THE
DAYLIGHT
WAR
PETER V. BRETT

For my parents, John and Dolores, who still read together on the couch at night.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Map

Prologue: Inevera

Chapter 1: Arlen

Chapter 2: Promise

Chapter 3: The Oatingers

Chapter 4: Second Coming

Chapter 5: Tender Hayes

Chapter 6: The Earring

Chapter 7: Training

Chapter 8: Sharum Do Not Bend

Chapter 9: Ahmann

Chapter 10: Kenevah’s Concern

Chapter 11: Last Meal

Chapter 12: The Hundred

Chapter 13: Playing the Crowd

Chapter 14: The Song of Waning

Chapter 15: The Paper Women

Chapter 16: Where Khaffit Cannot Follow

Chapter 17: Zahven

Chapter 18: Strained Meeting

Chapter 19: Spit and Wind

Chapter 20: A Single Witness

Chapter 21: Auras

Chapter 22: New Moon

Chapter 23: Trap

Chapter 24: Attrition

Chapter 25: Lost Circle

Chapter 26: Sharum’ting

Chapter 27: Waning

Chapter 28: Early Harvest

Chapter 29: Eunuch

Chapter 30: My True Friend

Chapter 31: Alive

Chapter 32: Domin Sharum

Krasian Dictionary

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue
Inevera 300 AR

Inevera and her brother Soli sat in the sunlight. Each held the frame of a basket between their bare feet, nimbly turning it as their fingers worked the weave. This late in the day, there was only a tiny sliver of shade in their small kiosk. Their mother, Manvah, sat there, working her own basket. The pile of tough date palm fronds at the centre of the ring they formed shrank steadily as they worked.

Inevera was nine years old. Soli was almost twice that, but still young to be wearing the robes of a full dal’Sharum, the black cloth still deep with fresh dye. He had earned them barely a week ago, and sat on a mat to ensure the ever-present dust of the Great Bazaar did not cling to them. His robe was cinched loosely on top, revealing a smooth, muscular chest glistening with sweat.

He fanned himself with a frond. ‘Everam’s balls, these robes are hot. I wish I could still go out in just a bido.’

‘You may have the shade if you wish it, Sharum,’ Manvah said.

Soli tsked and shook his head. ‘Is that what you expected? That I would come back in black and start ordering you around like …’

Manvah chuckled. ‘Just making certain you remain my sweet boy.’

‘Only to you and my dear little sister,’ Soli clarified, reaching out to tousle Inevera’s hair. She slapped his arm away, but she was smiling as she did it. There was always smiling when Soli was about. ‘With everyone else, I am mean as a sand demon.’

‘Bah,’ Manvah said, waving the thought away, but Inevera wondered. She’d seen what he did to the two Majah boys who teased her in the bazaar when they were younger, and the weak did not survive in the night.

Inevera finished her basket, adding it to one of the many stacks. She counted quickly. ‘Three more, and we’ll have Dama Baden’s order complete.’

‘Maybe Cashiv will invite me to the Waxing Party when he picks them up,’ Soli said. Cashiv was Dama Baden’s kai’Sharum and Soli’s ajin’pal, the warrior who had been tethered to him and fought by his side on his first night in the Maze. It was said there was no greater bond two men could share.

Manvah snorted. ‘If he does, Dama Baden will have you carrying one oiled and naked, celebrating the Waxing by offering a full moon of your own to his lecherous old hangers-on.’

Soli laughed. ‘I hear it’s not the old ones you need to worry about. Most of them just look. It’s the younger ones that carry vials of oil in their belts.’

He sighed. ‘Still, Gerraz served at Dama Baden’s last spear party and said the dama gave him two hundred draki. That’s worth a sore backside.’

‘Don’t let your father hear you say that,’ Manvah warned. Soli’s eyes flicked to the curtained chamber at the back of the kiosk where their father slept.

‘He’s going to find out his son is push’ting sooner or later,’ Soli said. ‘I won’t marry some poor girl just to keep him from finding out.’

‘Why not?’ Manvah asked. ‘She could weave with us, and would it be so terrible to seed her a few times and give me grandchildren?’

Soli made a face. ‘You’ll need to wait on Inevera for that.’ He looked at her. ‘Hannu Pash tomorrow, dear sister. Perhaps the dama’ting will find you a husband!’

‘Don’t change the subject!’ Manvah slapped at him with a palm frond. ‘You’ll face what’s between the Maze walls, but not what’s between a woman’s thighs?’

Soli grimaced. ‘At least in the Maze I am surrounded by strong, sweating men. And who knows? Perhaps one of the push’ting dama will fancy me. The powerful ones like Baden make their favourite Sharum into personal guards who only have to fight on Waning! Imagine, only three nights a month in the Maze!’

‘Still three nights too many,’ Manvah muttered.

Inevera was confused. ‘Is the Maze not a holy place? An honour?’

Manvah grunted and went back to her weaving. Soli looked at her a long time, his eyes distant. The easy smile melted from his face.

‘The Maze is holy death,’ her brother said at last. ‘A man who dies there is guaranteed Heaven, but I am not so eager to meet Everam just yet.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Inevera said.

Soli shook himself, and the smile returned in an instant. ‘Best not concern yourself with such things, little sister. The Maze is not a burden for you to bear.’

‘Every woman in Krasia bears that burden, my son,’ Manvah said, ‘whether we fight beside you or not.’

Just then there was a groan and a rustling behind the curtain in the back of the kiosk. A moment later Kasaad emerged. Inevera’s father didn’t even look at Manvah as he nudged her out of the shade with his boot to take the coveted spot for himself. He threw a pair of pillows to the ground and lounged upon them, already tipping back a tiny cup of couzi. Immediately he poured another, squinting in the light. As always, his eyes passed over Inevera as if she didn’t exist, settling quickly on her brother.

‘Soli! Put that basket down! You are Sharum now, and should not be working your hands like a khaffit!’

‘Father, we have an order due shortly,’ Soli said. ‘Cashiv …’

‘Pfagh!’ Kasaad said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘I don’t care what that oiled and scented push’ting wants! Put that basket down and get up before someone sees you sullying your new blacks. Bad enough we must waste our day in the filthy bazaar.’

‘It’s like he has no idea where money comes from,’ Soli grumbled, too low for Kasaad to hear. He didn’t stop weaving.

‘Or the food on his table.’ Manvah rolled her eyes. She sighed. ‘Best do as he says.’

