The Skull Throne

4

Sharum Blood

327–332 AR

‘Sit up straight,’ Kajivah snapped. ‘You’re a princess of the Kaji, not some kha’ting wretch! I despair of ever finding you a husband worthy of your blood who will take you.’

‘Yes, Tikka.’ Ashia shivered, though the palace baths were warm and steamy. She was but thirteen, and in no rush to marry, but Kajivah had seen the reddened wadding and seized upon it. Nevertheless, she straightened as her mother, Imisandre, scrubbed her back.

‘Nonsense, Mother,’ Imisandre said. ‘Thirteen and beautiful, eldest daughter of the Damaji of Krasia’s greatest tribe, and niece to the Deliverer himself? Ashia is the most desirable bride in all the world.’

Ashia shivered again. Her mother had meant the words to calm her, but they did the opposite.

Kajivah was apt to be vexed when her daughters disagreed with her, but she only smiled patiently, signalling her daughter-in-law Thalaja to add more hot stones to the water. She always held court thus, from the nursery to the kitchen to the baths.

Her subjects were her five dal’ting daughters – Imisandre, Hoshvah, Hanya, Thalaja, and Everalia – and granddaughters Ashia, Shanvah, Sikvah, Micha, and Jarvah.

‘It appears Dama Baden agrees,’ Kajivah said.

Every head turned sharply to look at her. ‘His grandson Raji?’ Imisandre asked.

A wide grin broke across Kajivah’s face now that the secret was out. ‘They say no man has ever offered such wealth for a single bride.’

Ashia couldn’t breathe. A moment ago she would have put this moment off for years, but … Prince Raji? The boy was handsome and strong, heir to the white and a fortune that dwarfed even the Andrah’s. What more could she want?

‘He is not worthy of you, sister.’

All eyes turned to Ashia’s brother Asukaji, standing in the doorway with his back to the women. It was not an uncommon sight. No man would have been allowed entry to the women’s bath, but Asukaji was but twelve and still in his bido. More, he was push’ting, and all the women knew it, more interested in the gossip in a woman’s head than what was under her robes.

All the women of the family adored Asukaji. Even Kajivah did not mind that he preferred men, so long as he did his duty and took wives to provide her with grandchildren.

‘Beloved nephew,’ Kajivah said. ‘What brings you here?’

‘My last visit to the women’s bath, I am afraid,’ the boy said, to a chorus of disappointment. ‘I was called to Hannu Pash this morning. I will be taking the white.’

Kajivah led the cheers. ‘That’s wonderful! Of course we all knew it would be so. You are the Deliverer’s nephew.’

Asukaji gave a shrug. ‘Are you not the Deliverer’s mother? His wives and sisters, his nieces? Why is it none of you is in white, yet I should be?’

‘You are a man,’ Kajivah said, as if it were obvious.

‘What does that matter?’ Asukaji said. ‘You ask whom Ashia should be worthy of, but the true question is what man is worthy of her?’

‘Who in the Kaji is higher than Dama Baden’s heir?’ Ashia asked. ‘Father wouldn’t marry me into another tribe … would he?’

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Kajivah snapped. ‘The very notion is absurd.’

But there was doubt on her face as she looked to her grandson. ‘Who is worthy, then?’

‘Asome, of course,’ Asukaji said. The two boys were nearly inseparable.

‘He is our cousin!’ Ashia said, shocked.

Asukaji shrugged. ‘What of it? The Evejah speaks of many such unions in the time of Kaji. Asome is the son of the Shar’Dama Ka, beautiful, rich, and powerful. More, he can cement the ties between my father and the house of Jardir.’

‘I am of house Jardir,’ Kajivah said, her voice strengthening. ‘Your father is his brother-in-law, and I, his mother. What further tie is required?’

‘A direct one,’ Asukaji said. ‘From the Deliverer and father to a single son.’ He dared to look into the room for a moment, meeting Ashia’s eyes. ‘Your son.’

