But then came the demons, and the fool Andrah who called for alagai’sharak even after it became clear the fighting wards were lost.
Inevera shivered and returned to herself. The empty city seemed no longer peaceful, no longer beautiful. It was a tomb, like the lost city of Anoch Sun, claimed by the sands thousands of years past. That would be the fate of all Krasia if the tide of attrition was not turned. Sharak Ka was coming, and if it came tomorrow, all humanity would lose.
‘But that will not happen,’ she promised the empty streets. ‘I will not allow it.’
Inevera quickened her pace. Dawn was approaching, and she must perform her foretelling before the sun crested the horizon.
Drillmaster Qeran nodded as she approached, making no comment about her wandering unescorted in the dark. She had been expected, and Sharum did not question dama’ting in any event.
She had consulted the dice about this day many times over the years, but no matter how many ways she posed her questions, the hora were evasive, full of might-bes and unknown conditions. The future was a living thing, and could never be truly known. It rippled with change whenever someone used free will to make a choice.
But there had been pillars even among the ripples. Bits of truth she could glean. Numbers of steps and turns, given randomly, that enabled Inevera — after weeks spent poring over maps of the Maze — to calculate precisely where the boy would be found.
— You will know him on sight — the dice had told her, but that was no great revelation. How many boys could there be, alone and weeping in the Maze?
— You will bear him many sons-
This had given Inevera pause. Dama’ting could take a man and bear his daughters in secret, but sons were forbidden outside marriage vows. The dice had told her she was fated to marry this boy. Perhaps he was not the Deliverer himself, but that one’s father. Perhaps the Shar’Dama Ka was meant to come from her own womb.
It was a thought so full of honour and power that her mind could hardly grasp it, but there was disappointment as well. The mother of Kaji was blessed above all, but it was the Damajah who whispered wisdom in the Deliverer’s ear and guided his way. It could be that another woman would share his bed and have his ear.
The thought grated on Inevera, and for a moment she lost her centre. Had she been insincere in her prayers? What was more important to her, saving her people, or taking the mantle of her namesake?
She inhaled slowly, feeling her breath, her life’s force, and letting it lead her back to her centre. With no hubris, she knew of no woman more worthy than herself to guide the Deliverer. Should she find such a woman, she would step aside. If not, she would marry him no matter the cost, even if it meant divorcing her husband, or marrying her own son.
— The Deliverer must have every advantage-
She heard cries ahead, the sound of violence, and forced herself to slow. She would not be in time to make a difference. When the dice spoke clear, they marked a fixed point, like a large stone jutting from time’s river. She was to find the boy alone and weeping. In effect, it had already happened, and it was pointless to resist such wind.
A Sharum appeared, laughing as he retied his pantaloons. His night veil hung loose about his neck, and there was blood on his lips. He stopped short, paling at the sight of her. Inevera said nothing, making note of his face as she raised an eyebrow and tilted her head back the way she had come. The warrior bowed and quickly shuffled past her, then turned and ran as fast as he could.
Inevera resumed her approach, hearing the boy’s sobbing. She kept her breath a steady rhythm, walking at her normal, steady glide. Turning the last corner she saw the boy shuddering on the ground. His bido was around his knees, and his shoulder bled where the Sharum had obviously bitten him when his lust reached its climax. There were other bruises and abrasions, but if they came from this assault or alagai’sharak, she could not say.
He noticed her approach and looked up, tears glittering on his face in the starlight. And as foretold, she knew him.
The nie’Sharum she had met years ago, the night she finished her dice. Ahmann Jardir, who had embraced his pain and watched wordlessly as the dama’ting set his broken arm. Ahmann Jardir, who at twelve had somehow killed his first alagai and survived a night in the Maze. It seemed to be a glimpse of Everam’s holy plan.
She wondered for a moment if he would recognize her as well, but she was veiled now, and he had been dull with pain when they last met. The boy remained frozen for a moment, then remembered himself, quickly pulling up his bido as if it could cover the shame written clearly on his face.
Her heart pounded once, a heavy throb going out to this brave boy who had suffered such humiliation when he should be triumphant. She wanted to go to him and fold him in her arms, but the dice had been clear.
— Make him a man-
She hardened herself and clicked her tongue like the crack of a whip.
‘On your feet, boy!’ she snapped. ‘You stand your ground against alagai, but weep like a woman over this? Everam needs dal’Sharum, not khaffit!’
A look of anguish crossed the boy’s face for an instant, but he embraced it, getting to his feet and palming away his tears.
‘That’s better,’ Inevera said, ‘if late. I would hate to have come all the way out here to foretell the life of a coward.’
The boy snarled, and Inevera smiled inwardly. There was steel in him, if unforged. ‘How did you find me?’
Inevera psshed, dismissing the question with a wave. ‘I knew to find you here years ago.’
He stared at her, unbelieving, but his belief meant nothing to her. ‘Come here, boy, that I may have a better look at you.’
She grabbed his face, turning it this way and that to catch the moonlight. ‘Young and strong. But so are all who get this far. You’re younger than most, but that’s seldom a good thing.’
‘Are you here to foretell my death?’ Ahmann asked.
‘Bold, too,’ she muttered, and again suppressed a smile. ‘There may be hope for you yet. Kneel, boy.’
He did, and she spread a white prayer cloth in the dust of the Maze, kneeling with him.
‘What do I care for your death?’ she asked. ‘I am here to foretell your life. Death is between you and Everam.’
She opened her hora pouch, emptying the precious dice into her hand, throbbing with power. Dawn was approaching quickly. If she were to read him, it must be now.
Ahmann’s eyes widened at the sight, and she lifted the objects towards him. ‘The alagai hora.’
He recoiled. Inevera could not blame him for it, remembering her own reaction the first time she had seen demon bone, but if there was weakness in him, it must be crushed.
‘Back to cowardice?’ she asked mildly. ‘What is the purpose of wards, if not to turn alagai magic to our own ends?’
Ahmann swallowed and leaned back in.
He finds his centre quickly, she thought, and there was a strange pride in it. Had she not first taught him to embrace pain?
‘Hold out your arm,’ she commanded, drawing her curved knife, the jewelled hilt of silver with etched wards on the steel blade.
Ahmann’s arm did not shake as she cut and squeezed the wound, smearing her hand with blood. She took up the alagai hora in both hands, shaking them.
‘Everam, giver of light and life, I beseech you, give this lowly servant knowledge of what is to come. Tell me of Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, last scion of the line of Jardir, the seventh son of Kaji.’