The Desert Spear. Peter Brett V.

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СКАЧАТЬ word,” the dama’ting whispered, grabbing his attention. Relief and fear clutched him at once. How had he forgotten her?

      “In private,” she said, and Jardir nodded, walking to the edge of the training grounds with her, out of earshot from the dal’Sharum in the yard.

      He was much taller than her now, but she still intimidated him. He remembered the blast of fire from her flame demon skull, and tried to convince himself that her alagai magics would not work in the day, with Everam’s light shining down upon them.

      “I cast the alagai hora before bringing you the blacks,” she said. “If you sleep among the jiwah’Sharum, one of them will kill you.”

      Jardir’s eyes widened. Such a thing was unheard of. “Why?” he asked.

      “The bones give us no ‘why,’ son of Hoshkamin,” the dama’ting said. “They tell what is, and what may be. Perhaps a lover of Hasik will seek revenge, or some woman with a blood feud with your family.” She shrugged. “But sleep among the jiwah’Sharum at your peril.”

      “So I am never to know a woman?” Jardir asked. “What kind of life is that for a man?”

      “Don’t exaggerate,” the dama’ting said. “You may still take wives. I will cast the bones to find ones suitable for you.”

      “Why would you do this?” Jardir asked.

      “My reasons are my own,” the dama’ting said.

      “And the price?” Jardir asked. The tales in the Evejah always spoke of a hidden price for those who would use hora magic for more than sharak.

      “Ah,” the dama’ting said. “No longer so innocent as you seem. That is good. The price is that you take me to wife.”

      Jardir froze. His face went cold. Take her as his wife? Unthinkable. She terrified him.

      “I did not know dama’ting could marry,” he said, fumbling for time as his mind reeled.

      “We can, when we wish it,” she said. “The first dama’ting were the Deliverer’s wives.”

      Jardir looked at her again, the thick white robes hiding every contour and curve of her body. Her headwrap covered every hair, and the opaque veil was drawn high over her nose, muffling even her voice. Only her eyes could be seen, bright and full of zeal. There was something familiar about them, but he could not even guess at her age, much less her beauty. Was she a virgin? Of good family? There was no way to know. Dama’ting were taken from their mothers early and raised in secret.

      “It is a man’s right to see a woman’s face before he agrees to marry her,” he said.

      “Not this time,” the dama’ting said. “It matters not if my beauty moves you, or if my womb is fertile. Your future swirls with hidden knives. I will be your Jiwah Ka, or you will spend your days looking for them without my foretellings to aid you.”

      Jiwah Ka. She didn’t just want to marry him, she wanted to be first among his wives. A Jiwah Ka had the right to vet and refuse any Jiwah Sen, subsequent wives, all of whom would be subservient to her. She would have absolute control of his household and children, second only to him, and Jardir was not fool enough to think she didn’t intend to control him as well.

      But could he afford to refuse? He feared no challenger face-to-face, but war was deception, as Khevat had taught him, and not all men fought their enemies with spear and fist. A poisoned drink, or blade in the back, and he could still go to Everam with little glory to buy his way into Heaven, and none to spare his mother and sisters.

      And Sharak Ka was coming.

      “You ask that I give everything to you,” he said thickly, his mouth gone dry.

      The dama’ting shook her head. “I leave you sharak,” she said. “That is all a Sharum need concern himself with.”

      Jardir stared at her for a long time. Finally, he nodded his assent.

      The dama’ting wasted no time once the agreement was made. Before a week was through, Jardir found himself before Dama Khevat, watching as she made her vows.

      Jardir looked into the dama’ting’s eyes. Who was she? Was she older than his mother? Young enough to give him sons? What would he find when they retired to the marriage bed?

      “I offer you myself in marriage in accordance with the instructions of the Evejah,” she said, “as set down by Kaji, Spear of Everam, who sits at the foot of Everam’s table until he is reborn in the time of Sharak Ka. I pledge, with honesty and in sincerity, to be for you an obedient and faithful wife.”

      Does she mean those words, Jardir wondered, or is this just a new way to control my life, now that I wear the black?

      Khevat turned to him. Jardir started, fumbling for his vow. “I swear before Everam,” he said, forcing the words out, “Creator of all that is, and before Kaji, the Shar’Dama Ka, to take you into my home, and to be a fair and tolerant husband.”

      “Do you accept this dama’ting as your Jiwah Ka?” Khevat asked, and something in his tone reminded Jardir of the dama’s words when Jardir first asked him to perform the ceremony.

      Are you sure you wish to do this? Khevat had asked. A dama’ting is no ordinary wife you can order about, or beat when she is disobedient.

      Jardir swallowed. Was he sure?

      “I do,” he said thickly, and the assembled dal’Sharum gave a great shout, clattering their spears against their shields. His mother, Kajivah, clutched at his young sisters, all of them weeping in pride.

      Jardir could feel his heart pounding, and part of him wished he was in the Maze, dancing alagai’sharak, rather than the dimly lit, pillowed chamber they retired to.

      “Do not fear, alagai’sharak shall still be there tomorrow!” Shanjat had laughed. “You fight a different kind of battle tonight!”

      “You seem ill at ease,” the dama’ting said as she drew the heavy curtains behind them.

      “Should I be another way?” Jardir asked bitterly. “You are my Jiwah Ka, and I do not even know your name.”

      The dama’ting laughed, the first time he had ever heard her do such. It was a beautiful, tinkling sound. “Do you not?” she asked, slipping off her veil and headwrap. His eyes widened, but it was not at the youth and beauty he saw.

      He did indeed know her.

      “Inevera,” he breathed, remembering the nie’dama’ting who had spoken to him in the pavilion so many years ago.

      She nodded, smiling at him, more beautiful than he had ever dared to dream.

      “The night we met,” Inevera said, “I finished carving my first alagai hora. It was fate; Everam’s will, like my name. The demon bones are carved in utter darkness, by feel alone. It can take weeks to carve a single СКАЧАТЬ