‘You have a direct one,’ Kajivah said. ‘I am the Holy Mother. You are all blood of the Deliverer.’

Asukaji turned back away and bowed. ‘I mean no disrespect, Tikka. Holy Mother is a fine title, but it has not turned your black robes white. Nor my blessed sister’s.’

Kajivah fell silent at that, and Ashia began to consider. Marrying a first cousin was not unheard of in powerful families, and Asome was beautiful, as Asukaji said. He had taken after his mother in appearance, and the Damajah’s beauty was without equal. Asome had her face and slender build, and he wore them well.

‘Why not Jayan?’ she asked.

‘What?’ Asukaji said.

‘If I should marry a cousin as you say, why not the Deliverer’s firstborn?’ Ashia asked. ‘Unless he weds his sister, who is more worthy than I, Shar’Dama Ka’s eldest niece?’

Unlike slender Asome, Jayan took after the Deliverer in form – broader and thick with muscle. He was not kind, but Jayan radiated power enough to make even Ashia flush.

Asukaji spat. ‘Sharum dog. They are animals bred for the Maze, sister. I would as soon let you marry a jackal.’

‘That is enough!’ Kajivah snapped. ‘You forget yourself, boy. The Deliverer himself is Sharum.’

‘Was Sharum,’ Asukaji said. ‘Now he wears the white.’

That very day, Kajivah set a fire under Ashan and dragged Ashia, Shanvah, and Sikvah before the Shar’Dama Ka, demanding they be made dama’ting.

But one did not make demands of the Deliverer and Damajah. Kajivah and her daughters were given white veils. Ashia and her cousins were sent to the Dama’ting Palace.

‘It is good, sister,’ Asukaji said, as the girls were pushed towards the waiting Damajah. ‘There is no reason why our father or the Deliverer should refuse your match to Asome now.’

Kajivah did not seem satisfied, but Ashia could not see why. The Deliverer had named them his blood and heaped honour upon them. Ashia had no wish to be dama’ting, but who knew what mysteries she might learn in their palace?

Kai’ting. She liked the sound. It was powerful. Regal. Shanvah and Sikvah were afraid, but Ashia went gladly.

The Damajah escorted the girls out of the great chamber through her own personal entrance. An honour in itself. There waited Qeva, Damaji’ting of the Kaji, and her daughter and heir, Melan, along with one of the Damajah’s mute eunuch guards.

‘The girls will be taught letters, singing, and pillow dancing for four hours each day,’ the Damajah told Damaji’ting Qeva. ‘The other twenty, they belong to Enkido.’

She nodded to the eunuch, and Ashia gasped. Shanvah clutched at her. Sikvah began to cry.

The Damajah ignored them, turning to the eunuch. ‘Make something worthy out of them.’

Nie’Damaji’ting Melan led them through the Dama’ting Underpalace. It was said the dama’ting could heal any wound with their hora magic, but the woman’s hand and forearm were horrifically scarred, twisted into a frightening claw not unlike those in the paintings Ashia had seen of alagai.

Sikvah was still weeping. Shanvah had her arms around her, her own eyes wet with tears.

You are an example to every other young woman in the tribe, her father told her once. And so I shall be harsher with you than any other, lest you ever shame our family.

And so Ashia had learned to hide fear and keep tears at bay. She was as terrified as her cousins, but she was eldest, and they had always looked to her. She kept her back arched proudly as they were brought to a small door. Enkido put his back to the wall beside the portal as Melan led through to a large tiled chamber. The walls were lined with pegs holding white robes and long strips of white silk.

‘Remove your robes,’ Melan said as the door closed.

Her cousins gasped and hesitated, but Ashia knew it was foolish – and useless – to argue with a Bride of Everam. Keeping her dignity intact, she removed her hood and pulled her fine black silk robe over her head. Beneath, a wide strip of silk around her chest flattened the beginnings of her woman’s shape. Her bido, too, was fine black silk, wrapped in a loose, simple weave for ease and comfort.

