The Skull Throne (69 page)

But then he came at her, and Ashia was the faster. Instinctively she tripped him, jabbing her toe into a convergence point that numbed his foot momentarily. He lost balance as he passed, and Ashia stole the energy, slipping her hand under his armpit and using it to throw him onto his back.

A hush fell on the room. The men looked dumbstruck, having expected a very different result. Ashia wondered if she had already gone too far; if the men would kill her to save face for their Sharum Ka.

But after a moment, Jayan forced a laugh, getting back to his feet, stomping to restore feeling to the numbed appendage. “A fine throw! Let us see what else you have.”

He kept better guard this time, delivering a flurry of punches, kicks, and open-hand blows. Ashia dodged most of them, diverting the others with minimal contact. She made a few halfhearted strikes of her own, assessing his defenses.

He was good, as
Sharum
went. One of the best. But many of his blocks left convergences open, giving her points she could use to disable, cripple, and kill.

Instead she leapt over one of his circle kicks, somersaulting away to put space between them.

“You are wise to retreat, sister,” Jayan said. “I would have had you there.”

Ashia’s jaw tightened. She could have killed him three times over by now. Her eyes flicked to Shanvah.

Her spear sister knelt serenely, but she worked the fingers of one hand into a question.
Why are you giving up advantages?

Why indeed?
Ashia wondered. The Damajah had commanded it, of course, but what example was she setting for Shanvah and future
Sharum’ting
if she allowed Jayan to defeat her?

“You cannot circle forever,” Jayan called. “I have given you too much energy already. Come, show me what strength you have when you are not stealing mine.”

Ashia shot in so quickly Jayan was unprepared. She parted his arms with cobra’s hood, and then bent forward and held his waist as her right foot came up over her back to kick him in the face.

He stumbled back and she spun to the floor, hooking the back of his knee with hers and pulling him off his feet.

Jayan was no novice at ground fighting, twisting and shifting his weight to offer minimal targets and leverage. But Ashia was in close now, where the
dama’ting
sharusahk
Enkido had taught was its deadliest. Precise strikes broke his lines of power as she worked into a submission hold atop him, her forearm cutting off his windpipe and the artery supplying blood to his brain.

Jayan shook, sweat broken out on his face, and she saw fear in his eyes. And, at last, respect. She imagined herself forcing a submission from him, but the Damajah’s words came to her again.

Show him your mettle. Earn his respect. And then lose.

Jayan made a weak pull at her choking arm, and Ashia eased back slightly, as if the effort had made a difference.

Jayan caught a breath, and with a surge, he came forward, punching her hard in the face. Unprepared for such ferocity, Ashia fell back as he landed blow after blow, striking her face, her body, blows meant to do lasting damage.

He rolled her onto her stomach, pinning her under his weight as he took hold of the collar of her robe from behind, pulling in opposite directions to close off the air and blood to her head, much as Ashia had done to him.

Did he mean to kill her? She did not know. If she had taken it too far, humiliated Jayan past reason, he would not hesitate. He was the Deliverer’s firstborn, and if he killed her, he would get no more than a scolding from his father and the support of all others.

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.

“What of you, husband?” Ashia asked. “You have not so much as painted your nails. What
dama
weapon will you bring to
alagai’sharak
?”

Asome pulled the whip from his belt, hanging it on its hook on the wall. “None. Tonight I fight as you did on the night the
Sharum’ting
revealed themselves.”

Ashia hid her surprise. “You will fight spear and shield, like your honored father?”

Asome shook his head. “
Dama
are forbidden the spear, and a shield would slow me, when I must be fast.”

Ashia looked at him, understanding slowly dawning on her. “Husband, you cannot mean to fight with
sharusahk
alone.”

“My father did it, when he was only a
kai,
” Asome said.

Ashia knew the story. One of the first legends of the Shar’Dama Ka’s rise. “Your honored father had spent years in the Maze by then, husband, and his own retelling had it an act of last resort. To go unarmed into Waning is …”

“Madness,” Asukaji agreed, but Asome glared at him, and he dropped his eyes.

“Anyone can kill
alagai
with weapons,” Asome said. “My
Sharum
brothers do it every night. It is not enough if I am to win glory to match my brother.”

He clenched one of his bandaged hands into a fist. “Either Everam wills me to succeed, or He does not.”

They went into the night wrapped in black cloaks, Asukaji and the
dama
sons of the Deliverer. Only Asome walked boldly in the night in his white robes.
Sharum
looked at him with apprehension, remembering the Shar’Dama Ka’s forbiddance that clerics to go out at the night. But they recognized Asome, blood of the Deliverer himself, and none dared hinder him.

There were no
alagai
close to the city proper, held back by walls, wardposts, and regular patrols. They had to range far before the sounds of battle came to them. At last they came to Hoshkamin, Asome’s younger brother, wearing the turban of Sharum Ka as he directed men culling field demons on a wide plain.

Hoshkamin looked at them in surprise. “You should not be out in the night, brother! It is forbidden!”

Asome stood before him, slender where Hoshkamin was thick with muscle; clad only in silk, where Hoshkamin wore the finest armor; weaponless where Hoshkamin carried spear and shield of warded glass.

And yet it was Asome who dominated, Ashia saw immediately. There were but two years between them, but that was vast for men not yet twenty. Asome leaned in, and Hoshkamin took a step back.

“The Deliverer is not here to stop me,” Asome said quietly. “Nor is our elder brother.” His smile was dangerous, predatory. “Will you try?”

He didn’t raise his voice, or make a threatening gesture, but Hoshkamin paled visibly. He glanced at his men, no doubt imagining the shame if his elder brother were to beat him in front of them while he wore the white turban.