Khavel was a perfect physical specimen — the dama’ting settled for nothing less in a pleasure eunuch — with a handsome face, proud jaw, and muscular body glistening with oil. Trained from an early age in massage and all the other ways a man might give a woman pleasure, he would without question be a skilled lover. It was whispered that almost every dama’ting made use of him, and that he was on a constant diet of virility drugs, with a strict ritual exercise and sleep regimen. Practically every new dama’ting in the last decade had summoned him to her chambers on her second night, with none regretting.
But while Inevera could see the eunuch’s beauty, he stirred no desire in her, no more than a perfect statue of a man might. Other girls might be eager to practise the pillow dance fully, but Inevera didn’t spend years honing her skills to waste them on half a man. She would sooner bed a khaffit.
When her demonstration ended, she lined up the younger girls, helping them place their feet and practise the twist and snap of the hips that was the core of the pillow dance.
After the lesson, Inevera went to the baths, breathing steam deeply as the hot water soaked into her muscles. Melan and Asavi were there, pointedly ignoring her, but in the many months since Inevera’s defeat of the older girl, most of the other nie’dama’ting had changed their attitude towards her.
‘Bathe you, sister?’ Jasira asked, holding a soaked cloth lathered with scented soap. She was two years older than Inevera, and had just passed the test of admission to the Chamber of Shadows. Inevera waved her off. Such offers were becoming common, as her power grew and Melan’s waned. As Kenevah predicted, the other girls feared her, whispering among themselves that she would one day be Damaji’ting. Inevera could make willing servants of most of the nie’dama’ting, even so far as taking them as pillow friends and having her pleasure of them. But Inevera had no interest in such things. The girls did not shun her as they once had, but neither were they her friends.
More than anything, Inevera wished she could speak to her mother. Or her brother. The only people she could ever really trust.
As they were dressing, Inevera looked to Melan. ‘Going to the chamber, sister? We could walk together.’ Melan glared at her, and Inevera allowed herself a slight smirk.
‘Smile now, bad throw,’ Melan whispered. ‘Today I finish my dice, and tomorrow I will take the veil.’ She gave a predatory smile, but Inevera only smiled pleasantly in return.
‘I will still be dama’ting before you,’ she promised.
The girls sat in a semicircle before Qeva in the entrance hall to the Chamber of Shadows — seven Betrothed aspiring to one day take the white veil.
There was always a lesson before carving began, the dama’ting’s robes blood red in the dim wardlight — the only light allowed in the chamber.
Throughout the lesson, Melan fidgeted, shifting her weight and pursing her lips, rolling the velvet bag with her dice with one hand, eager to get back to carving.
It was always thus. Inevera and Melan had entered the Chamber of Shadows together, but even though Melan had years of work on Inevera and sneered about it publicly, she seemed to take seriously Inevera’s threat to finish her dice first. When Qeva ended the lesson each day, Melan practically ran to a carving chamber, always last to emerge when the dama’ting called an end to the day’s work. Inevera imagined she could hear the frantic scraping of her tools even through the thick stone walls.
If Melan took the veil before Inevera, it could be dangerous … perhaps deadly. All the Betrothed had heard Inevera’s vow to finish first, and any power she had gained among the other girls with her defeat of Melan would vanish if her threat proved hollow. More, Melan would gain the near-limitless privilege of dama’ting, and her opportunities to have Inevera killed would increase manifold. There were others among the Brides of Everam who would surely support her.
The girls were finally dismissed, and padded down the cold stone passage to the long tunnel filled with small carving chambers. There were no wardlights in the tunnel, but Melan and the other girls lifted their unfinished dice, casting a red glow to see by. Only wardlight was permitted in the carving chambers, but even that was not given freely. It had to be earned by the girls’ own hands. Without light, they would not be able to see their tools, their hands, or even the dice themselves.
The circlets of wardsight they left behind, forbidden in the carving cells. Inevera had heard it whispered in the Vault that a girl once tried to sneak her circlet into the cells that she might carve in Everam’s light. Her eyes had been cut out before she was cast from the Dama’ting Palace.
Inevera walked unhurriedly as the other girls slipped into carving chambers. Qeva shut the doors behind them, leaving only the faint glow of wardlight leaking from under the door frames. One by one, the lights winked out until it was only by this faint glow that Inevera came to her own chamber. Qeva shut the door behind her, and she slipped off her robe, using it to stuff the bottom of the door, leaving her in perfect darkness.
Inevera, too, could call light from her dice, but chose not to in the Chamber of Shadows. The Evejah’ting warned that even wardlight could weaken the dice, leaching their power unnecessarily. The Damajah had carved in utter darkness, and Inevera saw no reason to do differently. Everam will guide your hands, if you are worthy, the holy book said.
Kneeling in the darkness, she said a prayer to her namesake as she took out her dice and warding tools, laying them out in a neat, evenly spaced row. She had finished the four-sided die, and the six, now working on the eight. Her work was slow and meticulous — shaping, smoothing, etching, all in rhythm with her breath.
Time passed. She did not know how long. Her trance was broken by a ringing sound that echoed through the silence of the chamber.
Melan had completed her dice.
Inevera quickly gathered her hora back into their pouch and put away her tools. There would be no more work tonight. She drew deep breaths and emerged from her chamber.
The other girls had already gathered, Melan in their centre, her face elated in the wardlight. She held up her dice and basked in the sounds of adoration and envy. When she caught sight of Inevera, her smile was one of cold triumph.
Inevera smiled in return, bowing politely.
They gathered in the lesson room, Melan kneeling with the nie’dama’ting surrounding her in a semicircle. Before long, dama’ting began to file into the room as well, nearly every Bride in the tribe forming an outer ring. Kenevah was the last to arrive, moving to the centre and kneeling to face her granddaughter. Her face was unreadable as she produced an ancient, faded deck of cards. The sound of her shuffling echoed in the silent chamber.
The Damaji’ting laid three cards facedown on the floor between them. She produced a knife and handed it to Melan, who cut her own hand and let the blood coat her dice. As she did, the wards began to softly glow.
Kenevah pointed to the first card. Melan shook the dice until they glowed fiercely, then threw them to the floor, scattering them in the precise method the girls had been taught. Inevera strained to see the markings, but the angle was wrong for any but Melan and Kenevah to read the pattern.
‘Seven of Spears,’ Melan said after a moment.
Kenevah pointed to the next card, and again Melan threw. ‘Damaji of Skulls.’
Again. ‘Three of Shields.’
Kenevah nodded, her face still unreadable. ‘One of the Brides announced to me this day that she carries a daughter. Which?’