‘Everything,’ Melan said. Her eyes flicked to Shanvah and Sikvah, still hesitating, and her voice became a lash. ‘Now!’

A moment later, all three girls stood naked, and they were taken out the far side of the room into the baths, a great natural cavern lit by wardlights in the stone far above. The floor was tiled marble, deep with water. Ornate fountains kept the water moving, and the air was hot and thick with steam. It put even Kajivah’s baths to shame.

There were dozens of girls in the water, ages ranging from children to just shy of a woman grown. All stood washing in the stone bath, or lounged on the slick stone steps at its edges, shaving and paring nails. As one, they looked up to regard the new girls.

Ashia and the others were no strangers to bathing alongside other girls, but there was a frightening difference between these baths and those in the women’s wing of her father’s palace – here every girl’s head was shaved bald.

Ashia reached up, touching the lush, oiled hair she had cultivated for a lifetime, in hope of pleasing her future husband.

Melan caught the look. ‘Enjoy the touch, girl. It will be your last for some time.’

Her cousins gasped, and Shanvah put her hands to her head protectively.

Ashia forced herself to let go, dropping her hands to her sides, drawing a calming breath. ‘It is only hair. It will grow back.’ Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched her cousins calm as well.

‘Amanvah!’ Melan called, and a girl Sikvah’s age came forward. She was too young for a woman’s curves, but her eyes and face were much as the Damajah’s.

Ashia felt a wave of relief. Holy Amanvah was their cousin, firstborn daughter of the Deliverer and Damajah. Once, they had been as close as Asome and Asukaji.

‘Cousin!’ Ashia greeted her warmly, holding her arms out. It had been years since she had last played with Amanvah, but it did not matter. She was their blood, and would help them in this strange and unfamiliar place.

Amanvah ignored her, refusing to meet Ashia’s eyes. She was years younger and inches shorter than Ashia, but her bearing made it clear she considered her cousins beneath her now. She moved with liquid grace, stepping around the girls to face Melan, meeting the nie’Damaji’ting’s eyes boldly for a Betrothed.

‘Here to study pillow dancing?’ she smirked. It was common for young women, mostly from poor families, to be taken into the palace for pillow dancing lessons before they were sold to the great harem. Some were returned to their fathers, brides that could bring a fortune in dowry.

Melan nodded. ‘An hour each day. And an hour of singing. Another at writing, and a fourth to bathe.’

‘And the other twenty?’ Amanvah asked. ‘You cannot mean they will be granted the Chamber of Shadows.’ Ashia’s skin goosebumped at the name, and she struggled not to shiver despite the hot air.

But Melan shook her head. ‘The other twenty, they will study sharusahk. They belong to Enkido.’

There were gasps from some of the other girls, and even Amanvah’s face lost its smug look.

Ashia suppressed a snarl. She was blood of the Deliverer. Enkido was but half a man. She might have to obey his instruction, but Nie take her before she think herself his property.

‘Shave them, and teach them the bido weave,’ Melan said.

Amanvah bowed. ‘Yes, Nie’Damaji’ting.’

‘Thank you, cous …’ Ashia began, but as soon as Melan left, Amanvah turned away. She snapped her fingers, pointing to three of the older girls, who immediately went over to Ashia and the others, leading them to the water.

Amanvah went back to a group of other girls, resuming an idle conversation and totally ignoring Ashia, Shanvah, and Sikvah as the nie’dama’ting cut away their beautiful hair and shaved their heads. Ashia stared forward, willing herself not to feel the loss as her heavy locks fell away.

The nie’dama’ting came at her with a cake of soap and a razor next. Ashia froze as the girl lathered her scalp, wielding the blade with expert strokes.

Amanvah returned when they were finished. Kept her gaze above their heads, letting none meet her eyes. ‘Dry off.’ She pointed to a pile of pristinely white, freshly folded drying cloths. ‘Then follow.’

