She could feel the dice flaring with power as she shook. ‘Is he the Deliverer reborn?’ she murmured, too low for the boy to hear.
And she threw.
Inevera lost all sense of centre as she leaned in, staring hungrily at the dice as they settled into a pattern in the dust of the Maze. The first symbols made her blood run cold.
— The Deliverer is not born. He is made.-
She hissed, crawling in the dust, mindless of how it clung to her pure white robes as she studied the rest of the pattern.
— This one may be, but if he takes the veil or knows a woman before his time, he will die and his path to Shar’Dama Ka will be lost.-
Made, not born? The boy before her might be the Deliverer? Impossible.
‘These bones must have been exposed to light,’ she muttered, gathering them up and cutting the boy again for a second throw, more vigorous than the first.
But despite the move, the dice fell in precisely the same pattern.
‘This cannot be!’ she cried, snatching up the dice and throwing a third time, putting a spin on the hora as she did.
But still, the pattern remained the same.
‘What is it?’ Ahmann dared to ask. ‘What do you see?’
Inevera looked up at him, and her eyes narrowed. ‘The future is not yours to know, boy.’ He drew back at that, and she returned the bones to her pouch before rising and shaking the dust from her robes. All the while she breathed, reaching for her centre though her heart was pounding in her chest.
She looked at the boy. He was only twelve, uncomprehending of the enormity of the burden that hovered around him in the endless possibilities of the future.
‘Return to the Kaji pavilion and spend the remainder of the night in prayer,’ she ordered, and left without so much as a backward glance.
Inevera walked slowly back out of the Maze. Dama Khevat, Damaji Amadeveram’s liaison to the Kaji Sharum, would be waiting for her. Likely the whole tribe was holding their breath, as they did whenever it was time to read a potential Sharum at the end of his Hannu Pash. But the tribe did not concern her. It was Khevat. The dama was shrewd and powerful, from a family with ties all the way back to the first Deliverer’s advisors. He was in full favour of his Damaji, the Sharum Ka, and the Andrah himself. Even a dama’ting was wise to step carefully about one such as Dama Khevat.
But what could she tell him? Traditionally, there were but two answers to a reading: yes and no. Yes, this boy is worthy to take the black veil of warrior and be called a man. No, this boy is a coward or weakling who will break like brittle steel when struck. The dama’ting saw more in the foretellings, of course, glimpses and possibilities, but these things were not for men to know, not even the dama.
It was possible to give a bit of detail. The dice often showed untapped potential, giving glimpses of futures where they make names for themselves as Warders or marksmen or leading men. These last were watched closely by the dama, and after a year the best of them were sent to Sharik Hora for kai’Sharum training.
Sometimes the dice spoke of failings. Bloodlust. Stupidity. Pride. Every Sharum had his share, and the dama’ting rarely spoke them unless they were apt to bring down others around them with their folly.
But once Inevera gave Ahmann the black, these would be mere hints and suggestions the dama and the Sharum Ka could heed or ignore as they saw fit.
— Make him a man — the dice had said, and even at twelve, there was no doubt in Inevera’s mind that Ahmann Jardir was worthy of the black. But potential Deliverer or no, he was vulnerable now, as proven by the state Inevera had found him in. It was impossible for someone to rise so fast without making enemies. If anyone understood this fact, it was Inevera. And the dice had said if he was given the veil before his time, he would die.
— Deliverers are made, not born — Was she expected to intercede? Was that why the dice had sent her to him, and now? Or were there a hundred other potential Deliverers out there among the tribes, waiting for a chance to be made?
Inevera shook her head. It was too great a risk to take. She had to protect the boy, her husband-to-be. Protect his honour, but, more importantly, his life.
There was only so much she could do, once he took the black. She could not deny him the Maze, or the jiwah’Sharum in the great harem. She could not protect him from every knife and spear aimed at his back.
— Make him a man, but not before his time — But how was she to know when that time came? Would the dice tell her? If she denied him the black, was there a way for him to regain it?
She turned a corner and, as expected, found Khevat waiting. The drillmaster must have fetched him. She found her centre and glided up to him, her eyes a mask of serenity.
‘The blessings of Everam be upon you, holy jiwah.’ Khevat bowed to her, and she acknowledged it with a nod.
‘You have foretold the death of Ahmann Jardir?’ he asked.
Inevera nodded silently, offering nothing more.
‘And?’ The barest hint of irritation entered Khevat’s voice.
Inevera kept her own voice level. ‘He is too young to take the black.’
‘He is unworthy?’ Khevat asked.
‘He is too young,’ Inevera said again.
Khevat frowned. ‘The boy has enormous promise.’
Inevera met Khevat’s gaze and shrugged. ‘Then you should never have sent him into the Maze so young.’
The dama’s face darkened further. He was powerful, and had the ear of those even more so. Not a man used to being questioned — or dictated to — by anyone, much less a woman. The dama’ting stood below the dama in the city’s hierarchy. ‘The boy netted a demon. Everam’s law is clear …’
‘Nonsense!’ Inevera snapped. ‘There are exceptions to every law, and putting a boy still half a decade from his full growth into the Maze was madness.’
The dama’s voice hardened. ‘That is not for you to decide, Dama’ting.’
Inevera drew in her brows and saw doubt cross the dama’s face. He might outrank her, but where they had sway, the dama’ting’s power was absolute.
‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed, ‘but whether he takes the black is, and he will not, because of your decision.’ She raised her hora pouch, and Khevat flinched. ‘Shall we take the matter to court? Perhaps Damaji Amadeveram will have me read you as well to determine if you are still worthy to run his sharaj after needlessly costing the Kaji a warrior of great promise.’
Khevat’s eyes widened, the muscles in his face trembling with barely contained fury. Inevera was pushing him to his limit. She wondered if he would lose control. It would be regrettable to have to kill him.
‘If the boy returns to the Maze before he is grown, he will die, and I will not abide such waste,’ she said. ‘Send him back to me in five years and I will reconsider.’
‘And what am I to do with him until then?’ Khevat demanded. ‘He cannot go back to sharaj after setting foot in the Maze, nor back to the Kaji pavilion without the black!’
Inevera shrugged as if the boy’s fate meant nothing to her. ‘That is not my concern, Dama. The dice have spoken. Everam has spoken. You created this problem, and you must find a solution. If the boy is as exceptional as you say, I’m sure you can find a place for him. If not, there is no doubt use for a strong back among the khaffit.’