The Daylight War (25 page)

Inevera stared at her as the words sank in. Melan gave her no time to respond, grabbing her arm and pulling her back towards the Vault. The girls quickly washed their hands and faces, donning their white robes and lining up once again. Melan led the way back to the Vault doors, where they met the
dama’ting
who guided them out of the palace and through the Undercity to the catacombs beneath the Kaji
dama’ting
pavilion, where they waited for the
dama
to sing the dawn from the minarets of Sharik Hora.

Assisting the
dama’ting
in their healing was every bit as bloody and horrid as Inevera had feared. Her ears rang with the shouts and screams, half from
Sharum
too lost in agony to embrace their pain, and half from Melan and the
dama’ting
, cursing her slowness.

Once, while carrying a jug of instruments soaking in a harsh fluid that made couzi smell mild, she tripped and spilled a few drops. Melan punched her full in the face for that, with Qeva and another
dama’ting
looking on. Neither woman said a word, more interested in the instruments Inevera carried than her swelling cheek.

On the table before them, a warrior thrashed and flailed as they tried to cut the black robes away from a deep gash in his abdomen. The Brides tossed shattered bits of ceramic armour plates into a palm basket where they clattered, wet with blood.

Qeva threw a pair of silk cords to Melan. ‘Pin him.’

Melan took one of the cords, handing the other to Inevera. ‘Be swift, and do exactly as I do.’ She wound the cord around her fists with perhaps a forearm’s length between.

Inevera had no time to ponder those instructions before Melan moved in, impossibly fast and graceful as she wrapped the cord around the warrior’s wrist, twisting back and using leverage to hold his arm out straight. He tried to resist, but Melan knew the angles where his arm was weakest and kept control.

‘Now!’ she shouted, as the man grabbed at her awkwardly with his other hand. Inevera rushed in, attempting to do as Melan had. She caught the
Sharum
’s wrist in a twist of silk, but she did not know precisely where to step or how to shift her weight as Melan had. The warrior caught her with a backhand blow that made Melan’s punch feel like a kiss.

Inevera hit the floor hard and Qeva hissed, stabbing two stiffened fingers into the man’s shoulder joint. His arm spasmed and lost its strength long enough for Inevera to recover her cord and pin him once more. Qeva glared at Melan in irritation, and Melan in turn glared at Inevera silently as they held the warrior prone. The
dama’ting
forced a sleeping draught down his throat, and he soon went limp. The Brides began to cut, oblivious to the blood and other, fouler fluids that stained their pristine white robes.

‘This will not do,’ Qeva said after a time.

‘He needs
hora
magic, if he is to survive,’ the other Bride agreed. She looked at Melan. ‘Take him to the catacombs.’

Melan nodded, and she and Inevera heaved at the poles of the stretcher that hung limp at the sides of the operating table. The warrior easily outweighed the two girls combined, but Inevera was no stranger to hard work, and her steps did not falter. Asavi scurried ahead to open the trapdoor, and the
dama’ting
led them down into the darkness.

Asavi waited until Inevera and Melan had descended the steps, then pulled the door shut behind them, leaving them in perfect pitch until Qeva produced her glowing bit of demon bone, lighting the way to a stone chamber with another operating table. There was a steel door cut into the rock wall, and Qeva took a key from around her neck and opened it, revealing what looked like an assortment of coal lumps and blackened bones.
Alagai
hora
. She selected a modestly sized lump and closed the door with a click as the locking mechanism re-engaged.

‘Suction,’ Qeva said, and Melan fetched a device of tubes and bellows, operated by a foot pedal. Inevera pumped the pedal evenly as Melan inserted one of the tubes into the warrior’s open wound, siphoning the blood into a glass chamber.

The
dama’ting
cleaned the edges of the wound, first clearing the blood and then shaving the surrounding area. As they worked, Asavi prepared brushes and a bowl of ink.

‘Inevera, step close,’ Qeva said. Asavi took her place at the pedal, and Inevera approached the Brides, taking care to stay out of their way.

