Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

“ I am of house Jardir,” Kajivah said, her voice strengthening. “Your father is his brother-in-law, and I, his mother. What further tie is required?”

“A direct one,” Asukaji said. “From the Deliverer and father to a single son.” He dared to look into the room for a moment, meeting Ashia’s eyes. “Your son.”

“You have a direct one,” Kajivah said. “I am the Holy Mother. You are all blood of the Deliverer.”

Asukaji turned back away and bowed. “I mean no disrespect, Tikka. Holy Mother is a fine title, but it has not turned your black robes white. Nor my blessed sister’s.”

Kajivah fell silent at that, and Ashia began to consider. Marrying a first cousin was not unheard of in powerful families, and Asome was beautiful, as Asukaji said. He had taken after his mother in appearance, and the Damajah’s beauty was without equal. Asome had her face and slender build, and he wore them well.

“Why not Jayan?” she asked.

“What?” Asukaji said.

“If I should marry a cousin as you say, why not the Deliverer’s firstborn?” Ashia asked. “Unless he weds his sister, who is more worthy than I, Shar’Dama Ka’s eldest niece?”

Unlike slender Asome, Jayan took after the Deliverer in form—broader and thick with muscle. He was not kind, but Jayan radiated power enough to make even Ashia flush.

Asukaji spat. “ Sharum dog. They are animals bred for the Maze, sister. I would as soon let you marry a jackal.”

“That is enough!” Kajivah snapped. “You forget yourself, boy. The Deliverer himself is Sharum. ”

“Was Sharum, ” Asukaji said. “Now he wears the white.”

That very day, Kajivah set a fire under Ashan and dragged Ashia, Shanvah, and Sikvah before the Shar’Dama Ka, demanding they be made dama’ting.

But one did not make demands of the Deliverer and Damajah. Kajivah and her daughters were given white veils. Ashia and her cousins were sent to the Dama’ting Palace.

“It is good, sister,” Asukaji said, as the girls were pushed toward the waiting Damajah. “There is no reason why our father or the Deliverer should refuse your match to Asome now.”

Kajivah did not seem satisfied, but Ashia could not see why. The Deliverer had named them his blood and heaped honor upon them. Ashia had no wish to be dama’ting, but who knew what mysteries she might learn in their palace?

Kai’ting. She liked the sound. It was powerful. Regal. Shanvah and Sikvah were afraid, but Ashia went gladly.

The Damajah escorted the girls out of the great chamber through her own personal entrance. An honor in itself. There waited Qeva, Damaji’ting of the Kaji, and her daughter and heir, Melan, along with one of the Damajah’s mute eunuch guards.

“The girls will be taught letters, singing, and pillow dancing for four hours each day,” the Damajah told Damaji’ting Qeva. “The other twenty, they belong to Enkido.”

She nodded to the eunuch, and Ashia gasped. Shanvah clutched at her. Sikvah began to cry.

The Damajah ignored them, turning to the eunuch. “Make something worthy out of them.”

Nie’Damaji’ting Melan led them through the Dama’ting Underpalace. It was said the dama’ting could heal any wound with their hora magic, but the woman’s hand and forearm were horrifically scarred, twisted into a frightening claw not unlike those in the paintings Ashia had seen of alagai.

Sikvah was still weeping. Shanvah had her arms around her, her own eyes wet with tears.

You are an example to every other young woman in the tribe, her father told her once. And so I shall be harsher with you than any other, lest you ever shame our family.

And so Ashia had learned to hide fear and keep tears at bay. She was as terrified as her cousins, but she was eldest, and they had always looked to her. She kept her back arched proudly as they were brought to a small door. Enkido put his back to the wall beside the portal as Melan led through to a large tiled chamber. The walls were lined with pegs holding white robes and long strips of white silk.

“Remove your robes,” Melan said as the door closed.

Her cousins gasped and hesitated, but Ashia knew it was foolish—and useless—to argue with a Bride of Everam. Keeping her dignity intact, she removed her hood and pulled her fine black silk robe over her head. Beneath, a wide strip of silk around her chest flattened the beginnings of her woman’s shape. Her bido, too, was fine black silk, wrapped in a loose, simple weave for ease and comfort.

“Everything,” Melan said. Her eyes flicked to Shanvah and Sikvah, still hesitating, and her voice became a lash. “Now!”

A moment later, all three girls stood naked, and they were taken out the far side of the room into the baths, a great natural cavern lit by wardlights in the stone far above. The floor was tiled marble, deep with water. Ornate fountains kept the water moving, and the air was hot and thick with steam. It put even Kajivah’s baths to shame.

There were dozens of girls in the water, ages ranging from children to just shy of a woman grown. All stood washing in the stone bath, or lounged on the slick stone steps at its edges, shaving and paring nails. As one, they looked up to regard the new girls.

Ashia and the others were no strangers to bathing alongside other girls, but there was a frightening difference between these baths and those in the women’s wing of her father’s palace—here every girl’s head was shaved bald.

Ashia reached up, touching the lush, oiled hair she had cultivated for a lifetime, in hope of pleasing her future husband.

Melan caught the look. “Enjoy the touch, girl. It will be your last for some time.”

Her cousins gasped, and Shanvah put her hands to her head protectively.

Ashia forced herself to let go, dropping her hands to her sides, drawing a calming breath. “It is only hair. It will grow back.” Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched her cousins calm as well.

“Amanvah!” Melan called, and a girl Sikvah’s age came forward. She was too young for a woman’s curves, but her eyes and face were much as the Damajah’s.

Ashia felt a wave of relief. Holy Amanvah was their cousin, firstborn daughter of the Deliverer and Damajah. Once, they had been as close as Asome and Asukaji.

“Cousin!” Ashia greeted her warmly, holding her arms out. It had been years since she had last played with Amanvah, but it did not matter. She was their blood, and would help them in this strange and unfamiliar place.

Amanvah ignored her, refusing to meet Ashia’s eyes. She was years younger and inches shorter than Ashia, but her bearing made it clear she considered her cousins beneath her now. She moved with liquid grace, stepping around the girls to face Melan, meeting the nie’Damaji’ting’s eyes boldly for a Betrothed.

“Here to study pillow dancing?” she smirked. It was common for young women, mostly from poor families, to be taken into the palace for pillow dancing lessons before they were sold to the great harem. Some were returned to their fathers, brides that could bring a fortune in dowry.

Melan nodded. “An hour each day. And an hour of singing. Another at writing, and a fourth to bathe.”

“And the other twenty?” Amanvah asked. “You cannot mean they will be granted the Chamber of Shadows.” Ashia’s skin goosebumped at the name, and she struggled not to shiver despite the hot air.

But Melan shook her head. “The other twenty, they will study sharusahk . They belong to Enkido.”

There were gasps from some of the other girls, and even Amanvah’s face lost its smug look.

Ashia suppressed a snarl. She was blood of the Deliverer. Enkido was but half a man. She might have to obey his instruction, but Nie take her before she think herself his property.