‘If I am Sharum now, I can do what I want. Who is he to tell me I cannot weave palm, if that gives me peace?’ As Soli spoke, his hands moved even faster, fingers a blur as he wove the fronds. He was close to the end of a basket, and he meant to finish it. Inevera looked on in wonder. Soli could weave almost as fast as Manvah.

‘He is your father,’ Manvah said, ‘and if you don’t do as he says, we’ll all regret it.’

She turned to Kasaad, her voice sweetening. ‘You and Soli need only stay till the dama call the gloaming, husband.’

Kasaad’s face soured, and he threw back another cup. ‘How did I so offend Everam, that I, the great Kasaad asu Kasaad am’Damaj am’Kaji, who has sent alagai beyond count to the abyss, should be lowered to guarding a pile of baskets?’ He swept a hand towards the stacks of their work with a look of disgust. ‘I should be mustering for alagai’sharak and the night’s glory!’

‘Drinking with the other Sharum, he means,’ Soli murmured to Inevera. ‘The units that muster early go to the centre of the Maze, where the fighting is fierce. The longer he lounges, the less his chance of actually having to face an alagai while he’s drunk as camel piss on couzi.’

Couzi. Inevera hated the drink. Fermented grain flavoured with cinnamon, it was sold in tiny clay bottles and sipped from even tinier cups. Just sniffing an emptied bottle burned Inevera’s nostrils and left her dizzy. There was no hint of cinnamon in the scent. It was said the taste only became clear after three cups, but after three cups of couzi, whose word could be trusted? It was known to lend itself to exaggeration and delusions of grandeur.

‘Soli!’ Kasaad snapped. ‘Leave the work to the women and come drink with me! We will toast the deaths of the four alagai you slew last night!’

‘You would think I did the whole unit’s work myself,’ Soli grumbled. His fingers moved even faster. ‘I do not drink couzi, Father,’ he called. ‘The Evejah forbids it.’

Kasaad snorted, tipping back another cup. ‘Manvah! Prepare your sharik son some tea, then!’ He tipped the couzi bottle to his cup again, but this time only a few drops fell. ‘And bring me another couzi.’

‘Everam give me patience,’ Manvah muttered. ‘That was the last bottle, husband,’ she called.

‘Then go and buy more,’ Kasaad snapped.

Inevera could hear her mother’s teeth grind. ‘Half the tents in the bazaar are already closed, husband, and we must finish these baskets before Cashiv arrives.’

Kasaad waved a hand in disgust. ‘Who cares if that worthless push’ting has to wait?’

Soli drew a sharp breath, and Inevera saw a smear of blood on his hand, cut from the sharp edge of a palm frond. He gritted his teeth and wove on.

‘Forgive me, honoured husband, but Dama Baden’s factor will not wait,’ Manvah said, continuing her own weave. ‘If Cashiv arrives and the order isn’t ready, he will go down the lane and buy his baskets from Krisha again. Without this order, we won’t have money to pay our war tax, much less buy more couzi.’

‘What?!’ Kasaad shouted. ‘What have you been doing with my money? I bring home a hundred draki a week!’

‘Half of which goes right back to the dama in war tax,’ Manvah said, ‘and you always take twenty more for your pockets. The rest goes to keep you in couzi and couscous, and it isn’t enough by far, especially when you bring home half a dozen thirsty Sharum every Sabbath. Couzi is expensive, husband. The dama cut the thumbs from khaffit caught selling it, and they add the risk to the price.’

Kasaad spat. ‘Khaffit would sell the sun if they could pull it from the sky. Now run and buy some to help ease my wait for that half-man.’

Soli finished his basket, rising and slamming it down atop his pile. ‘I’ll go, Mother. Chabin will have some, and he never closes before gloaming is sung.’

Manvah’s eyes tightened, but she did not take them from her weaving. She, too, had begun weaving faster, and now her hands were a blur. ‘I don’t like you leaving when we have a month’s work sitting out in the open.’

‘No one will rob us with Father right there,’ Soli said, but as he looked to his father, trying to lick a last drop from the couzi bottle, he sighed. ‘I will be so swift you won’t even know I’ve gone.’

‘Back to work, Inevera,’ Manvah snapped as Soli ran off. Inevera looked down, realizing only then that she had stopped weaving as she watched the events unfold. Quickly she resumed.

Inevera would not dare look right at him, but she could not help watching her father out of the corner of her eye. He was eyeing Manvah as she turned the basket with her nimble feet. Her black robes had risen as she worked, exposing her bare ankles and calves.

Kasaad put one hand to his crotch, rubbing. ‘Come here, wife, I would …’

‘I. Am. Working!’ Manvah took a palm branch from the pile, breaking fronds from it with sharp snaps.

Kasaad seemed genuinely confused at her reaction. ‘Why would you refuse your husband, barely an hour before he goes into the night?’

‘Because I’ve been breaking my back over these baskets for weeks,’ Manvah said. ‘Because it’s late and the lane’s gone quiet. And because we’ve got a full stock out with no one to guard it but a horny drunk!’

Kasaad barked a laugh. ‘Guard it from who?’

‘Who, indeed?’ a voice asked, and all turned to see Krisha stepping around the counter and into the kiosk.

Krisha was a big woman. Not fat – few in the Desert Spear enjoyed that luxury – but a warrior’s daughter, thickly set with a heavy stride and callused hands. Like all dal’ting, she wore the same head-to-toe black cloth as Manvah. She was a weaver as well, one of Manvah’s principal rivals in the Kaji tribe – less skilled, but more ambitious.

She was followed into the tent by four other women in dal’ting black. Two were her sister-wives, their faces covered in black. The others were her daughters, unmarried, their faces bare. From the looks of them, this drove away more potential husbands than it invited. None of the women was small, and they spread like jackals stalking a hare.

‘You’re working late,’ Krisha noted. ‘Most of the pavilions have tied their flaps.’

Manvah shrugged, not taking her eyes off her weaving. ‘The call to curfew isn’t for the better of an hour.’

‘Cashiv always comes at the end of the day before Dama Baden’s Waxing Party, does he not?’ Krisha said.

Manvah did not look up. ‘My clients do not concern you, Krisha.’

‘They do when you use your push’ting son to steal them from me,’ Krisha said, her voice low and dangerous. Her daughters moved to Inevera, separating her from her mother. Her sister-wives moved deeper into the kiosk towards Kasaad.

Manvah looked up at this. ‘I stole nothing. Cashiv came to me, saying your baskets fell apart when filled. Blame your weavers and not me for the loss of business.’

