Peter Brett: The Daylight War

The nie’dama’ting regarded the scene serenely, then turned to Inevera and her mother. She was perhaps thirteen, tall with a sturdy build, harsh cheekbones, and a hooked nose that made her look like a raptor. ‘I am Melan.’ She motioned for them to enter. ‘Dama’ting Qeva will see you now.’

Inevera took a deep breath as she and her mother removed their shoes, drew wards in the air, and passed into the dama’ting pavilion.

The sun filtered through the rising canvas roof, filling the great tent with bright light. Everything was white, from the tent walls to the painted furniture and the thick canvas flooring.

It made the blood all the more startling. There were great splashes of red and brown marring the floor of the entranceway, as well as a thick trail of muddy red footprints heading through partitions to the right and left.

‘That is Sharum blood,’ a voice said, and Inevera jumped, noticing for the first time the Bride of Everam standing right before them, her white robes blending almost perfectly with the background. ‘From the injured brought in at dawn from alagai’sharak . Each day, the canvas floor is cut away and burned atop the minarets of Sharik Hora during the call to prayer.’

As if on cue, Inevera heard the cries of pain surrounding her. On the other side of the thick partitions, men were in agony. She imagined her father — or worse, Soli — among them, and winced at every shriek and groan.

‘Everam take me now!’ a man cried desperately. ‘I will not live a cripple!’

‘Step carefully,’ Dama’ting Qeva warned. ‘The soles of your feet are not worthy to touch the blood honoured warriors have spilled for your sake.’

Inevera and her mother eased their way around the stained canvas to come before the dama’ting . Clad from head to toe in white silk with only her eyes and hands uncovered, Qeva was tall and thick of frame like Melan, but with a woman’s curves.

‘What is your name, girl?’ The Bride of Everam’s voice was deep and hard.

‘Inevera vah Kasaad am’Damaj am’Kaji, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said, bowing deeply. ‘Named after the First Wife of Kaji.’ Manvah’s nails dug into her shoulder at the addition, and she gasped involuntarily. The dama’ting seemed not to notice.

‘No doubt you think that makes you special.’ Qeva snorted. ‘If Krasia had a warrior for every worthless girl who has borne that name, Sharak Ka would be over.’

‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said, bowing again as her mother’s nails eased back.

‘You’re a pretty one,’ the dama’ting noted.

Inevera bowed. ‘Thank you, Dama’ting.’

‘The harems can always use a pretty girl, if she’s not put to good use already,’ Qeva said, looking at Manvah. ‘Who is your husband and what is your profession?’

‘Dal’Sharum Kasaad, Dama’ting,’ Manvah said, bowing. ‘And I am a palm weaver.’

‘First Wife?’ Qeva asked.

‘I am his only wife, Dama’ting,’ Manvah said.

‘Men think they take on wives as they prosper, Manvah of the Kaji,’ Qeva said, ‘but the reverse is true. Have you tried to secure sister-wives, as prescribed in the Evejah, to help with your weaving and bear him more children?’

‘Yes, Dama’ting. Many times.’ Manvah gritted her teeth. ‘Their fathers … would not approve the match.’

The Bride of Everam grunted. The answer said much about Kasaad. ‘Is the girl educated?’

Manvah nodded. ‘Yes, Dama’ting. Inevera is my apprentice. She is most skilled at weaving, and I have taught her to do sums and keep ledgers. She has read the Evejah once for each of the seven pillars of Heaven.’

The dama’ting ’s eyes were unreadable. ‘Follow me.’ She turned away, heading deeper into the pavilion. She gave no mind to the blood on the floor, her flowing silk robes gliding easily over it. Not a drop clung to them. It would not dare.

Melan followed, the nie’dama’ting stepping nimbly around the blood, and Inevera and her mother trailed after. The pavilion was a maze of white cloth walls, with many turns that were upon them before Inevera even knew they were there. There was no blood on the floor here, and even the cries of the injured Sharum grew muffled. Around one bend, the walls and ceiling shifted suddenly from white to black. It was like stepping from day into night. After turning another bend, it became so dark that her mother, in her black dal’ting robes, was nearly invisible, and even the white-clad dama’ting and her apprentice became only ghostly images.

Qeva stopped suddenly, and Melan moved around her to pull open a trapdoor Inevera hadn’t even noticed. Inside she could only just make out the stone staircase leading down into a deeper dark. The cut stone was cold on her bare feet, and when Melan pulled the trap shut behind them, the blackness became complete. They descended slowly, Inevera terrified she might trip and take the Bride of Everam tumbling down the steps with her.

The stairs were mercifully short, though Inevera did indeed stumble in surprise when she came to the landing. She caught herself quickly, and no one seemed to notice.

A red light appeared in Qeva’s hand, casting an evil glow that allowed them to see one another, but did little to abate the oppressive darkness around them. The dama’ting led them down a row of dark cells cut into the living rock. Wards were carved into the walls on both sides.

‘Wait here with Melan,’ Qeva told Manvah, and bade Inevera to enter one of the cells. She winced as the heavy door closed behind them.

There was a stone pedestal in one corner of the room, and the dama’ting deposited the glowing object there. It looked like a lump of coal carved with glowing wards, but even Inevera knew better. It was alagai hora .

Demon bone.

Qeva turned back to her, and Inevera caught the flash of a curved blade in the woman’s hand. In the red light, it appeared to be covered in blood.

Inevera shrieked and backpedalled, but the cell was tiny, and she soon fetched up against the stone wall. The dama’ting lifted the blade right up to Inevera’s nose, and her eyes crossed trying to see it.

‘You fear the blade?’ the dama’ting asked.

‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said automatically, her voice cracking.

‘Close your eyes,’ Qeva commanded. Inevera shook with fear, but she did as she was bade, her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she waited for the blade to pierce her flesh.

But the blow never came. ‘Picture a palm tree, weaver’s daughter,’ Qeva said. Inevera didn’t wholly understand, but she nodded. It was an easy image to form, as she climbed palm trees every day, nimbly shimmying up the trunk to harvest fronds for weaving.

‘Does a palm fear the wind?’ the dama’ting asked.

‘No, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said.

‘What does it do?’

‘It bends, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said.

‘The Evejah teaches us that fear and pain are only wind, Inevera, daughter of Manvah. Let it blow past you.’

‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said.

‘Repeat it three times,’ Qeva commanded.

‘Fear and pain are only wind,’ Inevera said, drawing a deep breath. ‘Fear and pain are only wind. Fear and pain are only wind.’

‘Open your eyes and kneel,’ Qeva said. When Inevera complied, she added, ‘Hold out your arm.’ The limb Inevera lifted seemed detached from her, but it held steady. The Bride of Everam pulled up Inevera’s sleeve and sliced her forearm, drawing a bright line of blood.

Inevera drew a sharp breath, but she did not flinch away or cry out. Fear and pain are only wind .