Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

Ashia took Micha’s hands in hers, squeezing tightly. “No, beloved sister. There is only us. With Shanvah gone, the Sharum’ting will look to you and Jarvah as well. You must be strong for them as you have been for me, this night.”

Ashia’s robes were still wet with demon gore as she made her way back to the palace chambers she shared with Asome and their infant son, Kaji.

Normally she would change from her Sharum robes to proper women’s blacks before returning, that she might not further the rift with her husband. Asome had never approved of her taking the spear, but it was not his decision to make. Both had petitioned the Deliverer to divorce them when he named her Sharum’ting, but her uncle had refused the request, his wisdom a mystery.

Ashia was tired of hiding, though, tired of pretending to be a helpless jiwah in her chambers even as she broke men and bled alagai in the night. All to protect the honor of a man who cared nothing for her.

Enkido would be ashamed of you. Micha’s words echoed in her mind. What was her husband’s displeasure compared to that?

She was silent as a spirit, but there was no sign of Asome—her husband likely sleeping in Asukaji’s embrace in the new Damaji’s palace. The only one present was Ashia’s grandmother Kajivah, asleep on a divan outside the nursery of her son Kaji. Her first great-grandchild, the Holy Mother doted on the boy, refusing a proper nurse.

“Who could love the boy better than his own grandmother?” she would always say. Implicit in that statement, of course, was her belief that Ashia herself was unsuitable, now that she had taken up the spear.

Ashia slipped by without disturbing her, closing the nursery door behind her as she looked down upon her sleeping son.

She had not wanted the child. She had feared what bearing would do to her warrior’s body, and there was no love lost between her and Asome. Her brother’s need to have his own sister bear his lover’s child had seemed an abomination.

But Kaji, that perfect, beautiful child, was no abomination. Having spent months with him suckling at her breast, sleeping in her arms, reaching his tiny hands up to touch her face, Ashia could not bring herself to wish any change upon her life that might undo him. His existence was inevera.

Enkido would be ashamed of you.

There was a creak, and the edge of the crib broke off in her hands with a loud crack. Kaji opened his eyes and let out a shriek.

Ashia tossed the broken wood aside, reaching for the boy. Always his mother’s touch could calm him, but this time Kaji thrashed in her arms, struggling wildly. She tried to still him, but he screamed louder at her clutch, and she saw his skin bruising at her touch.

The night strength was still upon her.

Quickly, Ashia laid her son back in his pillows, seeing in horror his soft, smooth skin bruised and stained with the demon ichor that still clung to her. The stink of it was thick in the air.

The door slammed open, and Kajivah stormed into the room. “What are you doing, disturbing the child at this hour?!”

Then she saw the child, bruised and covered in ichor, and let out a wail. She turned to Ashia, enraged. “Get out! Get out! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

She shoved hard, and Ashia, fearing her own strength, allowed herself to be driven from the room. Kajivah took the child in her arms, kicking the door shut behind her.

For the second time that night, Ashia lost her center. Her legs turned to water as she stumbled to her room, slamming the door and slumping to the floor in darkness.

Perhaps the abomination is me.

For the first time in years, Ashia put her hand to her face and wept. She wanted nothing more than the comforting presence of her master.

But Enkido was on the lonely path, and like her grandmother, he would be ashamed of her.

“Sit up straight,” Kajivah snapped. “You’re a princess of the Kaji, not some kha’ting wretch! I despair of ever finding you a husband worthy of your blood who will take you.”

“Yes, Tikka.” Ashia shivered, though the palace baths were warm and steamy. She was but thirteen, and in no rush to marry, but Kajivah had seen the reddened wadding and seized upon it. Nevertheless, she straightened as her mother, Imisandre, scrubbed her back.

“Nonsense, Mother,” Imisandre said. “Thirteen and beautiful, eldest daughter of the Damaji of Krasia’s greatest tribe, and niece to the Deliverer himself? Ashia is the most desirable bride in all the world.”

Ashia shivered again. Her mother had meant the words calm her, but they did the opposite.

Kajivah was apt to be vexed when her daughters disagreed with her, but she only smiled patiently, signaling her daughter-in-law Thalaja to add more hot stones to the water. She always held court thus, from the nursery to the kitchen to the baths.

Her subjects were her five dal’ting daughters—Imisandre, Hoshvah, Hanya, Thalaja, and Everalia—and granddaughters Ashia, Shanvah, Sikvah, Micha, and Jarvah.

“It appears Dama Baden agrees,” Kajivah said.

Every head turned sharply to look at her. “His grandson Raji?” Imisandre asked.

A wide grin broke across Kajivah’s face now that the secret was out. “They say no man has ever offered such wealth for a single bride.”

Ashia couldn’t breathe. A moment ago she would have put this moment off for years, but … Prince Raji? The boy was handsome and strong, heir to the white and a fortune that dwarfed even the Andrah’s. What more could she want?

“He is not worthy of you, sister.”

All eyes turned to Ashia’s brother Asukaji, standing in the doorway with his back to the women. It was not an uncommon sight. No man would have been allowed entry to the women’s bath, but Asukaji was but twelve and still in his bido. More, he was push’ting, and all the women knew it, more interested in the gossip in a woman’s head than what was under her robes.

All the women of the family adored Asukaji. Even Kajivah did not mind that he preferred men, so long as he did his duty and took wives to provide her with grandchildren.

“Beloved nephew,” Kajivah said. “What brings you here?”

“My last visit to the women’s bath, I am afraid,” the boy said, to a chorus of disappointment. “I was called to Hannu Pash this morning. I will be taking the white.”

Kajivah led the cheers. “That’s wonderful! Of course we all knew it would be so. You are the Deliverer’s nephew.”

Asukaji gave a shrug. “Are you not the Deliverer’s mother? His wives and sisters, his nieces? Why is it none of you is in white, yet I should be?”

“You are a man,” Kajivah said, as if it were obvious.

“What does that matter?” Asukaji said. “You ask whom Ashia should be worthy of, but the true question is what man is worthy of her ?”

“Who in the Kaji is higher than Dama Baden’s heir?” Ashia asked. “Father wouldn’t marry me into another tribe … would he?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Kajivah snapped. “The very notion is absurd.”

But there was doubt on her face as she looked to her grandson. “Who is worthy, then?”

“Asome, of course,” Asukaji said. The two boys were nearly inseparable.

“He is our cousin!” Ashia said, shocked.

Asukaji shrugged. “What of it? The Evejah speaks of many such unions in the time of Kaji. Asome is the son of the Shar’Dama Ka, beautiful, rich, and powerful. More, he can cement the ties between my father and the house of Jardir.”