Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

But for inevera, Ashia thought, that could have been me.

“I will need new silks,” Inevera said. “The Deliverer is … traveling. Until his return, I will wear only opaque colors.” The women nodded, moving hurriedly to comply.

“There is more news.” Inevera turned back, first meeting the eyes of Qeva and Melan, then letting her gaze drift to rest on Ashia and her spear sisters.

“Enkido is dead.”

Ashia pictured the palm, and bent before the wind that rushed over her. She bowed to the Damajah. A step behind, Micha and Jarvah mirrored her. “Thank you for telling us, Damajah.” Her voice was steady and even, eyes carefully on the floor, seeing all in periphery. “I will not ask if he died with his honor intact, for it could be no other way.”

Inevera nodded. “Enkido’s honor was boundless even before he severed his tongue and tree to serve my predecessor and learn the secrets of dama’ting sharusahk. ”

Melan stiffened slightly at the mention of Inevera’s predecessor, Qeva’s mother and Melan’s grandmother, Damaji’ting Kenevah. It was said the Damajah choked the old woman to death to wrest control of the tribe’s women from her. Qeva gave no reaction.

“Enkido was killed by an alagai changeling, bodyguard to one of Nie’s princelings,” Inevera went on. “These mimic demons can take on any form, real or imagined. I watched the Deliverer himself in pitched battle with one. Enkido died doing his duty, protecting Amanvah, Sikvah, and their honored husband, the son of Jessum. Your cousins live because of his sacrifice.”

Ashia nodded, bending her center to accept the news. “Does this … changeling still live?” If so, she would find a way to track and kill it, even if she had to follow it all the way to Nie’s abyss.

Inevera shook her head. “Amanvah and the son of Jessum weakened the creature, but it was the Par’chin’s Jiwah Ka who at last took its unholy life.”

“She must be formidable indeed to succeed where our honored master failed,” Ashia said.

“Beware that one, should your paths ever cross,” the Damajah agreed. “She is nearly as powerful as her husband, but both, I fear, have drunk too deeply of alagai magic, and made the madness that comes with it a part of them.”

Ashia put her hands together, eyes still on the floor. “My spear sisters and I beg the Damajah’s leave to go into the night and kill seven alagai each in his honor, one for each pillar of heaven, to guide our lost master on the lonely road.”

The Damajah whisked her fingers. “Of course. Assist the Sharum. ”

Ashia’s hand worked with precision, painting wards on her nails. They were not long in the fashionable way of pampered wives and some dama’ting. Enkido’s students kept a warrior’s cut, barely past the nub, the better to handle weapons.

But Ashia had no need to claw at the alagai. A knife or speartip served best for that. She had other intentions.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched her spear sisters, silent save for the sounds of oil and leather, stitching and polishing as they readied weapons for the coming night.

The Damajah had given her kai’Sharum’ting spears and shields of warded glass, much like the Spears of the Deliverer. The blades needed no sharpening, but the grips and harnesses were just as important, and Enkido had inspected all their equipment regularly, never satisfied. A single crooked stitch on a shield strap, barely visible and irrelevant to performance, and he would rip out the thick leather with his bare hands, forcing the owner to replace it entirely.

Other infractions were treated less gently.

There were three kai’Sharum’ting remaining in Everam’s Bounty. Ashia, Micha, and Jarvah. Micha and Jarvah were full daughters of the Deliverer, but born to his dal’ting wives, Thalaja and Everalia. They, too, had been refused the white.

Their blood might have ranked them above the Deliverer’s nieces, but Ashia was four years older than Micha, and six older than Jarvah. The girls walked in women’s bodies thanks to the magic they absorbed each night, but they still looked to Ashia to guide them.

More women were becoming Sharum’ting every day, but only they were blood of the Deliverer. Only they wore the white veils.

Only they had been trained by Enkido.

That dusk, the gates of the city opened to release the Sharum into the vast territory they dubbed the New Maze. Two hours later, when full night had fallen, the three kai’Sharum’ting and half a dozen of their new spear sisters slipped quietly over the wall.

The Damajah’s command to “assist” the Sharum was very clear. They would hunt the outer edges of the New Maze, where demons were thickest, and patrol for foolhardy Sharum, so drunk on magic and eager for carnage they let themselves be surrounded.

Ashia and her spear sisters would then step in to rescue the men. It was meant to create blood ties with as many Sharum as possible, but being saved by women stung the warriors’ pride. This, too, was part of the Damajah’s plan, for they were to invite challenges from the men, killing or crippling enough to send clear examples to the others.

Miles melted away under their fleet steps. Their black robes were embroidered with wards of unsight to render them invisible to the alagai, their veils with wards of sight to let them see as clearly in night as in day.

It wasn’t long before they found four overeager Majah dal’Sharum who had ranged too far from their unit and been caught by a reap of field demons. Three of the demons were down, but so was one of the Sharum, clutching a bloodied leg. His fellows ignored him—and their training—fighting as individuals when a formation might yet save them.

Drunk on alagai magic, Ashia signed to her sisters. The madness of magic’s grip was known to them, but it was easily ignored by a warrior who kept her center. We must save them from themselves.

Ashia herself speared the field demon that would have killed the abandoned Sharum as Micha, Jarvah, and the others waded into the dozen remaining demons in the reap.

The jolt of magic as she speared the demon thrummed through her. In Everam’s light, she could see the magic running like fire along the lines of power in her aura. The same lines drawn in the Evejah’ting, and tattooed on her master’s body. The Riddle of Enkido.

Ashia felt the surge of strength and speed, understanding how easily one could get drunk upon it. She felt invincible. Aggression tugged at her center. She bent her spirit as the palm in the wind and let it pass over her.

Ashia examined the deep wound in the Sharum’s leg. Already it was closing as the alagai magic he had absorbed turned its workings inward to repair. “Next time, angle your shield properly.”

“What would a woman know of such things?” the warrior demanded.

Ashia stood. “This woman saved your life, Sharum. ”

A demon leapt at her, but she bashed it aside with her shield, sending it sprawling near one of the other dal’Sharum, who speared it viciously. It was a killing stroke, but the man tore free his spear and stabbed again and again, roaring in incoherent fury.

Another demon leapt for his back, and Ashia had to shove the warrior aside to stab at it. She struck a glancing blow, but the angle was poor, and the force of the alagai’s leap knocked the weapon from her grasp.

Ashia gave ground for two steps, batting aside flashing paws with her shield. The demon tried to snap at her, and she shoved the edge of the shield into its jaws, lifting to bare its vulnerable underbelly. A kick put it onto its back, and before it could recover its feet she fell on it, pinning its limbs as she stuck her knife into its throat.