Peter Brett: The Skull Throne

They dismounted and followed the warrior to a spot not far off where a man-sized depression lay, dirt and shattered stone telling of a great impact. Blood spattered the ground, but there were footprints, as well—signs of continued struggle.

“You’ve followed the trail?” Inevera asked.

Shanjat nodded. “It vanishes not far from here. I thought it best to await further instruction before ranging too far.”

“Renna?” Leesha asked.

The Par’chin’s Jiwah Ka was staring at the bloody crater with a glazed look in her eyes, her powerful aura unreadable. She nodded numbly. “We’ve been circling the area for hours. It’s like they grew wings.”

“Carried off by a wind demon?” Wonda ventured.

Renna shrugged. “Reckon it’s possible, but hard to believe.”

Inevera nodded. “No demon could ever touch my sacred husband, but that he willed it.”

“What of the spear?” Jayan asked. Inevera looked at him sadly. It came as no great surprise that her eldest son cared more for the sacred weapon than his own father, but it saddened her nonetheless. Asome, at least, had the courtesy to keep such thoughts to himself.

Shanjat shook his head. “There has been no sign of the holy weapon, Sharum Ka.”

“There is fresh blood,” Inevera said, looking at the horizon. Dawn was minutes away, but she might manage one last foretelling. She reached into her hora pouch, gripping her dice so tightly the edges dug painfully into her hand as she went to kneel by the crater.

Normally she would not have dared to expose the sensitive dice to even predawn light. Direct sunlight would destroy demon bone, and even indirect light could cause permanent damage. But the electrum she had coated them in protected them even in brightest sun. Like the Spear of Kaji, their power would deplete rapidly in the light, but they could be charged again when night fell.

Her hand shook as she reached out. She needed to breathe for several seconds to find her center before she could continue, touching the blood of her husband for the second time this night and using it to seek his fate.

“Blessed Everam, Creator of all things, give me knowledge of the combatants, Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, and Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook. I beseech you, tell me of the fate that has befallen them, and the fates yet to come.”

The power throbbed in her fingers and she threw, staring hard at the pattern.

When questioned on things that were, or had been, the dice spoke with cold—if often cryptic—assurance. But the future was always shifting, its sands blowing with every choice made. The dice gave hints, like signposts in the desert, but the farther one looked, the more the paths diverged, until one became lost in the dunes.

Ahmann’s future had always been filled with divergences. Futures where he carried the fate of humanity, and ones where he died in shame. Death on alagai talon was the most common, but there were knives at his back always, and spears pointed at his heart. Those that would give their lives for his, and those waiting to betray.

Many of those paths were closed now. Whatever happened, Ahmann would not return soon, and likely not at all. The thought set a cold fear writhing through Inevera’s gut.

The others held their collective breath, waiting on her words, and Inevera knew the fate of her people lay upon them. She remembered the words of the dice so many years ago:

—The Deliverer is not born. He is made—

If Ahmann did not return to her, she would make another.

She looked at the myriad dooms that awaited her love, and plucked one from the rest. The only fate that would let her hold power until a suitable heir could be found.

“The Deliverer has passed beyond our reach,” Inevera said at last. “He follows a demon to the abyss itself.”

“So the Par’chin is a demon after all,” Ashan said.

The dice said no such thing, but Inevera nodded. “It would appear so.”

Gared spat on the ground. “Said ‘Deliverer.’ Din’t say ‘Shar’Dama Ka.’ ”

The Damaji turned to him, regarding him the way a man might look at an insect, wondering if it was worth the effort to crush. “They are one and the same.”

This time it was Wonda who spat. “Core they are.”

Jayan stepped in, balling a fist as if to strike her, but Renna Tanner moved to interpose herself. The wards on her skin flared, and even Inevera’s impulsive eldest son thought better of challenging her. It would not do to be beaten down by a woman before the very men he must convince to let him take the throne.

Jayan turned back to his mother. “And the spear?” he demanded.

“Lost,” Inevera said. “It will be found again when Everam wills it, and not before.”

“So we are to simply give up?” Asome asked. “Leave Father to his fate?”

“Of course not.” Inevera turned to Shanjat. “Find the trail again and hunt. Follow every bent blade of grass and loose pebble. Do not return without the Deliverer or reliable news of his fate, even if it take a thousand years.”

“Yes, Damajah.” Shanjat punched his chest.

Inevera turned to Shanvah. “Go with your father. Obey and protect him on his journey. His goal is your goal.”

The young woman bowed silently. Ashia squeezed her shoulder and their eyes met, then father and daughter were off.

Leesha turned to Wonda. “You have a look as well, but be back in an hour.”

Wonda grinned, showing a confidence that filled Inevera with envy. “Wan’t planning to hunt till my hair turns gray. Deliverer comes and goes, but he’ll be back, you’ll see.” A moment later she, too, was gone.

“Goin’ too,” Renna said, but Leesha caught her arm.

The woman glared at her. Leesha quickly let go but did not back down. “Stay a moment, please.”

Even the Northerners are afraid of the Par’chin and his woman, Inevera noted, filing the information away as the two women moved off to speak in private.

“Ashan, walk with me,” she said, looking to the Damaji . The two of them stepped away as the others remained dumbstruck.

“I cannot believe he is gone,” Ashan said, his voice hollow. He and Ahmann had been as brothers for over twenty years. He had been the first dama to support Ahmann’s rise to Shar’Dama Ka, and believed in his divinity without question. “It seems like a dream.”

Inevera did not preamble. “You must take the Skull Throne as Andrah. You are the only one who can do it without inciting a war and hold it against my husband’s return.”

Ashan shook his head. “You are mistaken if you think that, Damajah.”

“It was the Shar’Dama Ka’s wish,” Inevera reminded him. “You swore an oath before him, and me.”

“That was if he were to fall in battle at Waning, with all to see,” Ashan said, “not killed by a greenlander on some forgotten mountainside. The throne should go to Jayan or Asome.”

“He told you his sons were not ready for that burden,” Inevera said. “Do you think that has changed in the last fortnight? My sons are cunning, but they are not yet wise. The dice foretell they will tear Everam’s Bounty asunder vying for the throne, and should one climb to the top of the bloodied steps and sit, he will not rise on his father’s return.”

“If he returns,” Ashan noted.

“He will,” Inevera said. “Likely with all the Core behind him. When he does, he will need all the armies of Ala to answer his call, and have neither time nor desire to kill his son to regain control.”

“I don’t like it,” Ashan said. “I have never coveted power.”

“It is inevera, ” she told him. “Your likes are irrelevant, and your humility before Everam is why it must be you.”