Krisha nodded, picking up the basket Inevera had just added to the pile. ‘You and your daughter do fine work,’ she noted, tracing a finger along the weave. Then she threw the basket to the ground, stomping down hard on it with her sandalled foot.

‘Woman, you dare?!’ Kasaad shouted in shocked disbelief. He leapt to his feet, or tried to, wobbling unsteadily. He glanced for his spear and shield, but they were back in the tent.

While he was finding his wits, Krisha’s sister-wives moved in unison. Short rattan staves wrapped in black cloth fell into their hands from out of voluminous sleeves. One of the women grabbed Kasaad by the shoulders, turning him into the other’s thrust to his stomach, holding him to make sure he took the full brunt. Kasaad grunted in pain, the wind knocked from him, and the woman followed up the blow with a full swing to the groin. Kasaad’s grunt became a shriek.

Inevera gave a cry and leapt to her feet, but Krisha’s daughters grabbed her roughly. Manvah moved to rise as well, but Krisha’s heavy kick to the face knocked her back to the ground. She gave a great wail, but it was late and there was no answering cry.

Krisha looked down at the basket on the floor. It had resisted her stomp, returning to its original shape. Inevera smiled until the woman leapt on top of it, jumping three times until the basket collapsed.

Across the kiosk, Krisha’s sister-wives continued to beat Kasaad. ‘He shrieks like a woman,’ one laughed, again striking him between the legs.

‘And he fights even worse!’ the other cried. They let go of his shoulders, and Kasaad collapsed to the floor, gasping, his face a mix of pain and humiliation. The women left him and went to work kicking over the stacks and smashing baskets with their rattan staves.

Inevera tried to pull free, but the young women only tightened their grips. ‘Be still, or we will break your fingers so you can weave no more!’ Inevera stopped struggling, but her eyes narrowed and she shifted slightly, readying herself to stomp hard on the instep of the one closest to her. She glanced at Manvah, but her mother shook her head.

Kasaad coughed blood, pushing himself up onto his elbows. ‘Harlots! When the dama hear of this …!’

Krisha cut him off with a cackling laugh. ‘The dama? Will you go to them, Kasaad son of Kasaad, and tell them you were drunk on couzi and beaten by women? You won’t even tell your ajin’pal as he buggers you tonight!’

Kasaad struggled to rise, but one of the women gave him a quick kick to the stomach, and he was knocked onto his back. He did not stir.

‘Pfagh!’ the woman cried. ‘He’s pissed himself like an infant!’ They all laughed.

‘That gives me an idea!’ Krisha cried, going over to a scattered pile of baskets and hiking up her robes. ‘Why get ourselves in a sweat breaking these abysmal baskets when we can just soil them instead?’ She squatted and let her water flow, swinging her hips from side to side so the stream hit as many baskets as possible. The other women laughed, hiking their robes to do likewise.

‘Poor Manvah!’ Krisha mocked. ‘Two males in the family, and not a man among them. Your husband is worse than a khaffit, and your push’ting son is too busy sucking cock to even be here.’

‘Not quite.’ Inevera turned in time to see Soli’s thick hand close on the wrist of one of the young women holding her. The woman shrieked in pain as Soli yanked up with a cruel twist, then kicked out, sending her sister sprawling.

‘Shut it,’ he told the screaming woman, shoving her back. ‘Touch my sister again and I’ll sever your wrist instead of just twisting it.’

‘We shall see, push’ting,’ Krisha said. Her sister-wives had straightened their robes and were advancing on Soli, staves at the ready. Krisha flicked her wrist, and her own club fell into her hand.

Inevera gasped, but Soli, unarmed, approached them without fear. The first woman struck at him, but Soli was quicker, slipping to the side of the blow and catching the woman’s arm. There was a snap, and she fell screaming to the ground, her staff now in Soli’s hand. The other woman came at him, and he parried one blow from her staff before striking her hard across the face. His movements were smooth and practised, like a dance. Inevera had watched him practise sharusahk when he came home from Hannu Pash on Wanings. The woman hit the ground, and Inevera saw her lower her veil to cough out a great wad of blood.

Soli dropped his staff as Krisha came at him, simply catching her weapon in his bare hand and stopping it cold. He seized her by the collar with the other, turning her around and bending her over a pile of baskets. He slammed her head down for good measure and reached down for the hem of her robes, yanking them up to her waist.

‘Please,’ Krisha wailed. ‘Do as you will to me, but spare my daughters their virginity!’

‘Pfagh!’ Soli spat, his face a mask of disgust. ‘I would as soon fuck a camel as you!’

‘Oh, come, push’ting,’ she sneered, wiggling her hips at him. ‘Pretend I’m a man and have my ass.’

Soli took Krisha’s rattan staff and began whipping her with it. His voice was deep, and carried over the sound of the wood cracking loudly on her bare flesh and her howls of pain. ‘A man need not be push’ting to avoid sticking his cock in a dung-heap. And as for your daughters, I would do nothing that might delay them marrying some poor khaffit and finally putting veils on their ugly faces.’

He took his hand off her neck, but continued whipping, guiding her and the other women out of their kiosk with sharp blows. Krisha’s daughters helped support her sister-wives as the five women stumbled off down the lane.

Manvah got to her feet and dusted herself off. She ignored Kasaad, going over to Inevera. ‘Are you all right?’ Inevera nodded.

‘Check the stock,’ Manvah said. ‘They didn’t have much time. See if we can salvage …’

‘Too late,’ Soli said, pointing down the lane. Three Sharum approached, their black robes sleeveless, with breastplates of black steel hammered to enhance already perfectly muscled chests. Black silk bands were tied around their bulging biceps and they wore studded leather bracers at their wrists. Bright golden shields were strapped to their backs, and they carried their short spears casually, sauntering with the easy grace of stalking wolves.

Manvah grabbed a small pitcher of water and dumped it on Kasaad, who groaned and half rose to his feet.

‘Inside, quickly!’ Manvah snapped, kicking him hard to get him moving. Kasaad grunted, but he managed to crawl into the tent and out of sight.

‘How do I look?’ Soli brushed and tugged at his robes, opening the front further.

It was a ridiculous question. No man she had ever seen was half so beautiful as her brother. ‘Fine,’ Inevera whispered back.

