The Core

‘Shar’Dama Ka!’ The guards stamped their spears as Asome entered the throne room.

Inevera lounged on her bed of pillows atop the dais beside the electrum-coated Skull Throne. Her pose was practised, artfully appearing relaxed, disinterested, and submissive when she was anything but.

Inevera could not deny her second son looked the part. Like his father, he now wore a warrior’s black under his white outer robe. He carried expert forgeries of the Spear and Crown of Kaji. From a distance, they were indistinguishable from the originals, lost when the Par’chin carried Ahmann into darkness.

The Evejah forbade male clerics from blade weapons, and none save the Deliverer had worn a crown in centuries. They were a message to all that Asome had transcended.

At his back was Inevera’s third son, Hoshkamin the Sharum Ka, followed by their ten Damaji brothers, each fifteen years old and commanding an entire tribe. All of them looked worshipfully at their elder brother.

As he drew closer, Inevera could see his spear and crown didn’t have a fraction of the wardings engraved into the originals, but she had observed them in Everam’s light, and they glowed with power not to be underestimated. Made from electrum and priceless gems with cores of alagai hora, they were covered in the familiar fluid scripts of Melan and Asavi. A betrayal months in the making.

The Damaji wore a single warded gemstone in their black turbans. Gems were effective for conducting and focusing magic, and each had been warded by his Damaji’ting mother to give him some small powers.

But Asome’s crown – like Ahmann’s – had nine horns, each set with a different gemstone. Even Inevera could not guess the full extent of Asome’s magic when he wore it, and she had never seen him outside his wing of the palace without it.

Likely she could still overwhelm him in a battle of magic, but not easily or without risk, and Asome knew it. He was careful not to test his magic against his mother.

Ahmann, confident in his powers and position, had kept his courtroom shielded from sunlight, that he and Inevera might use magic freely. Asome had torn down the thick fabric blocking the great windows of the Deliverer’s court, bathing it in light from east and west and proclaiming court only be held in Everam’s light.

She wanted to believe it was because he feared her, but in her heart Inevera knew it was wisdom, not fear, that guided his actions.

There is too much of me in you, my son, Inevera thought sadly.

‘Mother.’ Asome reached the top of the steps and gave a slight bow.

‘My son.’ Inevera extended a hand.

Asome could not in politeness refuse, but he was careful as a snake handler as he took her hand and bent to kiss the air above it, offering her no advantage in grip or balance.

‘If I meant to throw you from this dais, I would have done it weeks ago.’ Inevera’s voice was too low for others in the court to hear.

Asome gave her a peck and pulled smoothly back. ‘Unless the dice told you to wait.’ He turned and went to his throne. ‘They have ever been more important to you than blood.’

Below, similar gazes crossed the aisle as the new Damaji and their Damaji’ting mothers met eyes. For centuries, they had been groups of twelve, but since the Night of Hora there remained only ten of each.

Dama Jamere stepped forward from the writing podium Abban had occupied for so long. Since the disappearance of his uncle, the young dama had been left in full command of Abban’s vast holdings and inherited his uncle’s place in the Deliverer’s court.

Jamere knelt before the steps, putting his hands on the floor and his head between them. ‘You honour the court with your presence, Deliverer.’

Like Abban, Jamere was utterly corrupt. But where his uncle had been corrupt in ways Ahmann and Inevera could use, Jamere’s loyalties were unreadable, even when she peered into his aura in Everam’s light.

And Asome knew Jamere from Sharik Hora. They were of an age, and Inevera hadn’t needed to see his aura to know they had been lovers. Asome and Asukaji were infamous in their class of nie’dama, and there were few boys unwilling to lie with them in hope of finding favour with their powerful families. With Asukaji dead, how long before Asome resumed his ways?

Her eyes flicked to her son, watching the richest man in Krasia prostrate himself. There was a slight quirk to Asome’s lips. Perhaps he already had.

I must find Abban, and soon.

‘Rise, my friend,’ Asome said, beckoning with his spear. ‘Your presence is a vast improvement over the court khaffit.’

‘Few can abrade like my dear uncle,’ Jamere said. ‘Inevera, he will return safely to us.’

Asome nodded. ‘Or if he was lost on my brother’s ill-fated attack on the forest fortress and you are now a permanent member of my court, then that, too, is inevera. You may take the sixth step.’

Jamere rolled smoothly to his feet, smiling as he climbed the steps. He stopped at the sixth, a step below the dais. His head was well below Asome’s, but close enough to whisper words so softly even Inevera strained to catch them without magic.

‘What is our first order of business?’ Asome asked.

Jamere consulted papers on his writing tablet, but it was all for show. Like his uncle, he had every word memorized. ‘The Kaji, Shar’Dama Ka.’

The Kaji, the largest and most powerful tribe in Krasia, had lost both its leaders in the coup. Asome and Inevera, both Kaji themselves, had taken direct control of the tribe in the interim, but it weakened their ability to be impartial, especially with the Majah in rebellion.

Asome turned to Inevera, but his words were loud enough for the entire court. ‘Mother, when will my sister return from the green lands to take up the black turban of Damaji’ting?’

‘The summons has been sent,’ Inevera said. ‘Your sister will not forsake her responsibilities.’

‘Then where is she?!’ Asome demanded. ‘We should have had an answer by now.’

‘Patience, my son,’ Inevera counselled. ‘It is not as if you have produced a new Damaji for the Kaji.’

‘My son will be Damaji,’ Asome said.

‘Your son is an infant,’ Inevera reminded. ‘Patience.’

Asome smiled. ‘Indeed. And so I have decided to appoint an interim Damaji, to hold the turban and speak for the council until my son earns his robes.’

Jamere gave a signal, and the guards opened the doors to admit a small group of men. At their head was Dama Baden. A man of more than seventy, the dama’s paunch rounded the front of his robes like he carried a child. He leaned on a staff as he walked, but his eyes remained sharp, the look on his face triumphant as he moved to stand before the steps.

Behind him walked two men. Shar’Dama Raji, Baden’s grandson and heir – another from Asome’s generation – and their kai’Sharum bodyguard.

Cashiv.

Inevera’s blood went cold at the sight of him. For years, Inevera had depended on anonymity to shield her family in the bazaar. The dama’ting wore veils to hide their identity, after all, and many women were named Inevera.

But like Asome and Jamere, Cashiv and Inevera’s brother, Soli, had been lovers. He was one of the only people left alive who remembered the girl she had been, and who her family were.

Her father, Kasaad, had slain Soli on learning he was push’ting, and while Cashiv had not dared defy the dama’ting and taken his revenge, he had not forgiven.

Cashiv met her eyes, and she knew.

‘Baden has ever been a thorn in the side of the council,’ Inevera said quietly for her son’s ears only. ‘He is greedy and power-hungry. He cannot be trusted.’

Asome was unperturbed. ‘He has proven trustworthy to me.’

‘And what did he give you in return for his seat at the head of the council?’ Inevera asked.

Asome smiled. ‘Something beyond price.’

Before Inevera could react, he turned back to Jamere. ‘Now that the council is complete once more, you may send in the Majah.’