Scene

300 AR

Inevera looked at the long line of girls and their mothers before her, each awaiting their turn in the dama’ting pavilion. The Brides of Everam had decreed that when the dama sang the dawn on spring equinox, all girls in their ninth year were to be presented for Hannu Pash, to learn the life’s path Everam had laid out for them. Hannu Pash could take years for a boy, but for girls it was accomplished in a single foretelling by the dama’ting.

Most were simply deemed fertile and given their first headscarf, but a few would walk away from the pavilion betrothed, or given a new vocation. Others, mostly the poor and illiterate, were purchased from their fathers and trained in pillow dancing, then sent to the great harem to service Krasia’s warriors as jiwah’Sharum. It was their honor to bear new warriors to replace those who died battling demons in alagai’sharak each night.

Inevera had woken filled with excitement, donning her tan dress and brushing out her thick black hair. It fell in natural waves and shone like silk, but today was the last day the world would ever see it. She would enter the dama’ting pavilion a girl, but leave a young woman whose hair would be for her future husband alone. She would be stripped of her tan dress and emerge in proper blacks.

“Perhaps a Damaji will take me into his harem,” Inevera said. “I could live in a palace, with a dower so great you would never need to weave again.”

“Never able to go out in the sun again,” her mother, Manvah, said, too low to be heard by those around them, “or speak to anyone but your sister-wives, waiting on the pleasure of a man old enough to be your great-grandfather.” She shook her head. “At least our tax is paid and you have two men to speak for you, so there’s little chance you’ll be sold into the great harem. And even that would be a better fate than to be found barren and cast out as nie’ting.”

Nie’ting. Inevera shuddered at the thought. Those found infertile would never be allowed to don the black, left in tans their entire life like khaffit, faces uncovered in shame.

“Perhaps I’ll be chosen to be dama’ting,” Inevera said.

Manvah snorted. “You won’t be. They never choose anyone.”

“Grandmother says a girl was chosen the year she was tested,” Inevera said.

“That was fifty years ago, if it was a day,” Manvah said, “and Everam bless her, your father’s honored mother is prone to . . . exaggeration.”

“Then where do all the nie’dama’ting come from?” Inevera wondered, referring to the dama’ting apprentices, their faces bare, but in the white of betrothal to Everam.

“Some say Everam himself gets his brides with child, and the nie’dama’ting are their daughters,” Manvah said. Inevera looked at her, raising an eyebrow as she wondered if her mother was joking.

Manvah shrugged. “It’s as good an explanation as any. I can tell you none of the other mothers in the market has ever seen a girl chosen, or recognized one by her face.”

“Mother! Sister!” A wide smile broke out on Inevera’s face as she saw Soli approaching, Cashiv at his back. Her brother’s blacks were still dusty from the Maze, and his shield, slung over one shoulder, had fresh dents. Cashiv was as pristine as ever.

Inevera ran and embraced Soli. He laughed, picking her up with one arm and swinging her through the air. Inevera shrieked in delight, not afraid for a moment. Nothing could frighten her when Soli was near. He set her down gentle as a feather and went to embrace their mother.

“What are you doing here?” Manvah asked. “I thought you would already be on your way to Dama Baden’s palace.”

“I am,” Soli said, “but I couldn’t let my sister go to her Hannu Pash without wishing her all the blessings in Ala.” He reached out, tousling Inevera’s hair. She swatted at his hand, but as ever, he was too quick and snatched it back in time.

“Do you think Father will come to bless me as well?” Inevera asked.

“Ah . . .” Soli hesitated. “So far as I know, Father is still sleeping in back of the kiosk. He never made it to muster last night.” Soli shrugged helplessly, and Inevera lowered her eyes, not wanting him to see her disappointment.

Soli stooped low, lifting her chin with a gentle finger so their eyes met. “I know Father wants every blessing for you that I do, even if he has difficulty showing it.”

Inevera nodded. “I know.” She threw her arms around Soli’s neck one last time before he left. “Thank you.”

Cashiv looked at Inevera as if noticing her for the first time. He smiled his handsome smile and bowed. “Blessings to you, Inevera vah’Kasaad, as you become a woman. I wish you a good husband and many sons, all as handsome as your brother.”

