filled three tear bottles over his body, and these were mixed with the lacquer they used to paint the bones before laying them out for the artisans. Moshkama’s bones and the tears of his mourners would add to the glory of Sharik Hora, and Jardir dreamed of the day he, too, would become one with the holy temple.
There were other tasks, less satisfying, less honorable. He spent hours each day learning to speak on paper, using a stick to copy the words of the Evejah into a box of sand as he recited them aloud. It seemed a useless art, unfit for a warrior, but Jardir heeded the dama’ting’s words and worked hard, mastering the letters quickly. From there he learned mathematics, history, philosophy, and finally warding. This, he devoured hungrily. Anything that might hurt or hinder the alagai received his utter devotion.
Drillmaster Qeran came several times a week, spending hours honing Jardir’s spearwork, while the dama loremasters taught him tactics and the history of war dating back to the time of the Deliverer.
“War is more than prowess on the field,” Dama Khevat said. “The Evejah tells us that war is, at its crux, deception.”
“Deception?” Jardir asked.
Khevat nodded. “As you might feint with your spear, so too must the wise leader misdirect his foe before battle is ever joined. When strong, he must appear weak. When weak, he must seem ready to fight. When near enough to strike, he must seem too far to threaten. When regrouping, he must make his enemies believe attack is imminent. It is thus he makes the enemy waste their strength while husbanding his own.”
Jardir cocked his head. “Is it not more honorable to meet the enemy head-on?”
“We did not build the Great Maze so that we could sally forth and meet the alagai head-on,” Khevat said. “There is no greater honor than victory, and to achieve victory, you must seize every advantage, great and small. This is the essence of war, and war is the essence of all things, from the lowest khaffit haggling in the bazaar to the Andrah hearing petitions in his palace.”
“I understand,” Jardir said.
“Deceit depends on secrecy,” Khevat went on. “If spies can learn of your deceptions, they take away all your strength. A great leader must hold his deceit so close that even his inner circle and sometimes even he himself does not think on it until the time to strike.”
“But why make war at all, Dama?” Jardir dared to ask.
“Eh?” Khevat replied.
“We are all Everam’s children,” Jardir said. “The enemy is the alagai. We need every man to stand against him, yet we kill one another under the sun every day.” Khevat looked at him, and Jardir was not sure if the dama was annoyed or pleased with the question.
“Unity,” the dama replied at last. “In war men stand together, and it is that collective power that makes them strong. In the words of Kaji himself during his conquest of the green lands, Unity is worth any price of blood. Against the night and Nie’s untold legions, better a hundred thousand men standing together than a hundred million cowering by themselves. Remember that always, Ahmann.”
Jardir bowed. “I will, Dama.”
CHAPTER 5
JIWAH KA
THREE NIE’DAMAAPPROACHED HIM from all sides, and though he could not see her, Jardir sensed that the dama’ting was watching. She was always watching.
He embraced the moment as he did pain, letting all worldly concern fall away. After more than five years in Sharik Hora, the peace came effortlessly when he called it now. There was no him. There was no them. There was no her. There was only the dance.
Ashan came at him first, but Jardir feinted a block, then pivoted and leapt aside to punch Halvan in the chest, Ashan’s kick meeting only air. He caught Halvan’s arm and twisted him to the ground easily. He could have torn the arm from its socket, but it was a greater test of skill to leave his opponents unharmed.
Shevali waited for Ashan to recover before coming at him, the two attacking with a unity that would do any
