‘Why?’ Kenevah demanded. ‘What makes this man so special?’
Inevera shrugged and gave a slow smile. ‘The Evejah’ting says that the right wife is what makes a man special.’
Kenevah’s eyes darkened. ‘Off with you then, if my counsel means so little. I’d thought to guide you in your role as heir, but I can see my time is better spent looking for poison in my tea … or preparing my own.’
Inevera felt stung, but there was nothing for it. That the Damaji’ting was aware of Ahmann at all was a danger. She could say nothing without risking further scrutiny of the man.
Ahmann gripped Inevera’s hand tightly as he led the way to their wedding chamber. She went willingly, but it seemed he would drag her if she did not keep his frantic pace. He moved like a wolf that knew it was being stalked as it brought a kill back to the den.
The men saw this as eagerness, cheering him on as he drew his new bride to the bedchamber and shouting crude suggestions. Warriors loved to boast their sexual exploits, thinking themselves djinn simply for being able to make a woman grunt.
But countless pillow dancing classes had taught Inevera to see and exploit inexperience in a man. Ahmann was still a boy in that regard. He had never so much as seen a woman unclad, much less shared a kiss or caress. He was terrified.
It was adorable.
They were both virgins of a sort, but while Ahmann had no idea what to expect in the pillows, Inevera knew they were going to her place of power. She knew the seven strokes and the seventy and seven positions. She would dance and weave him into her spell, coaching him on to glory without ever letting on that he was not in control.
— Make him a man-
They reached the perfumed and pillowed chamber, carefully prepared by the Brides. Incense smoke scented and thickened the air, and candles cast a dim, flickering glow. There was a broad area of floor for her to dance in, surrounding a pile of pillows on all sides. She would toss him into those pillows, and he would be hers, caught like a fly in a spider’s web.
Inevera smiled beneath her veil as she drew the heavy curtains behind them. ‘You seem ill at ease.’
‘Should I be another way?’ Ahmann asked. ‘You are my Jiwah Ka, and I do not even know your name.’
Inevera laughed. She did not mean it cruelly, but it was clear from the look on Ahmann’s face that he took it as such, and she immediately regretted it.
‘Do you not?’ she asked, slipping off her veil and hood. Since becoming a dama’ting she had regrown her hair, which hung long and thick in ebony waves, banded with gold. Her bido wrap was now secured at her waist alone.
Ahmann’s eyes widened. ‘Inevera.’
She felt her heart skip at his recognition. He had seen her face but once, and been dulled by pain at the time, but even after all these years he remembered. The terror left his eyes, replaced by a smoulder that seemed to burn through her. Suddenly it became harder to draw a full breath in the perfumed air.
‘The night we met,’ Inevera said, ‘I finished carving my first alagai hora. It was fate; Everam’s will, like my name. I needed a question to ask. A test to see if the dice held the power of fate. But what question? Then I remembered the boy I had met that day, with the bold eyes and brash manner, and as I shook the demon dice, I asked, “Will I ever see Ahmann Jardir again?” ’
‘And from that night on, I knew I would find you in the Maze after your first alagai’sharak, and more, that I would marry you and bear you many children.’
Inevera had rehearsed the tale so many times that she spoke with utter conviction, despite the lies and half-truths. But in the end, her words did not matter. Their union had been destined by Everam. They were meant for each other. That was why he was looking at her that way, making her face heat and her dama’ting calm slip. She was caught in his wind.
She almost broke and told him everything. Looking into his honest eyes, she had little fear this one would grow into a monster. He was chosen by Everam. If any could shoulder the burden, it was he.
But how does one tell someone he might be the Deliverer? It was too much, and this night was too important. It must be perfect.
She shrugged her shoulders, and her white robes fell away with a sigh of silk. She was clad only in her bido now, finger cymbals tucked into its weave. She rubbed her thumbs over the smooth tips of her index fingers, limbering them. She would step into him, allowing him to caress her until his breathing laboured; then she would use sharusahk to break the line of power in his leg, a whisper touch that would send him stumbling back onto the pillows. Then she would slide her fingers into the cymbals and beat a rhythm to set his loins ablaze.
And then she would dance, slowly unweaving her bido for the last time. The dance, like the speech, had been rehearsed so carefully every move was a part of her.
When Ahmann was firmly under her control, she would fall into the pillows and ruin him so utterly that every woman to come after her would prove a disappointment.
But he was still staring at her, and the smoulder in his eyes was brightening into fire. She felt its heat, and flushed. The incense hung heavy in the air as she tried to breathe, making her dizzy, her centre elusive. She knew she should act, but the thought came as if from outside her body.
She watched helplessly as Ahmann stripped his outer robe and went to her bare-chested, crushing her to him and running his hands over her body. He inhaled the perfume at her throat and let out a growl that seemed to resonate between her legs. He held her close to him, kissing her and stealing her breath, her centre. She felt the stiffness in his pantaloons, and knew all her plans might be undone if she allowed him to take her like a common jiwah, but somehow he had broken the lines of power in her limbs, and she was helpless as he threw her down to the pillows.
He was on her in an instant, hands and mouth roaming her body, kissing here and biting there, squeezing so hard in places that she squirmed. His hands found their way between her legs, caressing the silk of her bido weave. Inevera groaned, grinding into him further.
I must take control, she thought desperately, or he will ever have of me as he will.
She twisted and rolled atop him, undoing the laces at his waist and untying his bido. There was oil in the chamber, and she wet her hands in it, taking him in the first of the seven strokes.
Ahmann grunted and fell back, caught in ecstasy, and Inevera began to breathe again.
I have him now.
But she didn’t have him for long. The strokes were designed to take a man’s arousal to a steady pace and hold him there, but Ahmann only became more incensed. She altered her strokes, but still they were not enough for him. He took her in his powerful arms and reached down, sticking fingers into her bido and attempting to yank it off.
But the nie’dama’ting bido wrap was made of stronger stuff, and thwarted him. He grunted and yanked harder. Inevera gasped.
Ahmann growled, fumbling at the weave for its ends and failing to find them. He locked his fingers into the weave and tried to snap the silk, but it resisted even when he ground his teeth in strain.
‘You will not get through until I unweave it,’ Inevera told him, pushing him back into the pillows. ‘I will dance …’
‘Later.’ Ahmann grabbed her arm hard, pulling her back down with him. He reached into his pantaloons and pulled forth a knife.
‘You cannot …’ she gasped.
‘I am your husband,’ he said. ‘I have been dreaming of you for years, and now you are in my arms. It is inevera, and I will not wait a moment longer.’