The Skull Throne. Peter Brett V.

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ ‘Every nie’dama’ting must be put to preparing new hora for spells, and all should be embroidering their robes with the Northlander’s wards of unsight. Abban will have spools of gold thread sent to every dama’ting palace for the task. Any attempts to prevent us walking in the night should be ignored. If men dare hinder you, break them. Publicly. Kill alagai. Heal warriors near death. We must show the men of Krasia we are a force to be feared by man and demon alike, and not afraid to dirty our nails.’

      

       3

       Ashia

      333 AR Autumn

      Ashia stiffened as her husband challenged her father for the Skull Throne. It was unthinkable that she should interfere, but she could not deny the outcome would greatly affect her, whomever the victor.

      She breathed, finding her centre once more. It was inevera.

      Shifting slightly, she relaxed some muscles as she tensed others to maintain the pose that held her suspended over the alcove to the left of the Skull dais, braced against the arched ceiling with toes and fingers. In this way she could hold the position indefinitely, even sleeping without losing her perch.

      Across the room, her spear sister Micha mirrored her in the opposite alcove, silently watching through a tiny pinhole in the ornate carving above the archway. Jarvah was positioned behind the pillar just past the Skull Throne, where none save the Deliverer and Damajah could tread without invitation.

      Cloaked in shadow, the kai’Sharum’ting were imperceptible even to those stepping into the alcoves. But should the Damajah be threatened they could appear in an instant, launching a spray of sharpened, warded glass. Two breaths later, they could interpose themselves between her and any danger, spears and shields at the ready.

      The kai’Sharum’ting and their growing number of spear sisters guarded the Damajah openly when she was on the move, but Inevera preferred them to keep to the shadows whenever possible.

      At last the court was adjourned and the Damajah was left alone with her two most trusted advisors, Damaji’ting Qeva and her daughter, nie’Damaji’ting Melan.

      The Damajah gave a slight flick of her fingers, and Ashia and Micha dropped silently from their perches. Jarvah appeared from behind the pillars, all three moving as escort to the Damajah’s personal chambers.

      The Deliverer’s dal’ting wives, Thalaja and Everalia, were waiting with refreshment. Their eyes drifted to their daughters, Micha and Jarvah, but they knew better than to speak to the kai’Sharum’ting while they guarded the Damajah. There was little to say, in any event.

      ‘A bath has been prepared for you, Damajah,’ Thalaja said.

      ‘And fresh silks laid,’ Everalia added.

      Ashia still could not believe these meek, obsequious women were wives of the Deliverer, though her holy uncle had taken them many years before coming to power. She had once thought the women hid their skills and power, much as she herself had been taught.

      Over the years, Ashia had come to see the truth. Thalaja and Everalia were wives in name only now that the usefulness of their wombs had faded. Mere servants to the Deliverer’s wives in white.

      But for inevera, Ashia thought, that could have been me.

      ‘I will need new silks,’ Inevera said. ‘The Deliverer is … travelling. Until his return, I will wear only opaque colours.’ The women nodded, moving hurriedly to comply.

      ‘There is more news.’ Inevera turned back, first meeting the eyes of Qeva and Melan, then letting her gaze drift to rest on Ashia and her spear sisters.

      ‘Enkido is dead.’

      Ashia pictured the palm, and bent before the wind that rushed over her. She bowed to the Damajah. A step behind, Micha and Jarvah mirrored her. ‘Thank you for telling us, Damajah.’ Her voice was steady and even, eyes carefully on the floor, seeing all in periphery. ‘I will not ask if he died with his honour intact, for it could be no other way.’

      Inevera nodded. ‘Enkido’s honour was boundless even before he severed his tongue and tree to serve my predecessor and learn the secrets of dama’ting sharusahk.’

      Melan stiffened slightly at the mention of Inevera’s predecessor, Qeva’s mother and Melan’s grandmother, Damaji’ting Kenevah. It was said the Damajah choked the old woman to death to wrest control of the tribe’s women from her. Qeva gave no reaction.

      ‘Enkido was killed by an alagai changeling, bodyguard to one of Nie’s princelings,’ Inevera went on. ‘These mimic demons can take on any form, real or imagined. I watched the Deliverer himself in pitched battle with one. Enkido died doing his duty, protecting Amanvah, Sikvah, and their honoured husband, the son of Jessum. Your cousins live because of his sacrifice.’

      Ashia nodded, bending her centre to accept the news. ‘Does this … changeling still live?’ If so, she would find a way to track and kill it, even if she had to follow it all the way to Nie’s abyss.

      Inevera shook her head. ‘Amanvah and the son of Jessum weakened the creature, but it was the Par’chin’s Jiwah Ka who at last took its unholy life.’

      ‘She must be formidable indeed to succeed where our honoured master failed,’ Ashia said.

      ‘Beware that one, should your paths ever cross,’ the Damajah agreed. ‘She is nearly as powerful as her husband, but both, I fear, have drunk too deeply of alagai magic, and made the madness that comes with it a part of them.’

      Ashia put her hands together, eyes still on the floor. ‘My spear sisters and I beg the Damajah’s leave to go into the night and kill seven alagai each in his honour, one for each pillar of Heaven, to guide our lost master on the lonely road.’

      The Damajah whisked her fingers. ‘Of course. Assist the Sharum.’

      Ashia’s hand worked with precision, painting wards on her nails. They were not long in the fashionable way of pampered wives and some dama’ting. Enkido’s students kept a warrior’s cut, barely past the nub, the better to handle weapons.

      But Ashia had no need to claw at the alagai. A knife or speartip served best for that. She had other intentions.

      Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched her spear sisters, silent save for the sounds of oil and leather, stitching and polishing as they readied weapons for the coming night.

      The Damajah had given her kai’Sharum’ting spears and shields of warded glass, much like the Spears of the Deliverer. The blades needed no sharpening, but the grips and harnesses were just as important, and Enkido had inspected all their equipment regularly, never satisfied. СКАЧАТЬ