Again she turned away, as Ashia and the others dried off and followed their haughty cousin back to the dressing area. Behind trailed the same three girls who had cut their hair.

Amanvah walked past the many rolls of white bido silk to a lacquered box at the far end of the chamber. ‘You are not dama’ting.’ She threw them each a roll of the black silk from the box. ‘Unworthy to wear the white.’

‘Unworthy,’ the older girls echoed at their backs. Ashia swallowed at that. Betrothed or not, they were blood of the Deliverer, not some common dal’ting.

Enkido was waiting for them when they emerged from the baths with thin, black silk scarves and robes over their bidos. Shanvah and Sikvah had stopped weeping, but still they clutched at each other, eyes on the floor.

Ashia boldly raised her gaze to meet the eunuch’s eyes. She was blood of the Deliverer. Her father would cut off more than this man’s cock if he dared lay a hand on her. She would not be afraid.

She would not.

The eunuch paid her no mind, staring instead at Sikvah, who shook like a hare before the wolf. He made a sharp, dismissive gesture. Sikvah only stared, uncomprehending, beginning to weep once more.

Enkido raised a finger sharply in Sikvah’s face, causing the girl to gasp and stand up straight. Her eyes, wide with fear, crossed as they watched the finger.

Again, Enkido made the dismissive gesture. As if his finger in the air alone had been supporting her, Sikvah bent again, sobbing harder. This put Shanvah over the edge as well, the two of them clutching each other as they shook.

‘She doesn’t understand what you want!’ Ashia cried. She couldn’t tell if the eunuch was deaf as well as mute, for he did not look at her.

Instead, Enkido’s hand whipped out, slapping Sikvah’s cheek so hard her head struck Shanvah’s and they were both driven hard into the wall.

Ashia was moving before she knew it, interposing herself between the eunuch and the other girls. ‘How dare you?!’ she cried. ‘We are princesses of the Kaji, blood of the Deliverer, not camels in the bazaar! The Shar’Dama Ka will see you lose that hand.’

Enkido regarded her a moment. Then his hand seemed to flicker, and she was launched backward, an odd tingling in her jaw. She heard more than felt the rebound of the rock wall as she struck it. The sound echoed in her head as she struck the floor, and she knew pain would soon follow.

But Shanvah and Sikvah needed her. She put her hands under her, struggling to rise. She was the eldest. It was her duty to …

Her vision blurred at the edges, then darkened into black.

Enkido, Shanvah, and Sikvah were in the same positions when she woke. It seemed a mere eyeblink, but the dried blood caking her cheek to the marble floor told another story. The girls had stopped crying, standing with their backs straight. They watched her with terrified eyes.

Ashia managed to push herself up to her knees, then rose shakily to her feet. Her face throbbed with more pain than she had ever known. Rather than terrify her, the feeling made her angry. Perhaps he might strike them, but the half-man would not dare kill them. He was just trying to make them afraid.

She set her feet, daring once more to raise her gaze to Enkido. She would not be so easily cowed.

But the eunuch did not acknowledge her at all, simply turning away and walking down the hall, beckoning them with a wave.

Wordlessly, the girls followed.

Enkido stood before the three frightened girls in a large circular chamber lit only by dim wardlight. Like the rest of the underpalace, the floor and walls were stone, cut with wards and worn to a smooth polish by generations of use. The wards on the floor were arranged in concentric circles, like a marksman’s target.

There were no furnishings save myriad weapons hanging from the walls. Spears and shields, bows and arrows, alagai-catchers and short melee knives, throwing blades and batons, weighted chains and other weapons Ashia could not even put a name to.

They had been forced to remove their robes again, placing them on hooks by the door, standing in only their bido weaves.

Enkido, too, wore only his bido. It was barely a strip of silk, for of course he had no manhood to cover. His muscular body was shaved smooth, covered in hundreds of tattooed lines and dots. It was a chaotic design, but Ashia sensed a pattern that was just beyond her ability to discern.

