Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

“Mother.” Inevera and the other women turned to see Asome enter the bower. He had been silent as Enkido in his approach. Asome bowed. “Grandmother. It is good to see you both.”

Kajivah brightened immediately, opening her arms for her grandson. He moved into her embrace and accepted the kisses she gave through her veil with grace and dignity, though the treatment was below his station.

“Tikka,” Asome said, using the informal Krasian word for “grandmother” Kajivah had instilled in all her grandchildren even before they began to speak. Just the sound of it from Asome’s lips made the woman melt into agreeability as if drugged. “Please be gentle with my honored mother. I know you fear for Father, but she is his Jiwah Ka, and no doubt her worry is as great as yours.”

Kajivah nodded as if dazed and looked to Inevera, her eyes respectfully down as she nodded. “Apologies, Damajah.”

Inevera wanted to kiss her son.

“But why were you and your brother passed over?” Kajivah asked, regaining something of her resolve.

“Passed over?” Asome asked. “Tikka, Jayan sits the Spear Throne, and I am next in line for the Skull. Asukaji has been made Damaji of the Kaji. Your firstborn grandsons are all kai’Sharum now, and soon the second sons will take their places as nie’Damaji. Thanks to you, the line of Jardir, so close to ending twenty years ago, is set to control all of Krasia for generations.”

Kajivah seemed mollified at that, but pressed still. “But your uncle …”

Asome cupped her chin in his hand much as Inevera had, but instead of touching a pressure point, he laid his thumb on her veil. He touched her lips as gently as a feather, but it silenced Kajivah as effectively as Inevera’s more forceful move.

“The Evejah teaches us all dama’ting possess the Sight,” Asome said, “the Damajah most of all. If she has allowed my honored uncle to sit the throne, it is likely because she sees Father returning soon, though of course she cannot speak of such things directly.”

Kajivah glanced at Inevera, a touch of fear in her eyes. The Sight was revered in Krasia, the source of dama’ting power. Inevera played along, giving Kajivah a measured stare and the slightest hint of a nod.

Kajivah looked back at Asome. “It is bad fortune to speak of fortune.”

Asome bowed with convincing deference as Kajivah mangled the ancient proverb. “Wisely said, Tikka.” He looked at Inevera. “Perhaps there is something my honored grandmother could do to praise Everam and help pray for Father’s safe return?”

Inevera started, Asome’s words reminding her of the advice her own mother Manvah had given her with regard to the Holy Mother. She nodded. “Waning will be upon us in less than two weeks, and with the Deliverer abroad, morale will be low even as the forces of Nie gather once more. A great feast to give heart to our warriors and join the voices of many as one in beseeching Everam for Ahmann’s victory in his latest trial …”

“A wonderful idea, Damajah,” Melan said, stepping forward. Inevera looked at her old rival, thankful for the support.

“Indeed,” Asome said. “Perhaps the Holy Mother could even give the blessings over the food and drink?”

“I was going to see to it personally …” Inevera lied.

As Manvah had predicted, Kajivah leapt at the bait. “Think on it no more, Honored Damajah. Many are the burdens upon you. Let me lift this one, I beg.”

Indeed, Inevera felt a great burden lifting. “One feast may not be enough, I fear. We may have need of another at Waxing, and on until Sharak Ka is won.”

Kajivah bowed, deeper than Inevera had seen in years. “It would be my great honor to see to it, Damajah.”

“I will ask the Andrah to assign a generous stipend from the treasury for the feasts,” Inevera said, knowing Ashan would be as pleased as her to have the woman out of their hair. He would agree to anything and call it a bargain. “You will need help, of course. Florists and chefs, scribes to prepare invitations …” People who can read and do sums, she thought derisively, for of course Kajivah could do neither, even after twenty years of palace life.

“I would be honored to assist the Holy Mother,” Melan said.

“I, too, will assist, as my responsibilities will allow,” Asome said, looking pointedly at Inevera. She had no doubt it was a debt he would one day collect upon, but she would pay it gladly. This was a favor beyond price.

“It is settled, then,” she said, giving Kajivah a nod. “All of Krasia will owe you a debt for this, Holy Mother.”

Abban leaned heavily on his crutch as he descended the palace steps, gritting his teeth at each stab of pain in his twisted calf. Knives were being sharpened throughout the court of the Deliverer, but sometimes it felt the palace steps were his greatest challenge each day. He could bear most anything for a profit, but embracing pain for its own sake had never been a skill he’d mastered.

Not for the first time, he regretted his stubborn refusal to let the Damajah heal him. It was wise to remind her she could not bribe him with comforts—especially ones she could as easily take away—but the thought of stairs without pain was an image worth killing for. Still, there was something he had wanted far more, and soon he would have it.

Drillmaster Qeran walked beside him, faring far better on the steps. The drillmaster’s left leg was missing at the knee, replaced with a curved sheet of spring steel. The metal bowed slightly with each step, but easily supported the large man’s weight. Already, Qeran was close to the fighting skill he had once claimed before the injury, and he continued to improve.

Abban’s kha’Sharum were not allowed at court, but the drillmaster had trained the Deliverer himself, and his honor was boundless. Even in Abban’s employ, he was welcome most anywhere, including the palace. A useful thing for a bodyguard. Now none was fool enough to harass Abban as he passed.

Earless was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs, holding open the door to Abban’s carriage. Two kha’Sharum sat the driver’s seat, spears in easy reach, and two more at a high bench at the carriage rear, these armed with Northern crank bows. Qeran sprang easily into the carriage, taking Abban’s crutches as the deaf giant lifted Abban into the carriage as easily as a man might pick up his child, sparing him the dreaded steps.

Too big to comfortably fit inside, Earless closed the door and climbed the first step, holding a handle to ride outside. He knocked on the carriage wall, and the drivers cracked the reins.

“Have the Damaji accepted Ashan as Andrah?” Qeran asked.

Abban shrugged. “It is not as if the Damajah gives them a choice, with her displays of power. Ashan is her puppet, and none fool enough to challenge her.”

Qeran nodded. He knew the Damajah well. “The Sharum do not like it. They believe the Sharum Ka should have taken his father’s place. They fear a dama on the throne will take focus away from alagai’sharak. ”

“What a tragedy that would be,” Abban said.

Qeran looked at him coldly, not amused. “If Jayan calls, the spears will flock to him. It would be easy for him to put Ashan’s and the Damaji’s heads up on spears and take the throne.”

Abban nodded. “And easier still for the Damajah to reduce him to ash. We waste our time, Drillmaster, pondering shifts above our station. We have our duty.”