Inevera smiled and felt her cheeks flush as the two warriors sauntered off.

At last, the line began to move. The day wore on slowly as they stood in the hot sun, the girls and their mothers admitted one at a time. Some were inside for mere minutes—others, nearly an hour. All left wearing black, most looking both chastened and relieved. Some of the girls stared hard at nothing, rubbing their arms absently as their mothers steered them home.

As they drew close to the head of the line, Inevera’s mother tightened her grip on the girl’s shoulders, nails digging hard even through her dress.

“Keep your eyes down and your tongue still save when spoken to,” Manvah hissed. “Never answer a question with a question, and never disagree. Say it with me: ‘Yes, Dama’ting.’”

“Yes, Dama’ting,” Inevera repeated.

“Keep that answer fixed in your mind,” Manvah said. “Offend a dama’ting and you offend fate itself.”

“Yes, Mother.” Inevera swallowed deeply, feeling her insides clench. What went on in the pavilion? Hadn’t her mother gone through the same ritual? What was she so afraid of?

A nie’dama’ting opened the tent flap, and the girl who had gone in before Inevera emerged. She wore a headscarf now, but it was tan, as was the dress she still wore. Her mother gentled her shoulders, murmuring comfort as they stumbled along, but both were weeping.

The nie’dama’ting regarded the scene serenely, then turned to Inevera and her mother. “I am Melan.” She motioned for them to enter. “Dama’ting Qeva will see you now.”

Inevera took a deep breath as she and her mother removed their shoes, drew wards in the air, and passed into the dama’ting pavilion.

The sun filtered through the rising canvas roof, filling the great tent with bright light. Everything was white, from the tent walls to the painted furniture and the thick canvas flooring.

It made the blood all the more startling. There were great splashes of red and brown marring the floor of the entranceway, as well as a thick trail of muddy red footprints heading through partitions to the right and left.

“That is Sharum blood,” a voice said, and Inevera jumped, noticing for the first time the Bride of Everam standing right before them, her white robes blending almost perfectly with the background. “From the injured brought in at dawn from alagai’sharak. Each day, the canvas floor is cut away and burned atop the minarets of Sharik Hora during the call to prayer.”

As if on cue, Inevera heard the cries of pain surrounding her. On the other side of the thick partitions, men were in agony. She imagined her father—or worse, Soli—among them, and winced at every shriek and groan.

“Everam take me now!” a man cried desperately. “I will not live a cripple!”

“Step carefully,” Dama’ting Qeva warned. “The soles of your feet are not worthy to touch the blood honored warriors have spilled for your sake.”

Inevera and her mother eased their way around the stained canvas to come before the dama’ting. Clad from head to toe in white silk with only her eyes and hands uncovered, Qeva was a large woman, thick of frame, and a head taller than Inevera’s mother.

“What is your name, girl?” The Bride of Everam’s voice was deep and hard.

“Inevera vah’Kasaad am’Damaj am’Kaji, Dama’ting,” Inevera said, bowing deeply. “Named after the First Wife of Kaji.” Manvah’s nails dug into her shoulder at the addition, and she gasped involuntarily. The dama’ting seemed not to notice.

“No doubt you think that makes you special.” Qeva snorted. “If Krasia had a warrior for every worthless girl who has borne that name, Sharak Ka would be over.”

“Yes, Dama’ting,” Inevera said, bowing again as her mother’s nails eased back.

“You’re a pretty one,” the dama’ting noted.

Inevera bowed. “Thank you, Dama’ting.”

“The harems can always use a pretty girl, if she’s not put to good use already,” Qeva said, looking at Manvah. “Who is your husband and what is your profession?”

“Dal’Sharum Kasaad, Dama’ting,” Manvah said, bowing. “And I am a palm weaver.”

“First Wife?” Qeva asked.

“I am his only wife, Dama’ting,” Manvah said.

“Men think they take on wives as they prosper, Manvah of the Kaji,” Qeva said, “but the reverse is true. Have you tried to secure sister-wives, as prescribed in the Evejah, to help with your weaving and bear him more children?”

“Yes, Dama’ting. Many times.” Manvah grit her teeth. “Their fathers . . . would not approve the match.”

The Bride of Everam grunted. The answer said much about Kasaad. “Is the girl educated?”

