‘It is done,’ Kenevah said. ‘Open the curtains.’
Inevera stumbled through the darkened room more by memory than sight, finding the thick layers of curtain and drawing them back, flooding the room with light.
She returned to Kenevah and Qeva’s side, gasping as she saw the bowls, each sitting in a bright beam of sunlight. The sand within was gone, as was any sign of the demon bone laid between them. The bowl to the left was filled with clear water. The one to the right was filled with couscous, steaming and ready to eat.
In preparation for this trial, Inevera had fasted for six days, taking only one couzi cup of water each morning and one at night. Her throat was parched, and her stomach ached, hollow and sullen. It growled unexpectedly at the smell of the couscous.
Kenevah raised an eyebrow at the sound. ‘Your fast may soon be over.’ She handed Inevera a pair of ivory eating sticks, the handles capped with gold and jewels. ‘If you formed your wards precisely, a mere stickful of the food will fill your stomach …’ She produced a golden chalice encrusted with jewels, dipping it into the water and filling it. ‘… and the water will be the purest, sweetest draught you have ever tasted, quenching your thirst with but a sip.’
She looked at Inevera grimly. ‘If not … you will be dead within moments of either touching your tongue.’
Inevera felt a chill run down her spine. Her hand shook as she took the chalice. ‘Must I?’
Kenevah shook her head. ‘You can set them aside, but if you do, it may be years before I waste another hora on you — if I ever do.’
Inevera found her centre, and her fingers stopped shaking enough to steady the sticks. She reached out, lifting couscous smoothly to her mouth.
She chewed, and her eyes widened. The consuming hunger that had her stumbling on her feet vanished. Already, new strength was flooding through her limbs as she lifted the goblet and drank deeply.
Kenevah smiled as Inevera finished the cup, her eyes aglow. Indeed, she had never tasted water so sweet and refreshing. It was like a sip from Everam’s own river.
The Damaji’ting took the sticks and chalice from Inevera, passing them to Melan. The girl’s nostrils flared, and Inevera allowed herself a slight smirk. Short of dying at the taste, there was nothing Melan could do now to prevent Inevera gaining access to the Chamber of Shadows.
‘Please, sisters,’ she spoke the ritual invitation, ‘eat and drink of my bounty, for we are all the Damajah’s children.’
Melan snatched some of the couscous from the bowl, and dipped the chalice, drinking it quickly to wash the food down. ‘The Damajah’s children.’
Qeva took the items next, handling them with more reverence and not a little pride. She lifted her veil just enough to bring the sticks and chalice to her lips. Inevera caught a touch of smile at the corner of her mouth as the silk slipped back into place. ‘The Damajah’s children.’
Qeva refilled the cup for Kenevah, but the aged Damaji’ting handled the sticks deftly, quickly taking a mouthful without dropping so much as a grain. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, then sipped the water, swishing it gently in her mouth. At last she swallowed, drinking again to empty the chalice. ‘The Damajah’s children.’
The Damaji’ting set the items aside and turned to regard Inevera. ‘What are the best conductors of magic?’
Inevera stood silent a moment, sensing a trap. The Damaji’ting might as well have asked her two plus two. It was an idiot’s question.
‘Gold, Damaji’ting,’ she said, ‘followed by silver, bronze, copper, tin, stone, and steel. Iron will not conduct. There are nine gemstones to focus power, beginning with the diamond, which …’
Kenevah waved her off. ‘How many wards of prophecy are there?’
Another simple question. ‘One, Damaji’ting,’ Inevera said. ‘For there is only one Creator.’ The ward was placed at the centre of one face on each of the seven dice, guiding the throw.
‘Draw it for me,’ Kenevah bade, signalling to Melan, who produced a brush, ink, and vellum.
Inevera had spent the last few months drawing in sand and the brush felt awkward in her hand, but she made no comment, dipping it carefully and wiping off the excess ink on the bowl’s edge before beginning to draw on the valuable vellum.
When she was done, Kenevah nodded. ‘And how many symbols of foretelling?’
‘Three hundred and thirty-seven, Damaji’ting,’ Inevera said. The symbols of foretelling were not wards, but rather words that represented different twists of fate, one adorning the centre of each remaining face and along each side of the seven polyhedral dice the dama’ting used to read the future. Instinctively, Inevera clutched at her hora pouch and the clay dice it contained, their edges now worn from a year of careful study.
Each die had a different number of sides — four, six, eight, ten, twelve, sixteen, and twenty. Each symbol had multiple meanings, based on the pattern of the surrounding symbols and context. The Evejah’ting contained detailed explanations of those meanings, but reading the dice was less a science than an art, and one that was much disputed among the dama’ting. Inevera had witnessed them arguing frequently over the results of a throw. In the most extreme cases, Kenevah was called upon to make a ruling. No one ever dared argue once the Damaji’ting spoke, but they did not always appear convinced.
Kenevah signalled Melan, who laid a fresh sheet of vellum before her. Inevera dipped her brush again. She drew the symbols smaller this time, and though her hand moved with quick precision, it was some time before she was finished. The Damaji’ting had been watching over her shoulder the whole time, and nodded immediately when she was done.
‘Have you dice of clay?’ Kenevah asked formally.
Inevera nodded, reaching into her hora pouch for the clay dice the Damaji’ting had first given her. Kenevah took them and set them on the table next to a block of ivory. This she lifted, smashing it down on the dice until they were little more than shattered lacquer and dust.
‘Have you dice of wood?’ Kenevah asked. Inevera reached into her hora pouch a second time, producing the dice that she had painstakingly carved, sanded, and etched from a solid block of wood. Her hands were crisscrossed with tiny scars from the work.
When Qeva had given her the block, Inevera had thought warding the dice would be the most difficult part of the process, but she had no skill at woodwork, and coaxing even the simplest shapes from the wood almost proved her undoing. She cut herself numerous times, casting aside uneven chunks of wood again and again before setting the block aside and carving from soap until she mastered the tools.
The simple shapes, four, six, and eight, came quickly after that, but even with the geometric calculations laid out in the Evejah’ting, it took hours to carve the ten-sided die, and even then one side was slightly larger than the others, coming up more often than not when thrown. She had to discard it and begin again. For her to pass the test for hora, the dice she gave Kenevah had to be perfect in every way.
Kenevah examined the dice carefully, then set them in a brazier. Melan squirted the precious things, the product of untold hours, with oil and set them ablaze. Inevera had known to expect this, but was still unprepared for how the loss cut at her. Melan looked up at her with a smirk of her own.
Inevera breathed deeply, finding her centre as Kenevah looked at her again. ‘Have you dice of ivory?’
Inevera reached for her pouch a third time, emptying into her hands the dice she had carved from camel teeth, these done blind, with strands of bido silk woven over her eyes. They had taken even longer than the dice of wood, months of work, and every time she needed to request a new tooth, she had spent a week washing bidos.