With that, she turned and walked away, her steady glide belying the emotions roiling inside her like a sandstorm. She had purposely enraged the dama so that he would be determined to keep the boy’s honour intact, if only to spite her. There was only one place Khevat could do that: Sharik Hora.
Ahmann was old to be called as nie’dama, and ill suited in any event, but perfect for kai training. So far as Inevera knew, no nie’Sharum had ever been called before taking the black, but the Evejah did not forbid it. In Sharik Hora, Ahmann would learn letters and mathematics, philosophy and strategy, warding, history, and higher forms of sharusahk.
Knowledge a Shar’Dama Ka would need.
I must seize for him every advantage, Inevera thought.
As Inevera had hoped, Ahmann was sent to Sharik Hora the very next day. Dama Khevat smirked the next time they met, believing he had outmanoeuvred her. Inevera allowed him the notion.
She watched Ahmann’s progress often, lurking in the shadowed alcoves of the undertemple where the nie’dama trained. The boy was woefully behind in many regards, and took special resentment to his early lessons, believing he had already learned all there was to know in sharaj.
He was quickly disabused of this notion, and the resentment beaten out of him. Before long he applied himself fully to his studies, and progressed quickly from there on.
Almost seven years to the day after her burning, Melan rang the chimes once more. Inevera watched her testing calmly, though she knew there were many who would flock to Melan if she passed.
Kenevah’s voice was sharp, her examination of the dice scrutinous, and her questions complex. Melan passed all without flaw, gathering the dice with her good hand and casting with the claw.
Later that day, Inevera was walking through the long hall of the underpalace to her personal chambers when she found Melan waiting by her door. She was newly robed and veiled, but even if the older woman’s stance were not already familiar, the twisted hand, nails long and sharp like alagai talons, marked her.
Melan pointed one of those claws at Inevera, the rest curling back stiffly. ‘You tricked me.’
There was no one else in the passageway, but Inevera did not back away. The dice had not warned her to expect an attack, but that did not mean one would not come. The hora revealed mysteries beyond what a woman could discern on her own. They might warn her of a hidden poison, but an attack that she saw coming was her own concern. Everam had no sympathy for the weak.
She shook her head. ‘No, Melan, you tricked yourself. All I had to do was nudge, and you were off running. If you’d kept your centre, you’d have finished your dice a year before me. But you let your pride and your jealousy rule you, and were fool enough to treat carving the sacred dice like a camel race. You didn’t deserve the veil.’
Melan’s eyes darkened. ‘And do I deserve it now?’
‘It must have been crushing to fall as you did,’ Inevera said. ‘The pain, the humiliation, and the scars — a constant reminder. Most girls would have been broken by that and left the Dama’ting Palace. Even a failed nie’dama’ting is a sought-after bride. Wealthy dama would have happily overlooked the scarred hand for your training at pillow dancing alone, not to mention knowledge of healing and sharusahk and hora magic. You could have arranged a marriage and secured yourself a comfortable position as Jiwah Ka to a worthy husband.’
Melan breathed hard, causing her veil to suck in, then billow.
‘But it didn’t break you,’ Inevera went on. ‘It took incredible courage to ignore the stares and derision and return to the chamber day after day these long years, and indomitable will to keep centred enough to carve a perfect seven. You deserve the veil.’
Inevera flicked her eyes to Melan’s clawed hand for an instant. Not in fear, just a reminder to Melan of her stance, attempting to menace Inevera like a bully in the bazaar.
Melan looked at her hand and shook her head, as if coming out of a reverie. She breathed again and took a half step back, dropping her arm.
Without giving any indication, Inevera readied herself. If an attack was to come, it would come now. ‘We can end this right here, Melan. I bear you no ill will. Whatever our motives, I needed the lessons you gave me, as you, I think, needed mine. Now we are reborn as Brides of Everam, and should leave the feud between us in the Vault where it belongs.’
Inevera held out her arms. ‘Welcome, sister-wife.’
Melan stood there, eyes wide, for a long moment. Stiffly, she moved into Inevera’s arms, meaning a token embrace, but Inevera held her tightly, in part to cement the moment, and in part to keep a lock on that dangerous, clawed hand.
Slowly, and then more powerfully, as if a dam were cracking and then finally gave way, Melan began to cry.
On the day Jardir took the black — the first ever to do so with a white veil — Inevera strode through the halls of the Dama’ting Palace to the Damaji’ting’s wing.
She encountered a group of Brides, and they made a show of stepping from her path in a precise, orderly flow that reminded Inevera of a flock of birds. The first to clear her path were the youngest and least influential, the last the oldest and most powerful.
Tea politics. Kenevah served Waxing Tea each month without fail, controlling the seating precisely to show the women their place in her regard. The places closest to the Damaji’ting seldom shifted, but those farther out did often, and there was a constant struggle for a rise in status. The dama’ting wasted endless hours fretting over every opportunity to impress the Damaji’ting and her closest advisors.
Inevera suppressed her derision. Over the years, she had moved up the table to sit at Kenevah’s left hand, second only to Qeva at her right. The concerns of the other Brides meant nothing to her. Sharak Ka was coming, and she had little patience for petty feuds over imagined slights, talk of who had which dama by the bido, whether he had the Andrah’s ear, how much gold was in his purse or how many wives in his harem.
To some, her refusal to play at tea politics only made her seem more powerful. What secrets did she hide, that let her rise above the intrigues of the palace? Most gave her a wide berth, believing — rightfully — that she knew something they did not.
But others saw weakness in her lack of involvement in palace intrigues. Kenevah was an expert at playing the Brides against one another, and by keeping Inevera at her left, her veil still white rather than black, she signalled that Inevera had not been formally named her heir. This led some to speculate that Kenevah was not convinced Inevera was fit to lead the tribe and might have her killed and name Qeva Damaji’ting until the dice called another.
Already, there had been attempts on Inevera’s life. Three times, her food and drink were poisoned. Once, there was a tunnel asp in her bed, and another time a passing eunuch whirled on her with a knife.
Each time, the dice had warned her. The viper she caught and boxed, and the poisons she pretended to ingest with no sign of ill effect. The eunuch she killed, offering no explanation save that he gave her insult. Nothing more was required of a sister.
Never once did Inevera retaliate, or seek the identity of her attackers. It was irrelevant whether the attempts came from the Damaji’ting herself or simply other sisters sensing weakness. She’d no time to waste preparing poisons or planting rumours in return. If the dice were giving warning, she was in Everam’s favour, and there was nothing to fear. What was her sister-wives’ regard in comparison with that?