Manvah nodded. “Yes, Dama’ting. Inevera is my apprentice. She is most skilled at weaving, and I have taught her to do sums and keep ledgers. She has read the Evejah once for each of the seven pillars of Heaven.”

The dama’ting’s eyes were unreadable. “Follow me.” She turned away, heading deeper into the pavilion. She gave no mind to the blood on the floor, her flowing silk robes gliding easily over it. Not a drop clung to them. It would not dare.

Melan followed, the nie’dama’ting stepping nimbly around the blood, and Inevera and her mother trailed after. The pavilion was a maze of white cloth walls, with many turns that were upon them before Inevera even knew they were there. There was no blood on the floor here, and even the cries of the injured Sharum grew muffled. Around one bend, the walls and ceiling shifted suddenly from white to black. It was like stepping from day into night. After turning another bend, it became so dark that her mother, in her black dal’ting robes, was nearly invisible, and even the white-clad dama’ting and her apprentice became only ghostly images.

Qeva stopped suddenly, and Melan moved around her to pull open a trapdoor Inevera hadn’t even noticed. Inside she could only just make out the stone staircase leading down into a deeper dark. The cut stone was cold on her bare feet, and when Melan pulled the trap shut behind them, the blackness became complete. They descended slowly, Inevera terrified she might trip and take the Bride of Everam tumbling down the steps with her.

The stairs were mercifully short, though Inevera did indeed stumble in surprise when she came to the landing. She caught herself quickly, and no one seemed to notice.

A red light appeared in Qeva’s hand, casting an evil glow that allowed them to see one another but did little to abate the oppressive darkness around them. The dama’ting led them down a row of dark cells cut into the living rock. Wards were carved into the walls on both sides.

“Wait here with Melan,” Qeva told Manvah, and bade Inevera to enter one of the cells. She winced as the heavy door closed behind them.

There was a stone pedestal in one corner of the room, and the dama’ting deposited the glowing object there. It looked like a lump of coal carved with glowing wards, but even Inevera knew better. It was alagai hora.

Demon bone.

Qeva turned back to her, and Inevera caught the flash of a curved blade in the woman’s hand. In the red light, it appeared to be covered in blood.

Inevera shrieked and backpedaled, but the cell was tiny, and she soon fetched up against the stone wall. The dama’ting lifted the blade right up to Inevera’s nose, and her eyes crossed trying to see it.

“You fear the blade?” the dama’ting asked.

“Yes, Dama’ting,” Inevera said automatically, her voice cracking.

“Close your eyes,” Qeva commanded. Inevera shook with fear, but she did as she was bade, her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she waited for the blade to pierce her flesh.

But the blow never came. “Picture a palm tree, weaver’s daughter,” Qeva said. Inevera didn’t wholly understand, but she nodded. It was an easy image to form, as she climbed palm trees every day, nimbly shimmying up the trunk to harvest fronds for weaving.

“Does a palm fear the wind?” the dama’ting asked.

“No, Dama’ting,” Inevera said.

“What does it do?”

“It bends, Dama’ting,” Inevera said.

“The Evejah teaches us that fear and pain are only wind, Inevera, daughter of Manvah. Let it blow past you.”

“Yes, Dama’ting,” Inevera said.

“Repeat it three times,” Qeva commanded.

“Fear and pain are only wind,” Inevera said, drawing a deep breath. “Fear and pain are only wind. Fear and pain are only wind.”

“Open your eyes and kneel,” Qeva said. When Inevera complied, she added, “Hold out your arm.” The limb Inevera lifted seemed detached from her, but it held steady. The Bride of Everam pulled up Inevera’s sleeve and sliced her forearm, drawing a bright line of blood.

Inevera drew a sharp breath, but she did not flinch away or cry out. Fear and pain are only wind.

The dama’ting licked the knife, tasting her blood, then sheathed it at her waist. With one strong hand she reached out and squeezed the cut, dripping blood onto a handful of black, warded dice.

Inevera grit her teeth. Fear and pain are only wind.

When the blood struck them, the dice began to glow, and Inevera realized they, too, were alagai hora. Her blood was touching the bones of demons. The thought was horrifying.

The dama’ting took a step back, chanting quietly as she shook the dice, their glow increasing with every passing moment.

