One dawn in her fifth year as Betrothed, Inevera was in the dama’ting pavilion when a familiar shout heralded a group of Sharum rushing in their wounded. It was the morning after Waning, and casualties had increased in recent years.
‘Let me through, push’ting scum! That’s my son!’
Inevera felt her blood run cold. Even after half a decade, she knew her father’s voice.
Lifting her robes, she ran without a shred of dama’ting composure to the surgery, where a familiar crowd of sleeveless Sharum stood in their black steel breastplates. Cashiv’s face was wet with tears as he faced Kasaad, each of them with warriors at his back. Kasaad’s eyes were bloodshot, and he stood unsteadily, likely still feeling the effects of the couzi he drank for courage in the Maze.
Several warriors were being treated, but Inevera only had eyes for one, running to Soli’s side with a shout. Her brother’s handsome face was covered in sweat and dust, his eyes glazed, and his skin pale. His good right arm was slashed at the bicep by alagai talon, nearly severed. A tourniquet had been tied just below his shoulder, and though the sheet below him was soaked with blood, Inevera imagined much more lay on the Maze floor, and the path from there to the pavilion.
She was Betrothed to Everam now, with neither family nor name, but Inevera didn’t care, taking her brother’s head in her hands and gently turning him to meet her eyes.
‘Soli,’ she whispered, brushing the sweat-soaked hair from his face. ‘I’m here. I will care for you and make you well. I swear it.’
A dim recognition came to his eyes. Soli tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough that flecked his lips with blood. His voice was a wet wheeze. ‘It is my duty to care for you, little sister, not the other way ’round.’
‘No more, brother,’ Inevera whispered, feeling tears begin to well.
‘We will not be able to save the arm,’ Qeva said at her back. ‘Not with herb or hora. It will have to be amputated.’ If she was bothered by Inevera’s lack of composure, she gave no sign.
‘No!’ shouted Kasaad. ‘Bad enough Everam has cursed me with a push’ting for a son, but I will not have him a cripple as well! Send him down the lonely path now, and pray Everam forgives him for wasting his seed!’
Cashiv gave a shout of anguish, leaping on Kasaad and easily wrestling him to the floor, pressing his head down savagely. Kasaad’s friends moved to intercede, but Cashiv’s warriors blocked their path. ‘Soli never meant anything to you!’ Cashiv cried. ‘He is everything to me!’
‘You have twisted him with your push’ting ways!’ Kasaad growled. ‘A true Sharum would not suffer life as a cripple!’
Qeva tsked and shook her head. ‘As if their opinions matter a whit.’ She clapped her hands, a loud crack that sounded like thunder. ‘Enough! Out, all of you! Any unwounded Sharum still in this pavilion by the count of ten will be khaffit before the sun sets!’
That got everyone’s attention. The excess warriors scrambled outside, and Cashiv released Kasaad immediately, getting to his feet and bowing deeply. ‘I apologize for bringing violence to this place of healing, Dama’ting.’ He cast a pained look at Soli and fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. ‘I beg you, honoured Bride, please do not hold my actions against Soli. Even one-armed, he is worth a hundred other men.’
‘We will save him,’ Inevera said, though it was not her place. ‘I will not let my brother die.’
‘Broth …’ Kasaad looked up. ‘Everam’s beard, Inevera?!’
Recognition lit his face, and he moved with surprising speed, grabbing his spear off the floor and kicking his daughter aside. Caught off guard, Inevera hit the floor hard, looking up just in time to see Kasaad bury the point in Soli’s chest. ‘Better dead than a push’ting cripple spared by his sister’s soft heart!’
Cashiv had him in an instant, standing behind Kasaad with one iron arm around his throat and a long curved knife at his belly. Inevera rushed to Soli, but her father’s thrust had been true, and her brother was dead.
‘You do not deserve to die by alagai talon or spear,’ Cashiv growled in Kasaad’s ear. ‘I will gut you like a khaffit guts a pig, and watch as the life bleeds out of you. You deserve a thousand deaths, and in Nie’s abyss you will have them.’
Kasaad laughed. ‘I have done Everam’s will, and will drink from his rivers of wine in Heaven. The Evejah tells us, Suffer not the push’ting nor the cripple!’
Qeva approached. ‘It also says, Drink not of fermented grain … and It is death to strike one of Everam’s Betrothed.’
It was true. The punishment for striking a nie’dama’ting was the same as for a dama’ting — the striker was made khaffit, then executed. Only the offended woman could spare him.
Qeva took her own curved knife and began cutting the blacks from Kasaad. He screamed and thrashed, but she struck swift, precise blows to shatter his lines of power, and his limbs fell weak.
‘You are khaffit now, Kasaad of no name worth mentioning. You will forever sit outside Heaven’s gates, and should Everam in His wisdom one day take pity on your soul and send it back to Ala, pray you are less stupid in the next life.’ She turned to Inevera, handing her the knife. Cashiv pulled hard, arching Kasaad’s back and presenting her an easy target.
Kasaad wailed and begged, but there was no sympathy in the eyes around him. Finally he calmed and looked at Inevera. ‘If you will waste a true warrior for the sake of a one-armed push’ting, then so be it. Make it quick, daughter.’
Inevera met his eyes, rage boiling in her veins. The silver knife handle was hard and warm in her hand, moist with her sweat.
‘No, I will not kill my own father,’ she said at last. ‘And you do not deserve for it to be quick.’
She looked at Qeva. ‘The Evejah says I may spare him, if I wish.’
‘No!’ Cashiv shouted. ‘Nie take you, girl, you will give your brother justice! If your flesh is too pure to sully, only say the word and I will be your striking hand.’
‘You understand what sparing him means?’ Qeva asked Inevera, ignoring Cashiv completely. ‘Everam must be paid in blood for the offence given him.’
‘He will be paid,’ Inevera said.
Qeva nodded and took a tourniquet, wrapping it firmly around the leg Kasaad had kicked Inevera with. She looked to Cashiv. ‘Hold him tightly.’ The warrior nodded, tightening his iron grip.
Inevera didn’t hesitate, taking the sharp knife to her father’s knee like a butcher working a joint. Hot blood poured over her as his lower leg was severed with a pop right where the bones met. Kasaad’s screams carried all through the pavilion, but it was a place used to such sounds, and it seemed not amiss.
Inevera grabbed her father by the beard, cutting off his screams as she yanked his agonized face to look at her. ‘You will go to Manvah and serve her. Serve her like she is the Damaji’ting. Do this for the remainder of your days, and I may take pity and let you die in black.
‘But if you ever strike my mother again, or fail to obey her slightest whim, I will hear of it and take the other leg, and your arms as well. You will live a long life with no limbs to get you into trouble, and when you die as khaffit, you will be left for dogs to gnaw upon and shit onto the streets.’