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.
‘The Evejah’ting,’ Kenevah said. ‘You will read it.’
Inevera bowed. ‘Of course, Damaji’ting, though I have read the sacred text many times before.’
Kenevah shook her head. ‘You read the Evejah, Kaji’s version, and that altered to suit the dama’s purposes over the years. But the Evejah is only half the story. The Evejah’ting, its companion book, was penned by the Damajah herself and contains her personal wisdom and account of Kaji’s rise. You will memorize every page.’
Inevera took the book. Its pages were impossibly thin and soft, but the Evejah’ting was as thick as the Evejah that Manvah had taught her to read. She brought the book close to her chest, as if to protect it from thieves.
The Damaji’ting presented her with a thick black velvet pouch. There was a clatter inside as Inevera took it.
‘Your hora pouch,’ Kenevah said.
Inevera blanched. ‘There are demon bones inside?’
Kenevah shook her head. ‘It will be months at least before you are sufficiently disciplined to even touch true hora, and likely years more before you are allowed entry to the Chamber of Shadows to carve your dice.’
Inevera undid the drawstrings and emptied the contents of the pouch into her hand. There were seven clay dice, each with a different number of sides. All were lacquered black like demon bone, with symbols engraved in red on every side.
‘The dice can reveal to you all the mysteries of the world if you can learn to read them truly,’ Kenevah said. ‘These are a reminder of what you aspire to, and a model to study. Much of the Evejah’ting is devoted to their understanding.’
Inevera slipped the dice back into the bag and drew it closed, putting it safely in her pocket.
‘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 favour, 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 almost every other 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 splendour 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, with soft rugs running along the stone floors, wards stitched into the edges. 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, 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, practised 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