“Everam, giver of light and life, I beseech you, give this lowly servant knowledge of what is to come. Tell me of Inevera, daughter of Kasaad, of the Kaji line of Damaj.”

With that, she cast the dice to the floor in front of Inevera. Their light exploded in a flash that caused her to blink, then reduced to a dull throb as the glowing symbols on the floor laid bare the fronds that wove her fate.

The dama’ting said nothing. Her eyes narrowed, staring at the symbols for a long time. Inevera could not say exactly how long it was, but she wobbled as the muscles of her legs, unaccustomed to kneeling so long, began to give way.

Qeva looked up at the movement. “Sit back on your heels and keep still!” She got to her feet, circling the tiny cell to inspect the pattern of the dice from every angle. Slowly the glow began to fade, but still the dama’ting pondered.

Palm in the wind or not, Inevera began to grow very nervous. Her muscles screamed in strain, and her anxiety doubled with every passing second. What did the Bride of Everam see? Was she to be taken from her mother and sold to a harem? Was she barren?

At last, Qeva looked at Inevera. “Touch the dice in any way, and it will mean your life.” With that, she left the room, grunting commands. There was a sound of hurried footsteps as Melan ran off.

A moment later Manvah entered the cell, stepping around the dice carefully to kneel behind Inevera. “What happened?” she whispered.

Inevera shook her head. “I don’t know. The dama’ting stared at the dice as if unsure what they meant.”

“Or she didn’t like what they told her,” Manvah muttered.

“What happens now?” Inevera asked, her face going cold.

“They are summoning Damaji’ting Kenevah,” Manvah said, drawing a shocked gasp from Inevera. “It is she who will speak the final word. Pray now.”

Inevera shuddered as she lowered her head. She was frightened enough of the dama’ting. The thought of their leader coming to inspect her . . .

Please Everam, she begged, let me be fertile and bear sons for the Kaji. My family could not bear the shame if I were kha’ting. Grant me this one wish, and I will give myself to you forever.

They knelt in the dim red light a long time, praying.

“Mother?” Inevera asked.

“Yes?” her mother said.

Inevera swallowed the lump in her throat. “Will you still love me if I’m barren?” Her voice cracked at the end. She hadn’t meant to cry, but found herself blinking away tears.

A moment later Manvah had folded her in her arms. “You are my daughter. I would love you if you put out the sun.”

* * * * *

After an interminable wait, Qeva returned, another Bride of Everam at her back—this one older and thinner, with a sharp look. She wore dama’ting white, but her veil and headwrap were black silk. Damaji’ting Kenevah, the most powerful woman in all of Krasia.

The Damaji’ting glanced at the huddling women, and they quickly separated and wiped their eyes, returning to their knees. She said nothing, moving to the dice. For long minutes, she studied the pattern.

At last, Kenevah grunted. “Take her.”

Inevera gasped as Qeva strode up, grabbing her arm and hauling her to her feet. She looked frantically at her mother and saw Manvah’s eyes wide with fear. Already the large dama’ting was pulling her away. “Mother!”

Manvah fell to her belly, clutching at the hem of Qeva’s white robe. “Please, Dama’ting,” she begged. “My daughter—”

“Your daughter is no longer your concern,” Kenevah cut her off, and Qeva kicked to snap the robe from Manvah’s grasp. “She belongs to Everam now.”

* * * * *

“There must be some mistake,” Inevera said numbly as Qeva guided her along the road with a firm grasp on her arm. It felt more like she was being escorted to a whipping post than a palace. Damaji’ting Kenevah and Melan, the nie’dama’ting apprentice, walked with them.

“The dice do not make mistakes,” Kenevah said. “And you should be rejoicing. You, the daughter of a basket weaver and a Sharum of no particular note, will be betrothed to Everam. Can you not see the great honor paid to your family this day?”

“Then why wasn’t I allowed to say goodbye to them? To my mother, even?” Never answer a question with a question, Manvah had said, but Inevera was past caring.

“Best to make a clean break,” Kenevah said. “They are beneath you now. Irrelevant. You will not be permitted to see them during your training, and by the time you are ready to test for the white, you will no longer even wish to.”

