afraid,’ the boy said, to a chorus of disappointment. ‘I was called to Hannu Pash this morning. I will be taking the white.’
Kajivah led the cheers. ‘That’s wonderful! Of course we all knew it would be so. You are the Deliverer’s nephew.’
Asukaji gave a shrug. ‘Are you not the Deliverer’s mother? His wives and sisters, his nieces? Why is it none of you is in white, yet I should be?’
‘You are a man,’ Kajivah said, as if it were obvious.
‘What does that matter?’ Asukaji said. ‘You ask whom Ashia should be worthy of, but the true question is what man is worthy of her?’
‘Who in the Kaji is higher than Dama Baden’s heir?’ Ashia asked. ‘Father wouldn’t marry me into another tribe … would he?’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Kajivah snapped. ‘The very notion is absurd.’
But there was doubt on her face as she looked to her grandson. ‘Who is worthy, then?’
‘Asome, of course,’ Asukaji said. The two boys were nearly inseparable.
‘He is our cousin!’ Ashia said, shocked.
Asukaji shrugged. ‘What of it? The Evejah speaks of many such unions in the time of Kaji. Asome is the son of the Shar’Dama Ka, beautiful, rich, and powerful. More, he can cement the ties between my father and the house of Jardir.’
‘I am of house Jardir,’ Kajivah said, her voice strengthening. ‘Your father is his brother-in-law, and I, his mother. What further tie is required?’
‘A direct one,’ Asukaji said. ‘From the Deliverer and father to a single son.’ He dared to look into the room for a moment, meeting Ashia’s eyes. ‘Your son.’
‘You have a direct one,’ Kajivah said. ‘I am the Holy Mother. You are all blood of the Deliverer.’
Asukaji turned back away and bowed. ‘I mean no disrespect, Tikka. Holy Mother is a fine title, but it has not turned your black robes white. Nor my blessed sister’s.’
Kajivah fell silent at that, and Ashia began to consider. Marrying a first cousin was not unheard of in powerful families, and Asome was beautiful, as Asukaji said. He had taken after his mother in appearance, and the Damajah’s beauty was without equal. Asome had her face and slender build, and he wore them well.
‘Why not Jayan?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Asukaji said.
‘If I should marry a cousin as you say, why not the Deliverer’s firstborn?’ Ashia asked. ‘Unless he weds his sister, who is more worthy than I, Shar’Dama Ka’s eldest niece?’
Unlike slender Asome, Jayan took after the Deliverer in form – broader and thick with muscle. He was not kind, but Jayan radiated power enough to make even Ashia flush.
Asukaji spat. ‘Sharum dog. They are animals bred for the Maze, sister. I would as soon let you marry a jackal.’
‘That is enough!’ Kajivah snapped. ‘You forget yourself, boy. The Deliverer himself is Sharum.’
‘Was Sharum,’ Asukaji said. ‘Now he wears the white.’
That very day, Kajivah set a fire under Ashan and dragged Ashia, Shanvah, and Sikvah before the Shar’Dama Ka, demanding they be made dama’ting.
But one did not make demands of the Deliverer and Damajah. Kajivah and her daughters were given white veils. Ashia and her cousins were sent to the Dama’ting Palace.
‘It is good, sister,’ Asukaji said, as the girls were pushed towards the waiting Damajah. ‘There is no reason why our father or the Deliverer should refuse your match to Asome now.’
Kajivah did not seem satisfied, but Ashia could not see why. The Deliverer had named them his blood and heaped honour upon them. Ashia had no wish to be dama’ting, but who knew what mysteries she might learn in their palace?
Kai’ting. She liked the sound. It was powerful. Regal. Shanvah and Sikvah were afraid, but Ashia went gladly.
The Damajah escorted the girls out of the great chamber through her own personal entrance. An honour in itself. There waited Qeva, Damaji’ting of the Kaji, and her daughter and heir, Melan, along with one of the Damajah’s mute eunuch guards.
‘The girls will be taught letters, singing, and pillow dancing for four hours each day,’ the Damajah told Damaji’ting Qeva. ‘The other twenty, they belong to Enkido.’
She nodded to the eunuch, and Ashia gasped. Shanvah clutched at her. Sikvah began to cry.
The Damajah ignored them, turning to the eunuch. ‘Make something worthy out of them.’
Nie’Damaji’ting Melan led them through the Dama’ting Underpalace. It was said the dama’ting could heal any wound with their hora magic, but the woman’s hand and forearm were horrifically scarred, twisted into a frightening claw not unlike those in the paintings Ashia had seen of alagai.
Sikvah was still weeping. Shanvah had her arms around her, her own eyes wet with tears.
You are an example to every other young woman in the tribe, her father told her once. And so I shall be harsher with you than any other, lest you ever shame our family.
And so Ashia had learned to hide fear and keep tears at bay. She was as terrified as her cousins, but she was eldest, and they had always looked to her. She kept her back arched proudly as they were brought to a small door. Enkido put his back to the wall beside the portal as Melan led through to a large tiled chamber. The walls were lined with pegs holding white robes and long strips of white silk.
‘Remove your robes,’ Melan said as the door closed.
Her cousins gasped and hesitated, but Ashia knew it was foolish – and useless – to argue with a Bride of Everam. Keeping her dignity intact, she removed her hood and pulled her fine black silk robe over her head. Beneath, a wide strip of silk around her chest flattened the beginnings of her woman’s shape. Her bido, too, was fine black silk, wrapped in a loose, simple weave for ease and comfort.
‘Everything,’ Melan said. Her eyes flicked to Shanvah and Sikvah, still hesitating, and her voice became a lash. ‘Now!’
A moment later, all three girls stood naked, and they were taken out the far side of the room into the baths, a great natural cavern lit by wardlights in the stone far above. The floor was tiled marble, deep with water. Ornate fountains kept the water moving, and the air was hot and thick with steam. It put even Kajivah’s baths to shame.
There were dozens of girls in the water, ages ranging from children to just shy of a woman grown. All stood washing in the stone bath, or lounged on the slick stone steps at its edges, shaving and paring nails. As one, they looked up to regard the new girls.
Ashia and the others were no strangers to bathing alongside other girls, but there was a frightening difference between these baths and those in the women’s wing of her father’s palace – here every girl’s head was shaved bald.
Ashia reached up, touching the lush, oiled hair she had cultivated for a lifetime, in hope of pleasing her future husband.
Melan caught the look. ‘Enjoy the touch, girl. It will be your last for some time.’
Her cousins gasped, and Shanvah put her hands to her head protectively.
Ashia forced herself to let go, dropping her hands to her sides, drawing a calming breath. ‘It is only hair. It will grow back.’ Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched her cousins calm as well.