‘Soli, my sweet ajin’pal!’ Cashiv called. He was twenty-five, a kai’Sharum, and easily the handsomest of the three, his beard close-cropped with scented oil and his skin a perfect sun-brown. His breastplate was adorned with the sunburst of Dama Baden – no doubt in real gold – and the centre of his turban was adorned with a large turquoise. ‘I’d hoped to find you here when we came to pick up the night’s …’ He drew close enough to see the chaos in their kiosk, ‘order. Oh, dear. Did a herd of camels pass through your tent?’ He sniffed. ‘Pissing as they went?’ He took the white silk night veil resting loose around his neck and lifted it over his nose. His compatriots did likewise.

‘We had some … trouble,’ Soli said. ‘My fault, for stepping away for a few minutes.’

‘That is a terrible shame.’ Cashiv went over to Soli, taking no note of Inevera whatsoever. He reached out a finger, running it over Soli’s muscled chest where a bit of blood had spattered. He rubbed the blood thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger. ‘It seems as though you returned in time to handle things, though.’

‘That particular herd of camels is unlikely to come back,’ Soli agreed.

‘Their work is done, though,’ Cashiv said sadly. ‘We’ll have to buy our baskets from Krisha again.’

‘Please,’ Soli said, laying a hand on Cashiv’s arm, ‘we need this order. Not all the stock was ruined. Might we sell you half, at least?’

Cashiv looked down at the hand on his arm and smiled. He waved dismissively at the clutter of baskets. ‘Pfagh! If one’s been pissed on, they all have. I will not take such tainted goods to my master. Dump a bucket on them and sell them to khaffit.’

He moved in closer, putting his hand back on Soli’s chest. ‘But if it’s money you need, perhaps you can earn it carrying baskets at the party tomorrow instead of selling them.’ He slid his fingers up under Soli’s loosened robe to caress his shoulder. ‘You could return home with the price of the baskets three times over, if you … carry well.’

Soli smiled. ‘Baskets are my business, Cashiv. No one carries better.’

Cashiv laughed. ‘We’ll be by tomorrow morning to collect you for the party.’

‘Meet me in the training grounds,’ Soli said. Cashiv nodded, and he and his fellows sauntered off down the lane towards Krisha’s kiosk.

Manvah laid a hand on Soli’s shoulder. ‘Sorry you had to do that, my son.’

Soli shrugged. ‘Some days you’re the cock, and some days you’re the bum. I just hate that Krisha won.’

Manvah lifted her veil just enough to spit on the ground. ‘Krisha won nothing. She has no baskets to sell.’

‘How can you know that?’ Soli asked.

Manvah chuckled. ‘I set vermin in her storage tent a week ago.’

After helping restore the kiosk, Soli escorted them back to the small adobe building where they kept their rooms just as the dama sang the gloaming from the minarets of Sharik Hora. They had salvaged most of the baskets, but several needed repair. Manvah had a large bundle of palm fronds on her back.

‘I’ll need to hurry to make muster,’ Soli said. Inevera and Manvah threw their arms around him, kissing him before he turned and ran into the darkening city.

Inside, they unsealed the warded trapdoor in their apartment and headed down into the Undercity for the night.

Each building in Krasia had at least one level deep below the ground, these linking to passageways leading to the Undercity proper, a vast honeycomb of tunnels and caverns that ran for miles. It was there the women, children, and khaffit took refuge each night while the men fought alagai’sharak. Great blocks of cut stone denied demons a clear path from Nie’s abyss, and they were carved with powerful wards to keep those that had risen elsewhere at bay.

The Undercity was an impregnable refuge, designed not only to shelter the city’s masses, but to be a city in and of itself should the unthinkable happen and the Desert Spear fall to the alagai. There were sleeping quarters for every family, schools, palaces, houses of worship, and more.

Inevera and her mother had only a small basement in the Undercity, with sleeping pallets, a cold room for food, and a tiny chamber with a deep pit for necessaries.

Manvah lit a lamp, and they sat at the table, eating a cold dinner. When the dishes were clear, she set out the palm fronds. Inevera moved to help.

Manvah shook her head. ‘To bed with you. You have a big day tomorrow. I won’t have you red-eyed and sluggish when the dama’ting question you.’

Inevera looked at the long line of girls and their mothers before her, each awaiting their turn in the dama’ting pavilion. The Brides of Everam had decreed that when the dama sang the dawn on spring equinox, all girls in their ninth year were to be presented for Hannu Pash, to learn the life’s path Everam had laid out for them. Hannu Pash could take years for a boy, but for girls it was accomplished in a single foretelling by the dama’ting.

Most were simply deemed fertile and given their first headscarf, but a few would walk away from the pavilion betrothed, or given a new vocation. Others, mostly the poor and illiterate, were purchased from their fathers and trained in pillow dancing, then sent to the great harem to service Krasia’s warriors as jiwah’Sharum. It was their honour to bear new warriors to replace those who died battling demons in alagai’sharak each night.

Inevera had woken filled with excitement, donning her tan dress and brushing out her thick black hair. It fell in natural waves and shone like silk, but today was the last day the world would ever see it. She would enter the dama’ting pavilion a girl, but leave a young woman whose hair would be for her future husband alone. She would be stripped of her tan dress and emerge in proper blacks.

‘It may be equinox, but the moon is in full,’ Manvah said. ‘That is a good omen, at least.’

‘Perhaps a Damaji will take me into his harem,’ Inevera said. ‘I could live in a palace, with a dower so great you would never need to weave again.’

‘Never able to go out in the sun again,’ Manvah said, too low to be heard by those around them, ‘or speak to anyone but your sister-wives, waiting on the pleasure of a man old enough to be your great-grandfather.’ She shook her head. ‘At least our tax is paid and you have two men to speak for you, so there’s little chance you’ll be sold into the great harem. And even that would be a better fate than to be found barren and cast out as nie’ting.’

Nie’ting. Inevera shuddered at the thought. Those found infertile would never be allowed to don the black, left in tans their entire life like khaffit, faces uncovered in shame.

‘Perhaps I’ll be chosen to be dama’ting,’ Inevera said.

Manvah shook her head. ‘You won’t be. They never choose anyone.’

‘Grandmother says a girl was chosen the year she was tested,’ Inevera said.

‘That was fifty years ago, if it was a day,’ Manvah said, ‘and Everam bless her, your father’s honoured mother is prone to … exaggeration.’

‘Then where do all the nie’dama’ting come from?’ Inevera wondered, referring to the dama’ting apprentices, their faces bare, but in the white of betrothal to Everam.