Inevera had no response to such a ridiculous statement. Not want to see her mother again? Her brother? Unthinkable. She would even miss her father, though in all likelihood Kasaad would never notice she was gone.

The Kaji Dama’ting Palace soon came into sight. Equal to those of even the greatest Damaji, the Dama’ting Palace had a twenty-foot-tall wardwall, proof against daylight enemies as well as alagai. Over the top of the wall she could see the tall spires and great dome of the palace, but Inevera had never seen inside the walls. None but the dama’ting and their apprentices ever passed its great gates. No men, not even the Andrah himself, could set foot on its hallowed grounds.

That was what Inevera had been told, at least, but as the gates—which had seemed to open of their own accord—closed behind them, she could see a pair of muscular men pushing them shut. They were clad only in white bidos and sandals, and their hair and bodies glistened with oil. Each wore golden shackles on his ankles and wrists, but there were no chains Inevera could see.

“I thought no men were allowed in the palace,” Inevera said, “to protect dama’ting chastity.”

The Brides of Everam barked a laugh as though this were a great joke. Even Melan chuckled.

“You are half right,” Kenevah said. “The eunuchs are without stones, and thus not men in the Eyes of Everam.”

“So they are . . . push’ting?” Inevera asked.

Kenevah cackled. “Stoneless they may be, but their spears work well enough to do a true man’s work.”

Inevera gave a pained smile as they climbed the wide marble steps, polished a pristine glistening white. She held her arms in close, attempting to be as small and unobtrusive as possible as the great doors were opened by more handsome, muscular slaves in golden shackles. They bowed, and Qeva ran a finger under one’s chin.

“It has been a trying day. You will come to my chambers in an hour with heated stones and scented oil to stroke the tension away.” The slave bowed deeply, saying nothing.

“They are not allowed to speak?” Inevera asked.

“Not able,” Kenevah said. “Their vocal cords were cut the same day as their stones, and they know no letters. They can never tell of the wonders they see in the Dama’ting Palace.”

Indeed, the palace was filled with luxury and opulence beyond anything Inevera had ever imagined. Everything from the columns and high dome to the floors, walls, and stairs was cut from flawless white marble, polished to a bright shine. Thick woven carpets, amazingly soft beneath her bare feet, ran along the halls, filling them with bright color. Tapestries hung on the walls—masterworks of artistry bringing the tales of the Evejah to life. Beautiful glazed pottery stood on marble pedestals, along with items of crystal, gold, and polished silver, from delicate sculpture and filigree to heavy chalices and bowls. In the bazaar, such items would have been under close guard—any one of them could sell for enough to keep a family in staples for a decade—but who in all Krasia would dare steal from the dama’ting?

Other Brides passed them in the halls, sometimes alone, and others in chattering groups. All wore the same flowing white silk, hooded and veiled—even inside with no men to see. They stopped and bowed deeply as Kenevah passed, and though they tried to hide it, each gave Inevera a curious and not altogether welcoming appraisal.

More than one of the passing Brides was great with child. It was shocking to see dama’ting in such a condition, especially if the only men allowed near them were gelded, but Inevera kept her surprise beneath a haggler’s mask. Kenevah’s patience might be tested by such a question, and if she was to live here, the answer would become apparent soon enough.

There were seven wings to the palace, one for every pillar in Heaven, with the central wing pointing toward Anoch Sun, the final resting place of Kaji. This was the Damaji’ting’s personal wing, and Inevera was escorted into the First Bride’s opulent receiving chamber. Qeva and Melan were instructed to wait outside.

“Sit,” the Damaji’ting said, gesturing to the velvet couches set before a polished wood desk. Inevera sat timidly, feeling tiny and insignificant in the massive office. Kenevah sat behind the desk, steepling her fingers and staring at Inevera, who wilted under the harsh gaze.

“Qeva tells me you know of your namesake,” Kenevah said grimly, and Inevera could not tell if she was being mocked. “Tell me what you know of her.”

“Inevera was the daughter of Damaj, Kaji’s closest friend and counselor,” Inevera said. “It is said in the Evejah that she was so beautiful, Kaji fell in love with her at first sight, claiming it was Everam’s will that she be first among his wives.”

