The Skull Throne
Page 155

Even now, she could turn it around. Even now, with the world blackening around the edges, she could strike the convergence in his elbow, sucking a breath as his grip loosened then reversing the hold.
Let him defeat you.
Ashia wanted nothing more than to show Jayan and these men that she was their better, but that was not the way she had been taught.
Battle is deception, Enkido taught. The wise warrior bides their time.
She reached a shaking hand toward Jayan’s arm as her vision shrank down to a dark tunnel, the light at the end ready to wink out at any moment. But instead of striking the convergence, she slapped twice, weakly.
The sign of submission.
Jayan grunted, loosening the hold. Ashia drew a breath, sweeter than any save the first one Enkido had allowed her, those many years ago.
But though he seemed to have accepted her submission, Jayan did not roll away, keeping her pinned, his mouth close to her ear.
“You fight well, cousin, but you are still only a woman.”
Ashia grit her teeth, saying nothing.
“How long?” Jayan whispered, shifting atop her. “How long since my push’ting brother last treated you as a wife? I expect it was just the once.” He ground his hips into her backside, and Ashia could feel his erection. “When you are ready for a true man, come to me.”
“Jayan must not take the throne,” Ashia said. “He would have to kill my father to do it, and he would not be wise in his rule.”
Asome nodded. “Help me stop him.”
“How?” Ashia asked. “If he is to find victory this night, we cannot change it even if we wanted. And I will not help you steal the throne in his absence. The Damajah has spoken. Shar’Dama Ka will return.”
“The dice say he may return, girl,” Melan said. “Not that he will.”
“I have faith,” Ashia said.
“As do I,” Asome agreed. “I do not ask you to help me take the throne, jiwah. Only to help me win glory to match my brother, that his claim be diminished and the Andrah hold power until Shar’Dama Ka comes again.”
“How?” Ashia asked again.
“It is Waning,” Asome said. “Tonight I will go out with my newly raised dama brothers and fight the alagai.”
“It is forbidden,” Ashia said.
“It must be done,” Asome said. “You heard the dama’ting. The Damajah cannot keep Jayan from the throne, nor can the Andrah. Only I can do it, and only tonight. Tomorrow will be too late.
“I do this because I must,” Asome added. “For the good of all Krasia. For the good of the world. But I am afraid.”
He held out a hand to her. “No doubt you felt much the same, the first night the Damajah bade you to defy Evejan law and claim your Sharum birthright. I beg you, if ever you were a wife to me, stand with me now.”
Ashia hesitated, then took his hand. “I will stand with you, husband. With pride.”
Ashia watched the Damajah from the shadows as Inevera entered her chambers. She remained alert to the slightest danger to her mistress, but still her thoughts reeled. It was her duty to serve the Damajah in all things, but Asome was her husband, and the son of the Deliverer.
Where did her greatest loyalty lie? To Everam, of course, but how could she, barely worthy of His notice, judge His plan? Was that not the job of the Damajah? She should inform her of Asome’s plan—now—and let Inevera judge Everam’s will.
But she hesitated. Perhaps she could not know His plan, but in her heart, the voice of Everam was clear. Sharak Ka was coming, and there was little room for those who would not fight. Asome had a warrior’s spirit, a warrior’s training, but as she had been, he was forbidden to use it, even as Nie’s forces mounted.
The Deliverer had given the right to fight to khaffit, to women, even. Why not the clerics? Was the cowardice of old men to dictate the lives of the young, even as the alagai tore Everam’s Bounty apart?
Once Asome killed an alagai, there would be no stopping it. He was the dama son of Shar’Dama Ka and the Damajah, and his glory would be boundless. Not even the Damajah could halt it then.
But until that moment, his plans could still be thwarted, costing Everam warriors and putting an unworthy boy on the Skull Throne.
Inevera stopped as she passed, looking right at Ashia as if the shadows that cloaked her were not there. Ashia froze. She knew she could not hide from her mistress, but it was always unnerving when the Damajah looked at her directly when she was concealed. “Are you well, child?”
“It is nothing, Damajah,” Ashia said, quickly finding her center and letting her fears and doubts fall away.
But Inevera narrowed her eyes, staring, her divine Sight peeling away Ashia’s center like the layers of an onion. “The coming night troubles you.”
Ashia swallowed the growing knot in her throat, nodding. “It is Waning, mistress.”
“Alagai Ka is attempting to lure us into relaxing our defenses by not appearing,” the Damajah agreed. “You and your sisters must be extra vigilant, and rush to inform me if you witness anything out of the ordinary.”
“I will, Damajah,” Ashia said. “On my love of Everam and my hope of Heaven, I swear it.”
Inevera continued to scrutinize her, and it was all Ashia could do to hold her center. At last, the Damajah nodded. “Return to your chambers and spend the remaining hours until muster with your son.”
Ashia bowed. “I will, mistress. Thank you, mistress.”
Ashia held young Kaji close as she watched Asome and Asukaji prepare for the coming night.
Her own preparations were quick and efficient, the result of years of training. Her weapons and armor were oiled and laid out in precise fashion. Though she lounged in a plain robe of silk in their private chambers, she could be armored and ready to fight in moments.
Her brother and husband, however, paced and preened like pillow wives. Their hands were wrapped tightly in white silk, only the first knuckles exposed. Much like Ashia and her sisters, Asome had painted fighting wards on Asukaji’s finger and toe nails, layering clear polish over the symbols to harden and protect them.
Asukaji clenched his fists, moving through a series of sharukin with the precision of a master, flexing his fingers to bring different combinations of wards into play.
“Try it with the silvers,” Asome said, and Asukaji nodded, going to a lacquered wood case on his vanity. Inside were two pieces of polished, warded silver, shaped to be slipped over the fingers. They rested comfortably to protect his top knuckles, giving her brother fists that would strike the alagai like thunderbolts.
Asukaji went through his sharukin again, layering in moves to make the most of the new weapons.
“Now the staff,” Asome said, taking Asukaji’s whip staff from its stand and throwing it to him.
The whip staff was a glorious weapon—six feet of flexible Northern goldwood, carved with wards of power and capped on either end with warded silver. Asukaji caught the staff, spinning it into a blur he incorporated into his sharukin. The whip staff moved faster than the eye could see, and in the hands of a master, the supple wood could bend to strike around defenses that would deflect a rigid weapon.
Ashia looked to Asome, wearing only his alagai tail, the weapon all dama carried. The barbed tips of its prongs were no doubt warded, but it seemed like little compared to the myriad weapons her brother was preparing to bring into the night.