Qeva did not look at her as she spoke. ‘First, the siphon ward, drawn at the north edge of the wound.’ She dipped a brush in the ink and drew a strange symbol. Inevera watched intently, expecting the ink to glow, but there was no effect. ‘Next, the wards for strength, endurance, and blood.’ She drew quickly, moving her brush clockwise along the
Sharum
’s flesh, putting wards at each compass point around the wound.

‘Now they must be connected,’ Qeva said, drawing the same ward four times in the gaps between the others, forming an octagon.

When she was done, she gestured to the other
dama’ting
, who held forth the lump of demon bone from the cabinet. As soon as the bone was brought close to the wound, the wards Qeva had drawn did indeed glow, flaring fiercely to life.

‘The wards are not magic,’ Qeva said, ‘but they leach magic from the demon bone and turn the
alagai
’s power to Everam’s purpose.’

As Inevera looked on open-mouthed, the
Sharum
’s flesh began to knit back together, the wound closing like two cupped hands of water brought together as one. In moments the wound was gone without so much as a scar. The new flesh looked paler, untouched by the sun or ever-blowing sands, healthier even than the skin around it.

‘Praise be to Everam,’ Inevera whispered, awestruck. ‘With such magic, no
Sharum
need ever die again.’

Qeva shook her head sadly. ‘If only it were so. Even
hora
magic cannot cure the most serious wounds, and such power is not without its price.’ She gestured to the lump of demon bone, which was crumbling away in the other
dama’ting
’s hand. ‘Healing is the most taxing of magic, and not used lightly. The
alagai
may be an endless scourge, but harvesting their bones is costlier in lives than the bones can save. We must use the power sparingly.’

‘And secretly,’ the other Bride added sternly. ‘The
Sharum
are already too reckless with their lives. Everam only knows what heights of idiocy they might reach if they knew we possessed such power. Better to let as many as possible heal naturally.’

Qeva nodded. ‘We will keep this one from his brothers for some time, drugged senseless as he “heals”.’

‘But is he not needed to defend us from the
alagai
?’ Inevera asked.

Melan laughed, and Qeva glanced her way. ‘Thank you for volunteering to carry this warrior back up to the pavilion and wash bido silks for the rest of the day, daughter.’

Melan stiffened, but she bowed. ‘I apologize for my disrespect, Mother.’

Qeva whisked a hand, dismissing her. ‘Accepted. Take Asavi with you.’

Unsure of what to do, Inevera stood frozen as the two girls heaved the healed
Sharum
back up on the stretcher and carried him from the chamber. The other
dama’ting
led their way with a glowing demon bone.

When all were gone, Qeva turned back to her. ‘Despite her lack of respect, Melan is not incorrect. It is the wardwalls, not warriors, that protect the Desert Spear. Until the Deliverer comes again,
alagai’sharak
is only the pride of men, throwing lives away for victories not worth their price.’

Inevera’s eyes widened at the blasphemy. Soli and Kasaad risked themselves in the Maze every night. Her grandfathers, uncles, and male ancestors going back three hundred years had died in the Maze, as she had always thought her own sons would. It could not simply be the pride of men. ‘Does not the Evejah tell us that killing
alagai
is worth any price?’

‘The Evejah tells us that obeying the Shar’Dama Ka is worth any price,’ Qeva said. ‘And the Shar’Dama Ka commanded we kill
alagai
.’

Inevera opened her mouth, but Qeva raised a finger and cut her off. ‘But the Shar’Dama Ka has been dead for three
thousand
years, and took the fighting wards to his grave. Each night, more men die in the Maze than are born each
day. There were millions of us before the Return. Now, less
than a hundred thousand, all because of men and their ridiculous game.’

‘Game?’ Inevera asked. ‘How is defending the city’s walls from demons in sacred
alagai’sharak
a game?’

‘Because the walls need no defence,’ Qeva said. ‘Kaji built the Desert Spear with two wardwalls – one outer, at the city’s ancient perimeter, and one inner, to protect the oasis and its surrounding palaces and tribes. Between them lies the Maze, built on the ruins of the outer city.’ She paused, making sure to meet Inevera’s eyes. ‘Neither wall has
ever
been breached.’