Kenevah snorted. “The Damajah was more than that, girl. Much more. As she lay in the pillows with Kaji she whispered wisdom into his ear, bringing him to untold heights of power. It is said she spoke with Everam’s voice, which is why the name is synonymous with Everam’s will.

“Inevera was also the first dama’ting,” Kenevah went on. “She brought us healing, and poison, and hora magic. She wove Kaji’s cloak of invisibility, and etched the wards of his mighty spear and crown.”

Kenevah looked up at Inevera. “And she will come again, when Sharak Ka is nigh, to find the next Deliverer.”

Inevera gasped, but Kenevah gave her only a tolerant look. “I have seen a hundred girls with your name gasp so, girl, but not one has produced a Deliverer. How many are there in the Damaj clan alone? Twenty?”

Inevera nodded, and Kenevah grunted. From inside her desk she produced a heavy book with a worn leather spine. Once it had been illuminated in gold leaf, but only bare flecks remained. This was a book handled often.

“The Evejah,” Kenevah said. “You will read it.”

Inevera bowed. “Of course, Damaji’ting, though I have read it many times before.”

Kenevah shook her head. “This is a copy of the original, penned by the Damajah herself. The dama rewrote it more than two thousand years ago to make the book seem as if it were written by Kaji’s hand alone, but the dama’ting have preserved the original. It contains . . . special wisdoms.”

Inevera took the book, and immediately understood. The pages were impossibly thin and soft, but the Damajah’s Evejah was still more than twice the size of the copy Manvah had taught her to read. She brought the book close to her chest, as if to protect it from thieves.

“They will resent you,” Kenevah said.

“Who will, Damaji’ting?” Inevera asked.

“Everyone,” Kenevah said. “Betrothed and Bride alike. There is not a woman here who will welcome you.”

“Why?” Inevera asked.

“Because your mother was not dama’ting. You were not born to the white,” Kenevah said. “It has been two generations since the dice have called a girl. You will have to work twice as hard as the others, if you wish to earn your veil. Your sisters have been training since birth.”

Inevera digested the news. Outside the palace, everyone knew the dama’ting were chaste. Everyone, it seemed, except the dama’ting themselves.

“They will resent you,” Kenevah went on, “but they will also fear you. If you are wise, you can use this.”

“Fear?” Inevera asked. “Why in Everam’s name would they fear me?”

“Because the last girl called by the dice sits before you now as Damaji’ting,” Kenevah said. “It has always been so, since the time of Kaji. The dice indicate you may succeed me.”

“I will be Damaji’ting?” Inevera asked, incredulous.

“May,” Kenevah reiterated. “If you live long enough. The others will watch you, and judge. Some of your sisters in training may try to curry your favor, and others will seek to dominate you. You must be stronger than them.”

“I—” Inevera began.

“But you must not appear too strong,” Kenevah cut in, “or the dama’ting will have you quietly killed before you take your veil, and let the dice choose another.”

Inevera felt her blood run cold.

“Everything you know is about to change, girl,” Kenevah said, “but I think you will find in the end that the Dama’ting Palace is not so different from the Great Bazaar.”

Inevera cocked her head, unsure if the woman was joking or not, but Kenevah ignored her, ringing a golden bell on her desk. Qeva and Melan entered the chamber. “Take her to the Vault.”

Qeva took Inevera’s arm again, half guiding, half dragging her from the couch.

“Melan, you will instruct her in the ways of the Betrothed,” Kenevah said. “For the next twelve Wanings, her failures will be your own.”

Melan grimaced, but she bowed deeply, “Yes, Grandmother.”

* * * * *

The Vault was not in any of the seven wings of the palace. It was set below, in the Underpalace.

Like most every great structure in the Desert Spear, the Palace of the Dama’ting had as many levels below as above. The Underpalace was colder in both temperature and décor than the structure above. There was no hint of the paint, gilding, and polish of the palace proper. Away from the sun, the Undercity was no place for garish displays of luxury. No place to be too comfortable.

But the Underpalace still offered more splendor than the few adobe rooms Inevera and her family called home. The soaring ceilings, great columns, and archways gave even the bare stone grandeur, and the wards carved into their faces were works of art. Even away from the sun, it was comfortably warm, and soft rugs ran the stone floors, wards stitched into the edges. Even if alagai somehow entered this most sacred of places, the Brides of Everam were secure.

