Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

Inevera sighed. “The moment I cast the dice for Ahmann, a boy of nine, I saw the potential in him. I would have thought it a fluke, but after years of searching I found it in another, the Par’chin, who was younger than Asome. Never before or since those two have I seen a boy or man with even the hope of following the Deliverer’s path. One of my sons may yet need to take the throne, but they will only be holding it for the one to come next.”

“None rise willingly from a throne once it is sat,” Manvah said.

“And so it is my hope to hold them off as long as I can,” Inevera said. “There is still time, Everam willing. Neither boy has proven himself in any significant way. Without deeds, neither of them can wrest power from the Andrah. My concern this day is how to keep Kajivah in check.”

“I hate to suggest it,” Manvah said, “but the answer may well be spending more time with her.”

Inevera stared at her blankly.

“And making your raiment a touch more modest.” Only the corners of Manvah’s mouth were touched by her smile, but it was unmistakable.

Ashia watched impassively as Asome cut his hand, squeezing blood over Melan’s dice.

Her husband had done this often since word of the impending attack on Docktown had come to them. Asome’s hands were covered in bandages.

Asome and Asukaji still stared at the process in fascination. Growing into womanhood in the Dama’ting Palace, Ashia had seen the casting ritual countless times, but even she found her eyes drawn to it. There was beauty in the alagai hora, and mystery. She tracked the dice as Melan threw, breath held in anticipation of that exquisite moment when the dice were struck from their natural trajectory, moved by the hand of Everam.

She knew in her heart the power came from the bones and the wards, but Ashia did not believe any but the Brides of Everam could summon His hand. To any other, they would just be dice.

But for all their power and closeness to Everam, Ashia did not covet white robes and dama blood. She, too, felt Everam’s touch. It thrummed through her when she killed alagai. Not the magic, though that was a heady sensation of its own. She felt it even that first night, when she killed with an unwarded spear. There was a sense of rightness, an utter calm and surety that she did His good work. It was her purpose in life. The gift of Sharum blood.

Melan looked up, veiled face glowing red in the wardlight. “Tonight. The divergence is now, or it will never be. When Jayan returns, he will come for the Skull Throne. If you do not act tonight, he will take it.”

For an instant, Ashia lost her center, swept away by a memory.

“Let him defeat you,” the Damajah told Ashia.

“Eh?” Ashia asked. She had only just been raised to Sharum’ting, she and her spear sisters to be sent to the young Sharum Ka for the first time.

Inevera had claimed the young women as her bodyguard, but they were still Sharum, and subject to Jayan. He was to “assess” them this night, to deem their worthiness and where he would position them in alagai’sharak.

“Jayan is proud,” Inevera said. “He will seek to dominate you in front of your sisters, to ensure you do not threaten him. He will challenge you to spar under the guise of assessing your sharusahk, but the fight will be very real.”

“And you wish me to … lose?” Impossible. Unthinkable. How many years had she been forced to feign weakness—Asome the push’ting’s timid bride? The Damajah had promised that would change when she was given the spear.

“I command you to lose,” Inevera said, her tone sharpening. “Show him your mettle. Earn his respect. And then lose. If you do not, he will kill you.”

Ashia swallowed, knowing she should be silent and nod. “And if I kill him?”

“He is the firstborn son of the Deliverer,” Inevera said. “If you kill him, every Sharum and dama in Krasia will call for your head, and the Shar’Dama Ka will not deny them.”

She said nothing of her own part in that, but Jayan was her firstborn, as well. Ashia knew Inevera’s oldest son vexed her, but she loved him, too.

“I know this command pains your Sharum heart,” Inevera said. “But I give it in love. I am the Damajah. Your pride, your life, are mine.” She laid a gentle hand on Ashia’s shoulder. “I value the first less than the second. Everam has a plan for you, and it is not to die for the sake of a man’s frail ego.”

Ashia nodded, shrugging off the hand as she knelt, putting her hands on the floor and pressing her forehead between them. “As the Damajah commands.”

There had not been many witnesses. Jayan knew the Sharum’ting had his father’s favor, and did not wish to discredit them publicly. It was just her and Shanvah, Jayan, Jurim, and Hasik. Shanvah’s father Shanjat, first among the kai’Sharum, should by rights have been there as well. His absence was telling.

The Sharum Ka and two elite Spears of the Deliverer. Even if she and Shanvah could kill them all before they raised the alarm—a prospect of which she was by no means certain—dozens of warriors had seen them enter the audience chamber. There would be no lasting escape.

Jayan grinned as the two women placed their hands on the floor before him. “My timid cousins! Shying from every sound and never speaking in more than a whisper. Who but Everam could have imagined you spent years learning sharusahk in secret?”

“There are many mysteries in the Dama’ting Palace,” Ashia said.

Jayan chuckled. “Of that, I have no doubt.” He undid the clasp of his cape and opened his armored robe, standing bare-chested in his pantaloons. “But while you learned at the hands of women, I studied at the feet of Shar’Dama Ka himself. I must judge your prowess, if I am to find a place for you in sharak. ” He held a hand out, beckoning.

Ashia’s breathing was steady as she rose. She, too, removed her cape and unslung the shield from her shoulder, passing them to Shanvah. She did not remove her robe, but she slid her hands into its many pockets with practiced efficiency, removing the ceramic armor plates within and stacking them neatly on the floor.

She was lighter when she rose to her feet, gliding out onto the floor to begin circling opposite Jayan.

His stance was strong. Jayan was not lying when he said the Shar’Dama Ka had taught him, and her uncle was the greatest known sharusahk master. Perhaps he could win the battle fairly. It would bring no shame to Enkido to be defeated by the Deliverer’s son, and Ashia would prefer to lose in truth than dishonor them both by throwing the match.

But then he came at her, and Ashia was the faster. Instinctively she tripped him, jabbing her toe into a convergence point that numbed his foot momentarily. He lost balance as he passed, and Ashia stole the energy, slipping her hand under his armpit and using it to throw him onto his back.

A hush fell on the room. The men looked dumbstruck, having expected a very different result. Ashia wondered if she had already gone too far; if the men would kill her to save face for their Sharum Ka.

But after a moment, Jayan forced a laugh, getting back to his feet, stomping to restore feeling to the numbed appendage. “A fine throw! Let us see what else you have.”

He kept better guard this time, delivering a flurry of punches, kicks, and open-hand blows. Ashia dodged most of them, diverting the others with minimal contact. She made a few halfhearted strikes of her own, assessing his defenses.

He was good, as Sharum went. One of the best. But many of his blocks left convergences open, giving her points she could use to disable, cripple, and kill.