Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

He turned slightly, and Ashia caught sight of a tattoo almost identical to her bruise on the eunuch’s shoulder.

There were others on his temples, right where he had squeezed Ashia. Her eyes flickered over his body, following the lines that connected the points. There were many convergences, some great and some small. Enkido next moved to a bruise on her lower back. She twisted to better see, but she had already seen its tattooed mate on Enkido’s back.

She knew even before the eunuch began to work that her legs would soon be full of pins and needles as well.

He’s teaching, she realized. The very lines on his body are the sacred text.

She looked up at Enkido, and his face as he massaged her injury seemed almost one of kindness. She reached out, tentatively touching the convergence point on Enkido’s back. “I see it now. I understand, and will tell the others … master.”

Enkido bent toward her. For a moment she thought she was imagining it. But no. He held it too long.

Enkido bowed to her, as a teacher to a pupil, before scooping her up in his arms and carrying her, gentle as a babe, to the warm mass where her cousins slept. He laid her there, and brushed gentle fingertips over her eyelids, closing them for her.

Ashia did not resist, putting her arms protectively about her cousins and falling into a deep sleep.

They woke with a start. Enkido might be mute, but he could still bring thunder from the polished ram’s horn at his lips. It felt like the very walls were shaking. The girls shrieked and covered their ears, but the noise did not cease until they were on their feet. Ashia had no idea what time it was, but they must have slept for hours. She felt refreshed, if still sore.

The eunuch replaced the horn on the wall and handed them each a towel, silently leading the way from his training room to the bath. They walked in a line, but Ashia stole glances back at her cousins. Shanvah’s face was frozen, thoughts far away. Sikvah walked with a limp, drawing sharp breaths as they went down a series of steps.

As before, Enkido waited outside as they entered the dressing chamber. They could hear the trickle of the fountains while they unwove their bidos, but it was otherwise quiet. Indeed, they found the bath empty.

Shanvah and Sikvah looked about nervously, dwarfed by the great chamber. Ashia clapped her hands, drawing their attention. “Nie’Damaji’ting Melan said we were to have an hour a day in the bath. Let us not waste it.” She waded out into the water, leading them to the largest, most central fountain. There were benches of smooth stone at the base where bathers could lie, immersing themselves in the hot flow.

Sikvah groaned as she lay in the steaming water. “There, sister,” Ashia said, coming to her side to inspect the bruise on her thigh, gently massaging as Enkido had done. “The bruise is not great. Let the hot water soak the pain, and it will heal quickly.”

“There will be others,” Shanvah said, her voice flat and lifeless. “He will never stop.” Sikvah shuddered, her skin pimpling even in the warm air.

“He will,” Ashia said, “when we solve the riddle.”

“Riddle?” Shanvah asked.

Ashia pointed to the bruise on her shoulder. Shanvah had a matching one, As did Sikvah. “There is a mark just like this on the master’s flesh. When struck, the arm dies for a time.”

Sikvah began to cry again.

“But what does it mean?” Shanvah asked.

“A dama’ting mystery,” Ashia said. “Melan said we were to learn sharusahk. The Riddle of Enkido is a part of it, I’m sure.”

“Then why give us a teacher who cannot speak?” Sikvah demanded. “One who … who …” She sobbed again.

Ashia squeezed her thigh reassuringly. “Fear not, cousin. Perhaps this is simply the way. Our brothers all came back from sharaj with sharusahk bruises. Why should we be different?”

“Because we’re not boys!” Shanvah shouted.

Just then, the doors opened and the three girls froze. A group of Betrothed entered, led by Amanvah.

“Perhaps not,” Ashia said, drawing the other girls’ eyes back to her. “But we are blood of the Deliverer, and there is nothing common boys can endure that we cannot.”

“You’re using our fountain,” Amanvah called as she and the others strode over. She pointed to a small fountain at the far end of the pool. “Black bidos wash over there.”

The other nie’dama’ting laughed at that, squawking like trained birds. Amanvah was only eleven, but girls years her senior, some close to taking the white veil themselves, deferred to her, eager to curry favor.

Sikvah’s leg had gone tense, and Ashia could sense Shanvah, too, was ready to bolt like a hare.

“Pay the chatter no mind, little cousins,” Ashia said. “But come.” She took each of them by an arm, pulling them gently to their feet and ushering them away while she glared at Amanvah. “A smaller fountain and the laughter of girls is a cheap price for our hour of peace.”

“Not girls,” Amanvah said, grabbing Ashia’s arm. “ Nie’dama’ting. Your betters. Something you’d best learn.”

“Why are you doing this?” Ashia demanded. “We are cousins. Our blood is your blood. Blood of the Deliverer.”

Amanvah pulled at Ashia’s shoulder, at the same time sliding a leg behind hers. Ashia was thrown into her cousins, the three of them falling to the water with a splash.

“You are nothing,” Amanvah said when they came sputtering out of the water. “The Deliverer has spoken, sending you here in black. You are the products of his useless, dal’ting sisters, fit for breeding wolves to run the Maze and nothing else. Your blood is not holy, and you are no cousin of mine.”

Ashia felt her sense of calm slip away. She was two years older than Amanvah, bigger and stronger, and she would not be bullied by her younger cousin.

She struck the water, sending a splash that Amanvah instinctively threw a hand up to shield from her face. Quick as an asp, Ashia darted in and struck, fingers bunched and stiffened, for the point on her shoulder where Enkido’s tattoo had been. The place she and all her cousins carried bruises.

Amanvah gave a shrill, satisfying cry as she fell onto her backside in the water. The other girls froze, no one sure how to react.

Amanvah’s eyes were wide as she stared at her numb, lifeless arm. Then she scowled, rubbing at the spot until the numbness faded. She flexed her arm experimentally, and it responded, if slowly.

“So Enkido has managed to teach you something of sharusahk already,” Amanvah said, getting to her feet and taking the same stance Enkido had demonstrated the day before. She smiled. “Come, then. Show me what you have learned.”

Ashia already knew what was coming, and steeled herself. If the Sharum can endure this, then I can as well.

The thought calmed her a bit, but did nothing to shield her from the pain as Amanvah administered the beating. She flowed around Ashia’s punches as if she were standing still, and her own strikes were quick and precise, twisting and jabbing points meant to deliver maximum pain. When she tired of the game, she easily grappled Ashia to the pool floor, twisting her arm so far Ashia feared she might break it off. She struggled to keep her head above water, and knew, to her shame, that if the younger girl wished to drown her, there was nothing she could to do stop her.

But Amanvah was content with pain, pulling at Ashia’s arm until she had screamed herself hoarse.

At last Amanvah let her go, dropping her with a splash. She pointed to the small fountain. Her eyes taking in all three of her cousins.

“To your kennel, nie’Sharum’ting dogs.”