Dama’ting patrolled the halls, occasionally passing them by. These nodded at Qeva and walked past, but Inevera could feel their eyes boring into her as they went.

They descended a stairwell, continuing through several more passages. The air grew warmer, and moist. Carpets vanished, and the marble floor became tiled and slick with condensation. A burly dama’ting stood watch over a portal, staring openly at Inevera as a cat stares at a mouse. Inevera shuddered as they passed into a wide chamber with dozens of pegs along the walls. Most held a robe and a long strip of white silk. Up ahead, Inevera could hear the sound of laughter and splashing.

“Take off your dress and leave it on the floor to be burned,” Qeva said.

Inevera quickly removed her tan dress and bido—a wide strip of cloth that kept the ever-present sand and dust of the bazaar from her nethers. Manvah wore one of black, and had taught Inevera to tie it in a quick, efficient knot.

Melan undressed as well, and Inevera saw that under her robe and silk pants she, too, wore a bido, but one far more intricate, woven many times over from a strip of silk less than an inch wide. Her head was wrapped in silk as well, covering her hair, ears, and neck. Her face remained bare.

Melan untied a small knot at her chin and began undoing her headwrap. Her hands moved with quick, practiced efficiency, reversing what Inevera could see was an intensely complicated weave. As she worked, her hands twisted continually to wrap the silk neatly about them, keeping it taut.

Inevera was shocked to see that the girl’s head was shaved bare, olive skin smooth and shiny like polished stone.

The headwrap ended in the tight braid of silk that ran down Melan’s spine. The girl’s hands continued their dance behind her head, undoing dozens of crossings in the silk until two separate strands reached her bido. Still the acolyte’s hands worked.

It’s all one piece, Inevera realized, staring in awe as Melan slowly unwove her bido. The air of a dance only increased as Melan began to step over the uncrossing strands, her bare feet tamping a steady rhythm. The silk crossed her thighs and between her legs dozens of times, layering weaves one atop another.

Inevera had made enough baskets to know good weaving when she saw it, and this was a masterwork. Something so intricately woven could be worn all day and never come loose, and someone unskilled would likely make a botch of it and never get the stitches undone.

“The woven bido is like the web of flesh that safeguards your virginity,” Qeva said, tossing Inevera a great roll of thin white silk. “You will wear it at all times, save for ablutions and necessaries, done here in the lowest chamber of the Vault. You will not leave the Vault under any circumstances without it, and you will be punished if it is woven improperly. Melan will teach you the weave. It should be simple enough for a basket weaver’s daughter to master.”

Melan snorted at that, and Inevera swallowed hard and tried not to stare at the nude girl’s bald head as she came over. She was a few years Inevera’s senior, and very pretty without her headwrap. She held out her hands, each wrapped in at least ten feet of silk. Inevera mimicked her, and they stepped over the strip of silk between their hands, bringing it to rest across their buttocks.

“The first weave is called Everam’s Guardian,” Melan said, pulling the silk taut and crossing it over her sex. “It crosses seven times, one for each pillar in Heaven.” Inevera copied her, and managed to keep up for some time before Qeva cut in.

“There is a twist in the silk, begin again,” the dama’ting said.

Inevera nodded, and both girls undid the weave and started fresh. Inevera knit her brows. Kenevah had said Melan would bear the weight of her mistakes and she did not want the girl punished for her clumsy hands, so she did her best to mimic the weave perfectly. She managed to keep up all the way to the headwrap before the dama’ting broke in.

“Not so tight,” Qeva said. “You’re tying a bido, not trying to keep a Sharum’s broken skull together. Do it again.”

Melan gave Inevera a look of annoyance that made her face flush, but again they reversed course, undoing their bidos entirely before beginning anew.

By the third repetition, Inevera had the feel of the weave. The flow of the stitches came naturally to her, and soon she and Melan stood in identical silk bidos.

Qeva snorted. “There might be something to you after all, girl. It took Melan months to master the bido weave, and she was one of the quicker studies. Isn’t that so, Melan?”

“As the dama’ting says.” Melan gave a stiff bow, and Inevera got the sense that Qeva was taunting her.

“Into the bath with you,” Qeva said. “The day grows long and the kitchens will soon open.”