‘Some say Everam Himself gets his Brides with child, and the nie’dama’ting are their daughters,’ Manvah said. Inevera looked at her, raising an eyebrow as she wondered if her mother was joking.

Manvah shrugged. ‘It’s as good an explanation as any. I can tell you none of the other mothers in the market has ever seen a girl chosen, or recognized one by her face.’

‘Mother! Sister!’ A wide smile broke out on Inevera’s face as she saw Soli approaching, Cashiv at his back. Her brother’s blacks were still dusty from the Maze, and his shield, slung over one shoulder, had fresh dents. Cashiv was as pristine as ever.

Inevera ran and embraced Soli. He laughed, picking her up with one arm and swinging her through the air. Inevera shrieked in delight, not afraid for a moment. Nothing could frighten her when Soli was near. He set her down gentle as a feather and went to embrace their mother.

‘What are you doing here?’ Manvah asked. ‘I thought you would already be on your way to Dama Baden’s palace.’

‘I am,’ Soli said, ‘but I couldn’t let my sister go to her Hannu Pash without wishing her all the blessings in Ala.’ He reached out, tousling Inevera’s hair. She swatted at his hand, but as ever, he was too quick and snatched it back in time.

‘Do you think Father will come to bless me as well?’ Inevera asked.

‘Ah …’ Soli hesitated. ‘So far as I know, Father is still sleeping in the back of the kiosk. He never made it to muster last night, and I told the drillmaster he had a belly fever … again.’ Soli shrugged helplessly, and Inevera lowered her eyes, not wanting him to see her disappointment.

Soli stooped low, lifting her chin with a gentle finger so their eyes met. ‘I know Father wants every blessing for you that I do, even if he has difficulty showing it.’

Inevera nodded. ‘I know.’ She threw her arms around Soli’s neck one last time before he left. ‘Thank you.’

Cashiv looked at Inevera as if noticing her for the first time. He smiled his handsome smile and bowed. ‘Blessings to you, Inevera vah Kasaad, as you become a woman. I wish you a good husband and many sons, all as handsome as your brother.’

Inevera smiled and felt her cheeks flush as the warriors sauntered off.

At last, the line began to move. The day wore on slowly as they stood in the hot sun, the girls and their mothers admitted one at a time. Some were inside for mere minutes – others, nearly an hour. All left wearing black, most looking both chastened and relieved. Some of the girls stared hard at nothing, rubbing their arms absently as their mothers steered them home.

As they drew close to the head of the line, Inevera’s mother tightened her grip on the girl’s shoulders, nails digging hard even through her dress.

‘Keep your eyes down and your tongue still save when spoken to,’ Manvah hissed. ‘Never answer a question with a question, and never disagree. Say it with me: “Yes, Dama’ting.”’

‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera repeated.

‘Keep that answer fixed in your mind,’ Manvah said. ‘Offend a dama’ting and you offend fate itself.’

‘Yes, Mother.’ Inevera swallowed deeply, feeling her insides clench. What went on in the pavilion? Hadn’t her mother gone through the same ritual? What was she so afraid of?

A nie’dama’ting opened the tent flap, and the girl who had gone in before Inevera emerged. She wore a headscarf now, but it was tan, as was the dress she still wore. Her mother gentled her shoulders, murmuring comfort as they stumbled along, but both were weeping.

The nie’dama’ting regarded the scene serenely, then turned to Inevera and her mother. She was perhaps thirteen, tall with a sturdy build, harsh cheekbones, and a hooked nose that made her look like a raptor. ‘I am Melan.’ She motioned for them to enter. ‘Dama’ting Qeva will see you now.’

Inevera took a deep breath as she and her mother removed their shoes, drew wards in the air, and passed into the dama’ting pavilion.

The sun filtered through the rising canvas roof, filling the great tent with bright light. Everything was white, from the tent walls to the painted furniture and the thick canvas flooring.

It made the blood all the more startling. There were great splashes of red and brown marring the floor of the entranceway, as well as a thick trail of muddy red footprints heading through partitions to the right and left.

‘That is Sharum blood,’ a voice said, and Inevera jumped, noticing for the first time the Bride of Everam standing right before them, her white robes blending almost perfectly with the background. ‘From the injured brought in at dawn from alagai’sharak. Each day, the canvas floor is cut away and burned atop the minarets of Sharik Hora during the call to prayer.’

As if on cue, Inevera heard the cries of pain surrounding her. On the other side of the thick partitions, men were in agony. She imagined her father – or worse, Soli – among them, and winced at every shriek and groan.

‘Everam take me now!’ a man cried desperately. ‘I will not live a cripple!’

‘Step carefully,’ Dama’ting Qeva warned. ‘The soles of your feet are not worthy to touch the blood honoured warriors have spilled for your sake.’

Inevera and her mother eased their way around the stained canvas to come before the dama’ting. Clad from head to toe in white silk with only her eyes and hands uncovered, Qeva was tall and thick of frame like Melan, but with a woman’s curves.

‘What is your name, girl?’ The Bride of Everam’s voice was deep and hard.

‘Inevera vah Kasaad am’Damaj am’Kaji, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said, bowing deeply. ‘Named after the First Wife of Kaji.’ Manvah’s nails dug into her shoulder at the addition, and she gasped involuntarily. The dama’ting seemed not to notice.

‘No doubt you think that makes you special.’ Qeva snorted. ‘If Krasia had a warrior for every worthless girl who has borne that name, Sharak Ka would be over.’

‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said, bowing again as her mother’s nails eased back.

‘You’re a pretty one,’ the dama’ting noted.

Inevera bowed. ‘Thank you, Dama’ting.’

‘The harems can always use a pretty girl, if she’s not put to good use already,’ Qeva said, looking at Manvah. ‘Who is your husband and what is your profession?’

‘Dal’Sharum Kasaad, Dama’ting,’ Manvah said, bowing. ‘And I am a palm weaver.’

‘First Wife?’ Qeva asked.

‘I am his only wife, Dama’ting,’ Manvah said.

‘Men think they take on wives as they prosper, Manvah of the Kaji,’ Qeva said, ‘but the reverse is true. Have you tried to secure sister-wives, as prescribed in the Evejah, to help with your weaving and bear him more children?’

‘Yes, Dama’ting. Many times.’ Manvah gritted her teeth. ‘Their fathers … would not approve the match.’

The Bride of Everam grunted. The answer said much about Kasaad. ‘Is the girl educated?’

Manvah nodded. ‘Yes, Dama’ting. Inevera is my apprentice. She is most skilled at weaving, and I have taught her to do sums and keep ledgers. She has read the Evejah once for each of the seven pillars of Heaven.’

