Peter Brett: The Skull Throne

The last warrior had his shield up, knees bent and ready to spring. His spear was lowered at her chest, pointed at Kaji.

But the tip shook.

“Find your courage and come at me, warrior,” Ashia said. “Die with honor in your duty, and Everam will welcome you at the end of the lonely path.”

The dal’Sharum took a breath, then gave a great cry and leapt at her, spear leading in a fine thrust.

Ashia killed him quickly, with honor.

“Witch!” Ashia saw as he fell away that the warrior with the crippled leg, forgotten on the floor, had raised himself on his good leg.

The spear had already left his hand, bound for her heart. The armor plates in her robes could have easily deflected such a blow, but Kaji, strapped above them, could not.

With no time to dodge, Ashia dropped her weapon and wrapped Kaji in her arms, twisting to take the blow on her side. The plates there were smaller, with gaps to allow freedom of movement. The point deflected from one, then sank into the gap in between.

Ashia was knocked back a step. For a moment she thought the blow nothing, but the weight of the spear pulled at her when she moved, embedded deep in her side.

She did not know the extent of the damage, but it was as irrelevant as the pain. She pulled the blade from her body and turned it on the thrower, then snatched up her own spear and sprinted after Bura and Kamen.

It was easy enough to get ahead of the men. The palace was riddled with paths known only to the Sharum’ting, allowing her to pass through walls while the men were forced to take a longer route, slowed by their holy charge.

Ashia was braced above an archway, waiting for them to pass. Kaji fidgeted, and her hastily bound wound ached, soaking her robe, but she was deep in her breath, and these things did not touch her.

Heralded by their frantic gasping, the warriors approached. She let Bura run past the arch, falling silently upon Kamen.

Kaji gave a laugh as they dropped, and the unfortunate warrior looked up just in time to see death coming. When Kamen dropped his end of the stretcher, the sudden drag cost Bura his balance, and she had him.

“Tikka!” Kaji cried, seeing Kajivah. Ashia grit her teeth as she lifted the woman’s dead weight and slung her across her shoulders.

Down the hall she heard the shouts of more warriors, combing the palace for her.

—Your firstborn is dead.—

Inevera stared at the dice, sorting through the mixture of emotions that passed through her.

It was the duty of all dama’ting to produce a female heir, but she had put her own needs aside for her people, using the dice to bless Ahmann with two sons first, one for sharaj and the other for Sharik Hora. The boys had been born out of duty, but as they grew within her, Everam worked His subtlest magic, for in that miracle she had come to love the infants as they suckled her breasts.

As they grew, the boys vexed her in equal measure. She had thought her sons would take after Ahmann, but they were their own creatures. For what son of the Deliverer could be anything but a disappointment?

Jayan was Sharum to the core—brutal and willfully ignorant. From cradle to the Maze, he had never wasted a moment on caution or personal safety, leaping without a glance below. As a leader, he was apt to solve problems with the spear rather than wisdom. He was clever in his way, and might have made a name for himself, but the only name anyone ever needed to hear was his father’s. Too much decision had been thrust upon him before he was fully a man.

The dice had never been much use with her own children, but she had always known in her heart he would die young.

That fear trebled at word he was heading north.

—Doom befall the armies of the Deliverer— the dice had said —if they should march north with enemies unconquered at their back—

Confirmation of Jayan’s death brought a wave of anguish, made worse by the guilty feeling of relief that the moment she’d dreaded for so long had finally come.

There would be time to fill tear bottles later. She envisioned the palm bending before the wind of her pain and focused her breath until she was ready to cast again.

—Three times will your power be challenged tonight.—

This gave her pause, and for a moment, she felt a touch of fear. Her eyes flicked to the single entrance to her casting chamber. Outside Micha and Jarvah waited with Damaji’ting Qeva, ready to defend her with their lives. Other Sharum’ting waited outside her chambers, as well as eunuch guards trained by Enkido himself.

If the news of Jayan’s defeat reached the Damaji, there was no telling what they might do. None of them could be trusted, schemers all. They would not hesitate to act if it was in their interests.

She lifted the dice a third time. “Almighty Everam, Giver of Life and Light, give your humble servant knowledge of what is to come. Who will challenge me this night?”

The dice flared and fell into a complex pattern as always, but the message was simple.

—Wait.—

There was a cry outside the chamber.

Melan looked up as Inevera entered the room. She had removed her white headwrap, holding her mother’s black one in hand. Qeva lay at her feet, aura extinguished in death. Across the chamber by the doors lay Micha and Jarvah. Their auras were flat and dim, and they lay unmoving.

To Inevera’s shock, Melan laughed. It was so unexpected, she hesitated.

“Come, Damajah!” Melan cried. “Can you not see the irony? Is this not precisely how we found you with my grandmother all those years ago?”

It was true enough. Inevera had not wanted to assume leadership of the Kaji Dama’ting prematurely, but when Kenevah had threatened her plans to put Ahmann on the Skull Throne, she had not hesitated to kill the old woman.

“Perhaps,” she allowed, “but it was not matricide as well.”

“Of course not,” Melan sneered. “The weaver’s daughter could never harm her sainted mother. How is Manvah? Still in the bazaar? Perhaps the time has come to pay her a visit.”

Inevera had heard enough. She raised her hora wand, firing a blast of magic at Melan.

The instant she raised the wand, Melan’s hand darted into her robe, holding a warded piece of rock demon armor, plated in gold. The magic bent around the warding, tearing apart the room and leaving Melan untouched.

She’s ready for me, Inevera realized. “How long have you planned this betrayal, Melan?”

Melan held up her burned, misshapen claw of a hand. “Do you have to ask?” She snorted. “Longer. Since your first bido weave, I have dreamed of this day.

“But Everam spoke to you. The dice named Ahmann Jardir Shar’Dama Ka and you his Damajah. What could I do, but obey?”

Melan pointed one of her talons at Inevera. “But you failed to foretell Ahmann Jardir’s defeat, and have not kept our people unified in his absence. Everam favors you no longer. The dice have spoken against you ever since the Northern whore supplanted you in the pillows. It is time for a new Shar’Dama Ka and a new Damajah.”

Inevera laughed. “You don’t have what it takes to satisfy my push’ting son.”

“No woman does,” Melan agreed, “and I haven’t the recognition our people need in any event.”

“Kajivah,” Inevera spat the name.

Melan clapped her misshapen hand. “How delicious that you yourself handed me the weapon. Asome will have beatified her by now, and she will occupy your pillows by the throne … a few steps down. A figurehead and blunt instrument, but one we’ve learned to aim quite effectively.”

Inevera raised her hora wand. “You won’t be aiming anything, Melan. You walk the lonely path tonight.”