Inevera rubbed her belly absently. It had been many hours since she had eaten. Qeva noted the gesture. “You’ll eat soon enough.” She smiled. “Just as soon as you and the other girls finish serving supper and scrubbing out the crockery.”

She gave a laugh and pointed toward the source of the steam and splashing sounds. Melan undid her bido quickly and headed that way. Inevera took longer, trying not to tangle the silk, then followed, her bare feet slapping the tile.

The passage opened up into a great pool, its water hot and the air thick with steam. There were dozens of girls inside, all of them as bald as Melan. Some were Inevera’s age, but many were older, some grown almost fully to womanhood. All stood washing in the stone bath, or lounged on the slick stone steps at its edges, shaving and paring nails.

Inevera thought of the bucket of warm water she and her mother shared to wash. Their ration let them change it only sparingly. She waded out in wonder, the hot water caressing her thighs, running her fingertips through the surface as if through silk in the market.

Everyone looked up as they entered. The loungers sat up like hissing snakes, every eye in the misty room focused on the two girls. They moved in swiftly, surrounding them.

Inevera turned back, but the way was already closed, the ring of girls tightening, barring any escape and blocking them from outside view.

“This is her?” one girl asked.

“The one the dice called?” asked another. The questioners were lost in the steam as the girls began to circle, eyeing Inevera and Melan from every angle in much the same way Qeva had studied her dice.

Melan nodded, and the ring tightened further, every girl turning her attention fully onto Inevera. She felt their collective stare strike her like a physical blow.

“Melan, what . . . ?” Inevera reached out, her heart pounding.

Melan caught her wrist, twisting and pulling hard. Inevera fell toward her, and Melan caught a fistful of her thick hair, using the momentum of her fall to push her head under the water.

There was a burble, then all she could hear was the rushing of water. Inevera reflexively inhaled water and choked, but she could not cough underwater, and her insides spasmed as she resisted the urge to breathe in. The hot water burned her face and she struggled violently, but Melan kept her hold and Inevera was helpless against it. She thrashed as her lungs began to burn, but Melan was using sharusahk, her movements swift and precise.

Inevera could do nothing to resist.

Melan was shouting something at her, but the sound was muffled by the water, and Inevera couldn’t make out any of it. She realized then that she was going to drown. It seemed so absurd. Inevera had never stood in water past her knees. Water was precious in the Desert Spear, both currency and merchandise in the bazaar. Gold shines, but water is divine, the saying went. Only the wealthiest of Krasia’s citizens could even afford to drown.

She was losing hope when Melan gave a jerk and pulled her upright with a splash. Inevera’s hair was plastered to her face, and she coughed, gasping breaths of thick, steamy air.

“. . . you just walk in here,” Melan was shouting, “speaking to the Damaji’ting like she was your pillow friend, and learning the bido weave in three tries!”

“Three tries?” a girl asked.

“We should kill her just for that,” another added.

“Thinks she’s better than us,” a third said.

Inevera glanced around desperately through her matted hair, but the other girls watched impassively, their eyes dead. None of them looked like she might lift a finger to help.

“Melan, please, I . . .” Inevera sputtered, but Melan tightened her grip and thrust Inevera back under the water. She managed to hold her breath, but that soon ran out, and she was thrashing wildly again by the time Melan let her up to gasp another breath.

“Do not speak to me,” Melan said. “I may be bound to you for one year, but we are not friends. You think you can come in and take Kenevah’s place overnight? Over my mother? Over me? I am Kenevah’s blood! You are just a . . . bad throw.”

She produced a sharp knife from somewhere, and Inevera flinched in terror as Melan slashed it through her hair, cutting off thick locks. “You are nothing.” She flipped the knife in her fingers, catching the blade and handing it hilt-first to the next girl who approached.

“You are nothing,” the girl echoed, grabbing another lock of Inevera’s hair and slicing it off.

Each girl came forward and took the knife, cutting at Inevera’s hair until all that remained was a ragged and uneven shadow, patched and bloody. “You are nothing,” they said in turn.

By the time the last of the girls drew back, Inevera was on her knees in the water, limp and weeping. Again and again she broke out coughing, the convulsions tearing hot fire through her throat. It was as if there was some last bit of water in her lungs they were determined to expel.