The dama’ting’s eyes were unreadable. ‘Follow me.’ She turned away, heading deeper into the pavilion. She gave no mind to the blood on the floor, her flowing silk robes gliding easily over it. Not a drop clung to them. It would not dare.

Melan followed, the nie’dama’ting stepping nimbly around the blood, and Inevera and her mother trailed after. The pavilion was a maze of white cloth walls, with many turns that were upon them before Inevera even knew they were there. There was no blood on the floor here, and even the cries of the injured Sharum grew muffled. Around one bend, the walls and ceiling shifted suddenly from white to black. It was like stepping from day into night. After turning another bend, it became so dark that her mother, in her black dal’ting robes, was nearly invisible, and even the white-clad dama’ting and her apprentice became only ghostly images.

Qeva stopped suddenly, and Melan moved around her to pull open a trapdoor Inevera hadn’t even noticed. Inside she could only just make out the stone staircase leading down into a deeper dark. The cut stone was cold on her bare feet, and when Melan pulled the trap shut behind them, the blackness became complete. They descended slowly, Inevera terrified she might trip and take the Bride of Everam tumbling down the steps with her.

The stairs were mercifully short, though Inevera did indeed stumble in surprise when she came to the landing. She caught herself quickly, and no one seemed to notice.

A red light appeared in Qeva’s hand, casting an evil glow that allowed them to see one another, but did little to abate the oppressive darkness around them. The dama’ting led them down a row of dark cells cut into the living rock. Wards were carved into the walls on both sides.

‘Wait here with Melan,’ Qeva told Manvah, and bade Inevera to enter one of the cells. She winced as the heavy door closed behind them.

There was a stone pedestal in one corner of the room, and the dama’ting deposited the glowing object there. It looked like a lump of coal carved with glowing wards, but even Inevera knew better. It was alagai hora.

Demon bone.

Qeva turned back to her, and Inevera caught the flash of a curved blade in the woman’s hand. In the red light, it appeared to be covered in blood.

Inevera shrieked and backpedalled, but the cell was tiny, and she soon fetched up against the stone wall. The dama’ting lifted the blade right up to Inevera’s nose, and her eyes crossed trying to see it.

‘You fear the blade?’ the dama’ting asked.

‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said automatically, her voice cracking.

‘Close your eyes,’ Qeva commanded. Inevera shook with fear, but she did as she was bade, her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she waited for the blade to pierce her flesh.

But the blow never came. ‘Picture a palm tree, weaver’s daughter,’ Qeva said. Inevera didn’t wholly understand, but she nodded. It was an easy image to form, as she climbed palm trees every day, nimbly shimmying up the trunk to harvest fronds for weaving.

‘Does a palm fear the wind?’ the dama’ting asked.

‘No, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said.

‘What does it do?’

‘It bends, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said.

‘The Evejah teaches us that fear and pain are only wind, Inevera, daughter of Manvah. Let it blow past you.’

‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said.

‘Repeat it three times,’ Qeva commanded.

‘Fear and pain are only wind,’ Inevera said, drawing a deep breath. ‘Fear and pain are only wind. Fear and pain are only wind.’

‘Open your eyes and kneel,’ Qeva said. When Inevera complied, she added, ‘Hold out your arm.’ The limb Inevera lifted seemed detached from her, but it held steady. The Bride of Everam pulled up Inevera’s sleeve and sliced her forearm, drawing a bright line of blood.

Inevera drew a sharp breath, but she did not flinch away or cry out. Fear and pain are only wind.

The dama’ting lifted her veil slightly and licked the knife, tasting Inevera’s blood. She sheathed it at her waist and then reached out with a strong hand to squeeze the cut, dripping blood onto a handful of black, warded dice.

Inevera gritted her teeth. Fear and pain are only wind.

When the blood struck them, the dice began to glow, and Inevera realized they, too, were alagai hora. Her blood was touching the bones of demons. The thought was horrifying.

The dama’ting took a step back, chanting quietly as she shook the dice, their glow increasing with every passing moment.

‘Everam, giver of light and life, I beseech you, give this lowly servant knowledge of what is to come. Tell me of Inevera, daughter of Kasaad, of the Kaji line of Damaj.’

With that, she cast the dice to the floor in front of Inevera. Their light exploded in a flash that caused her to blink, then reduced to a dull throb as the glowing symbols on the floor laid bare the fronds that wove her fate.

The dama’ting said nothing. Her eyes narrowed, staring at the symbols for a long time. Inevera could not say exactly how long it was, but she wobbled as the muscles of her legs, unaccustomed to kneeling so long, began to give way.

Qeva looked up at the movement. ‘Sit back on your heels and keep still!’ She got to her feet, circling the tiny cell to inspect the pattern of the dice from every angle. Slowly the glow began to fade, but still the dama’ting pondered.

Palm in the wind or not, Inevera began to grow very nervous. Her muscles screamed in strain, and her anxiety doubled with every passing second. What did the Bride of Everam see? Was she to be taken from her mother and sold to a harem? Was she barren?

At last, Qeva looked at Inevera. ‘Touch the dice in any way, and it will mean your life.’ With that, she left the room, grunting commands. There was a sound of hurried footsteps as Melan ran off.

A moment later Manvah entered the cell, stepping around the dice carefully to kneel behind Inevera. ‘What happened?’ she whispered.

Inevera shook her head. ‘I don’t know. The dama’ting stared at the dice as if unsure what they meant.’

‘Or she didn’t like what they told her,’ Manvah muttered.

‘What happens now?’ Inevera asked, her face going cold.

‘They are summoning Damaji’ting Kenevah,’ Manvah said, drawing a shocked gasp from Inevera. ‘It is she who will speak the final word. Pray now.’

Inevera shuddered as she lowered her head. She was frightened enough of the dama’ting. The thought of their leader coming to inspect her …

Please, Everam, she begged, let me be fertile and bear sons for the Kaji. My family could not bear the shame if I were nie’ting. Grant me this one wish, and I will give myself to you forever.

They knelt in the dim red light a long time, praying.

‘Mother?’ Inevera asked.

‘Yes?’ her mother said.

Inevera swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Will you still love me if I’m barren?’ Her voice cracked at the end. She hadn’t meant to cry, but found herself blinking away tears.

A moment later Manvah had folded her in her arms. ‘You are my daughter. I would love you if you put out the sun.’