Inevera looked at her curiously. ‘Then how do demons get into the Maze each night?’

‘We let them in,’ Qeva growled. ‘The Sharum Ka opens the gates wide till the Maze is well seeded, then closes them again, trapping the demons in the Maze for his men to hunt.’

Inevera felt much as she had earlier in the day, when Melan slapped her. She felt dizzy, and put a hand to the wall to steady herself.

‘Breathe,’ Qeva said. ‘Find your centre.’

Inevera did as she bade, drawing deep, rhythmic breaths and using them to steady both her limbs and her pounding heart.

The technique helped, but not enough to step away from all the anger she felt. Part of her wanted to slap every man in the city across the face. She had thought Soli and her father brave; their sacrifice great as they stepped into the Maze each night. But if the solution was to simply leave the gates closed …

‘Those … idiots,’ Inevera said at last.

Qeva nodded. ‘But idiots or no, it is not the place of
nie’dama’ting
to make light of their sacrifice.’

Inevera remembered Qeva’s punishment of Melan, and her face flushed. She bowed. ‘I understand, Mother.’

Qeva’s eyebrow arched. ‘Mother?’

Inevera bit her lip. ‘Is “Mother” not the proper form of address from a Betrothed to a Bride?’

Qeva’s eyes crinkled in what Inevera took as a smile. ‘No. Melan addresses me so because she is my daughter.’

The knowledge did nothing to quell Inevera’s sudden tension. ‘She called Kenevah Grandmother …’

Qeva nodded. ‘And so she is. I am the
Damaji’ting
’s heir.’

Inevera felt her heart clench. Qeva had always seemed stern, but fair. Not a friend, perhaps, but neither an enemy. But now …

‘Breathe,’ Qeva said again, holding up a hand and waiting as Inevera found her centre. ‘I am not your enemy. I’ve grown used to my place of power as second among the
dama’ting
, but I learned long ago to accept that I would not succeed my mother in leading the women of Kaji. Melan has yet to embrace this truth and bend before its wind, but I pray to Everam that she will in time.’

Qeva’s placating hand changed into a pointing finger. ‘But do not mistake my meaning. I am not your enemy, but neither am I your friend. It takes a special woman to lead the Kaji
dama’ting
with strength, competence, and humility before Everam as my mother does. If you prove not humble, competent, or strong enough to survive and advance to the white,’ she shrugged, ‘then that is
inevera
.’

Inevera’s face went cold, but she focused on her breath and kept her centre. ‘Yes, Dama’ting.’

‘Good,’ Qeva said. ‘Come with me.’ She strode from the chamber, and Inevera followed her through the hidden passages of the Undercity leading back to the Dama’ting Palace. Most of these tunnels were lit by glowing wards running in continuous lines along the top and bottom of the tunnel walls.

When they arrived at the
dama’ting
’
s
quarters, the eunuch Qeva had spoken to the day before admitted them, naked save for his golden shackles. Stoneless he might be, but his manhood hung heavy before her, and Inevera could not help but gaze at it.

‘Impressive, is he not?’ Qeva asked. ‘Khavel is a favourite of mine, a skilled lover and a loyal servant. But you must tear your gaze from him now, I’m afraid. You will see his prowess first-hand during your pillow dancing lessons.’

Pillow
dancing
lessons?
Inevera felt a wave of anxiety at the sound of that, though there was at least a little curiosity bound up in it.

Qeva gave her no time to ponder. She produced a square box of fine white sand and a slender stick. There was a track along the top and bottom that allowed her to slide a pane from one side to the other, smoothing the sand into an unblemished flat. She handed the stick to Inevera. ‘You watched me paint five wards this morning. Draw them for me now.’

Inevera pursed her lips, but she took the stick, closing her eyes to visualize each ward before carefully drawing. As Qeva had, she drew an octagon, a ward at each of the points. Four were unique, and the fifth was repeated four times to connect them. She held the stick close to its end like a pen, forming the curved symbols with precise turns of her supple wrist. When she was finished, she looked up proudly.