There was a riddle in them. The Riddle of Enkido. Ashia had always been skilled at riddling games. Riddles were taught to girls at a young age, that they might keep their husbands entertained.

The mute Sharum took a sharusahk pose. The girls looked at him blankly for a moment, but as his eyes darkened, Ashia took his meaning and assumed the same pose. Sharusahk was forbidden to dal’ting, but Ashia and her cousins had been taught dance as well as riddling. This was not so different.

‘Follow him,’ she told the others.

Shanvah and Sikvah complied, and Enkido circled them, inspecting. He grabbed Ashia’s wrist hard, pulling her arm straight as he roughly kicked her legs farther apart. She could feel his grip long after he let go and turned to Shanvah.

Shanvah cried out and hopped from the loud smack to the meat of her thigh, and then Enkido took the stance again. No fool, Shanvah was quick to resume her imitation. She was closer this time, but Enkido kicked her legs out from under her, dropping her to the floor. Sikvah jumped back at that, and even Ashia let her pose slip, turning to face them.

Enkido pointed at her, and that simple gesture made her heart stop. Ashia resumed her pose as Sikvah continued to back away. Eventually she fetched up against the wall and did her very best to sink into it like a spirit.

Once again Enkido took the pose, and Shanvah was quick to scramble to her feet and mimic him. Her feet were set correctly this time, but her back was not straight. Enkido grabbed the strands of bido silk that connected the weave around her shaved head to that covering her nethers. He pulled hard, pressing a thumb into Shanvah’s spine. She cried out in pain, but was helpless to resist as he pulled her back straight.

Enkido let go and turned towards Sikvah. The girl was backed against the wall in terror, hands covering her nose and mouth, eyes wide and tearing. The eunuch flowed smoothly into the pose again.

‘Pose, you little fool!’ Ashia snapped when the girl did not respond. But Sikvah only shook her head, mewling as she tried to shrink away farther into an unyielding wall.

Enkido moved faster than Ashia could have thought possible. Sikvah tried to run as he came for her, but he was on her in an instant, yanking her arm to turn the momentum of her attempt to flee into a throw. She cried out as she tumbled across the floor to the centre of the room.

Enkido was there in an eyeblink, kicking her in the stomach. Sikvah was thrown over onto her back and hit the ground hard. There was blood on her face and she groaned, limbs limp as fronds of palm.

‘For Everam’s sake, get up!’ Ashia cried, but Sikvah didn’t – or couldn’t – comply. Enkido kicked her again. And again. She wailed, but she might have been crying to a statue of stone for all the eunuch took heed. Perhaps he truly was deaf.

He didn’t appear to be trying to maim or kill her, but neither was there any hint of mercy, or sign that the onslaught would end if she did not rise and take the pose. He paused after each strike, giving her the chance to rise, but Sikvah was beyond comprehension, crippled with fear.

The blows began to accumulate. There was blood running from Sikvah’s nose and mouth, and another cut at her temple. One of her eyes was already beginning to swell. Ashia began to think Enkido truly might kill her. She glanced to Shanvah, but the other girl stood frozen, staring helplessly at the scene.

So fixed was the eunuch on Sikvah, he did not notice as Ashia dropped her pose, sliding silently to the wall. Sacred law forbade her or any woman to touch a spear, so she selected a short, heavy baton, banded with steel. It felt good in her hand. Right.

Years of dance told in the grace of her swift and silent approach, as she carefully kept unseen at Enkido’s back. When she was close enough she didn’t hesitate, swinging the baton hard enough to shatter the eunuch’s skull.

Enkido seemed not to have noticed her, but at the last moment he twisted, putting his littlest finger against her wrist. Ashia barely felt the feather-touch, but her swing missed Enkido’s head by a wide margin. His calm eyes met hers, and Ashia knew then he had been waiting, baiting her to see if she would defend her cousin.