After an interminable wait, Qeva returned, another Bride of Everam at her back – this one older and thinner, with a sharp look. She wore dama’ting white, but her veil and headwrap were black silk. Damaji’ting Kenevah, the most powerful woman in all Krasia.

The Damaji’ting glanced at the huddling women, and they quickly separated and wiped their eyes, returning to their knees. She said nothing, moving to the dice. For long minutes, she studied the pattern.

At last, Kenevah grunted. ‘Take her.’

Inevera gasped as Qeva strode up, grabbing her arm and hauling her to her feet. She looked frantically at her mother and saw Manvah’s eyes wide with fear. ‘Mother!’

Manvah fell to her belly, clutching at the hem of Qeva’s white robe as the dama’ting pulled her away. ‘Please, Dama’ting,’ she begged. ‘My daughter—’

‘Your daughter is no longer your concern,’ Kenevah cut her off, and Qeva kicked to snap the robe from Manvah’s grasp. ‘She belongs to Everam now.’

‘There must be some mistake,’ Inevera said numbly as Qeva guided her along the road with a firm grasp on her arm. It felt more like she was being escorted to a whipping post than a palace. Damaji’ting Kenevah and Melan, the nie’dama’ting apprentice, walked with them.

‘The dice do not make mistakes,’ Kenevah said. ‘And you should be rejoicing. You, the daughter of a basket weaver and a Sharum of no particular note, will be betrothed to Everam. Can you not see the great honour paid to your family this day?’

‘Then why wasn’t I allowed to say goodbye to them? To my mother, even?’ Never answer a question with a question, Manvah had said, but Inevera was past caring.

‘Best to make a clean break,’ Kenevah said. ‘They are beneath you now. Irrelevant. You will not be permitted to see them during your training, and by the time you are ready to test for the white, you will no longer even wish to.’

Inevera had no response to such a ridiculous statement. Not want to see her mother again? Her brother? Unthinkable. She would even miss her father, though in all likelihood Kasaad would never notice she was gone.

The Kaji Dama’ting Palace soon came into sight. Equal to those of even the greatest Damaji, the Dama’ting Palace had a twenty-foot-tall wardwall, proof against daylight enemies as well as alagai. Over the top of the wall she could see the tall spires and great dome of the palace, but Inevera had never seen inside the walls. None but the dama’ting and their apprentices ever passed its great gates. No men, not even the Andrah himself, could set foot on its hallowed grounds.

That was what Inevera had been told, at least, but as the gates – which had seemed to open of their own accord – closed behind them, she could see a pair of muscular men pushing them shut. They were clad only in white bidos and sandals, and their hair and bodies glistened with oil. Each wore golden shackles on his ankles and wrists, but there were no chains Inevera could see.

‘I thought no men were allowed in the palace,’ Inevera said, ‘to protect dama’ting chastity.’

The Brides of Everam barked a laugh as though this were a great joke. Even Melan chuckled.

‘You are half right,’ Kenevah said. ‘The eunuchs are without stones, and thus not men in the Eyes of Everam.’

‘So they are … push’ting?’ Inevera asked.

Kenevah cackled. ‘Stoneless they may be, but their spears work well enough to do a true man’s work.’

Inevera gave a pained smile as they climbed the wide marble steps, polished a pristine glistening white. She held her arms in close, attempting to be as small and unobtrusive as possible as the great doors were opened by more handsome, muscular slaves in golden shackles. They bowed, and Qeva ran a finger under one’s chin.

‘It has been a trying day, Khavel. Come to my chambers in an hour with heated stones and scented oil to stroke the tension away.’ The slave bowed deeply, saying nothing.

‘They are not allowed to speak?’ Inevera asked.

‘Not able,’ Kenevah said. ‘Their tongues were cut out with their stones and they know no letters. They can never tell of the wonders they see in the Dama’ting Palace.’

Indeed, the palace was filled with luxury and opulence beyond anything Inevera had ever imagined. Everything from the columns and high dome to the floors, walls, and stairs was cut from flawless white marble, polished to a bright shine. Thick woven carpets, amazingly soft beneath her bare feet, ran along the halls, filling them with bright colour. Tapestries hung on the walls – masterworks of artistry bringing the tales of the Evejah to life. Beautiful glazed pottery stood on marble pedestals, along with items of crystal, gold, and polished silver; from delicate sculpture and filigree to heavy chalices and bowls. In the bazaar, such items would have been under close guard – any one of them could sell for enough to keep a family in staples for a decade – but who in all Krasia would dare steal from the dama’ting?

Other Brides passed them in the halls, some alone, others in chattering groups. All wore the same flowing white silk, hooded and veiled – even inside with no men to see. They stopped and bowed deeply as Kenevah passed, and though they tried to hide it, each gave Inevera a curious and not altogether welcoming appraisal.

More than one of the passing Brides was great with child. It was shocking to see dama’ting in such a condition, especially if the only men allowed near them were gelded, but Inevera kept her surprise beneath a haggler’s mask. Kenevah’s patience might be tested by such a question, and if she was to live here, the answer would become apparent soon enough.

There were seven wings to the palace, one for every pillar in Heaven, with the central wing pointing toward Anoch Sun, the final resting place of Kaji. This was the Damaji’ting’s personal wing, and Inevera was escorted into the First Bride’s opulent receiving chamber. Qeva and Melan were instructed to wait outside.

‘Sit,’ the Damaji’ting said, gesturing to the velvet couches set before a polished wood desk. Inevera sat timidly, feeling tiny and insignificant in the massive office. Kenevah sat behind the desk, steepling her fingers and staring at Inevera, who wilted under the harsh gaze.

‘Qeva tells me you know of your namesake,’ Kenevah said grimly, and Inevera could not tell if she was being mocked. ‘Tell me what you know of her.’

‘Inevera was the daughter of Damaj, Kaji’s closest friend and counsellor,’ Inevera said. ‘It is said in the Evejah that she was so beautiful, Kaji fell in love with her at first sight, claiming it was Everam’s will that she be first among his wives.’

Kenevah snorted. ‘The Damajah was more than that, girl. Much more. As she lay in the pillows with Kaji she whispered wisdom into his ear, bringing him to untold heights of power. It is said she spoke with Everam’s voice, which is why the name is synonymous with Everam’s will.

‘Inevera was also the first dama’ting,’ Kenevah went on. ‘She brought us healing, and poison, and hora magic. She wove Kaji’s Cloak of Unsight, and etched the wards of his mighty spear and crown.’

Kenevah looked up at Inevera. ‘And she will come again, when Sharak Ka is nigh, to find the next Deliverer.’

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 legs dozens of times, layering weaves one atop another.

Inevera had made enough baskets to know good weaving when she saw it, and this was a masterwork. Something so intricately woven could be worn all day and never come loose, and someone unskilled would likely make a botch of it and never get the weave undone.

‘The woven bido is like the web of flesh that safeguards your virginity,’ Qeva said, tossing Inevera a great roll of thin white silk. ‘You will wear it at all times, save for ablutions and necessaries, done here in the lowest chamber of the Vault. You will not leave the Vault under any circumstances without it, and you will be punished if it is woven improperly. Melan will teach you the weave. It should be simple enough for a basket weaver’s daughter to master.’

Melan snorted at that, and Inevera swallowed hard and tried not to stare at the girl’s bald head as she came over. She was a few years Inevera’s senior, and very pretty without her headwrap. She held out her hands, each wrapped in at least ten feet of silk. Inevera mimicked her, and they stepped over the strip of silk between their hands, bringing it to rest across their buttocks.

‘The first weave is called Everam’s Guardian,’ Melan said, pulling the silk taut and crossing it over her sex. ‘It crosses seven times, one for each pillar in Heaven.’ Inevera copied her, and managed to keep up for some time before Qeva cut in.

‘There is a twist in the silk, begin again,’ the dama’ting said.

Inevera nodded, and both girls undid the weave and started afresh. Inevera knitted her brows, doing her best to mimic the weave perfectly. Kenevah had said Melan would bear the weight of her mistakes, and she did not want the girl punished for her clumsy hands. She managed to keep up all the way to the headwrap before the dama’ting broke in.

‘Not so tight,’ Qeva said. ‘You’re tying a bido, not trying to keep a Sharum’s broken skull together. Do it again.’

Melan gave Inevera a look of annoyance that made her face flush, but again they reversed course, undoing their bidos entirely before beginning anew.

By the third repetition, Inevera had the feel of the weave. Its flow came naturally to her, and soon she and Melan stood in identical silk bidos.

Qeva clapped her hands. ‘There might be something to you after all, girl. It took Melan months to master the bido weave, and she was one of the quicker studies. Isn’t that so, Melan?’

‘As the dama’ting says.’ Melan gave a stiff bow, and Inevera got the sense that Qeva was taunting her.

‘Into the bath with you,’ Qeva said. ‘The day grows long and the kitchens will soon open.’

Inevera’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. It had been many hours since she had eaten.

‘You’ll eat soon enough.’ Qeva smiled. ‘Once you and the other girls finish serving supper and scrubbing out the crockery.’

She gave a laugh and pointed towards the source of the steam and splashing sounds. Melan undid her bido quickly and headed that way. Inevera took longer, trying not to tangle the silk, then followed, her bare feet slapping the tile.

The passage opened up into a great pool, its water hot and the air thick with steam. There were dozens of girls inside, all of them as bald as Melan. Some were Inevera’s age, but many were older, some grown almost fully to womanhood. All stood washing in the stone bath, or lounged on the slick stone steps at its edges, shaving and paring nails.

Inevera thought of the bucket of warm water she and her mother shared to wash. Their ration let them change it only sparingly. She waded out in wonder, the hot water caressing her thighs, running her fingertips through the surface as if through silk in the market.

Everyone looked up as they entered. The loungers sat up like hissing snakes, every eye in the misty room focused on the two girls. They moved in swiftly, surrounding them.

Inevera turned back, but the way was already closed, the ring of girls tightening, barring any escape and blocking them from outside view.

‘This is her?’ one girl asked.

‘The one the dice called?’ asked another. The questioners were lost in the steam as the girls began to circle, eyeing Inevera from every angle in much the same way Qeva had studied her dice.

Melan nodded, and the ring tightened further. Inevera felt crushed under the weight of their collective stare.

‘Melan, what …?’ Inevera reached out, her heart pounding.

Melan caught her wrist, twisting and pulling hard. Inevera fell towards her, and Melan caught a fistful of her thick hair, using the momentum of her fall to push her head under the water.

There was a burble, then all she could hear was the rushing of water. Inevera reflexively inhaled water and choked, but she could not cough underwater, and her insides spasmed as she resisted the urge to breathe in. The hot water burned her face and she struggled violently, but Melan kept her hold and Inevera was helpless against it. She thrashed as her lungs began to burn, but like Soli in the kiosk, Melan was using sharusahk, her movements swift and precise. Inevera could do nothing to resist.

Melan was shouting something at her, but the sound was muffled by the water, and Inevera couldn’t make out any of it. She realized then that she was going to drown. It seemed so absurd. Inevera had never stood in water past her knees. Water was precious in the Desert Spear, both currency and merchandise in the bazaar. Gold shines, but water is divine, the saying went. Only the wealthiest of Krasia’s citizens could even afford to drown.

She was losing hope when Melan gave a jerk and pulled her upright with a splash. Inevera’s hair was plastered to her face, and she coughed, gasping breaths of thick, steamy air.

‘—just walk in here,’ Melan was shouting, ‘speaking to the Damaji’ting like she was your pillow friend, and learning the bido weave in three tries!’

‘Three tries?’ a girl asked.

‘We should kill her just for that,’ another added.

‘Thinks she’s better than us,’ a third said.

Inevera glanced around desperately through her matted hair, but the other girls watched impassively, their eyes dead. None of them looked like she might lift a finger to help.

‘Melan, please, I—’ Inevera sputtered, but Melan tightened her grip and thrust Inevera back under the water. She managed to hold her breath, but that soon ran out, and she was thrashing wildly again by the time Melan let her up to gasp another breath.

‘Do not speak to me,’ Melan said. ‘I may be bound to you for one year, but we are not friends. You think you can come in and take Kenevah’s place overnight? Over my mother? Over me? I am Kenevah’s blood! You are just a … bad throw.’

She produced a sharp knife from somewhere, and Inevera flinched in terror as Melan slashed it through her hair, cutting off thick locks. ‘You are nothing.’ She flipped the knife in her fingers, catching the blade and handing it hilt-first to the next girl who approached.

‘You are nothing,’ the girl echoed, grabbing another lock of Inevera’s hair and slicing it off.

Each girl came forward and took the knife, cutting at Inevera’s hair until all that remained was a ragged and uneven shadow, patched and bloody. ‘You are nothing,’ they said in turn.

By the time the last of the girls drew back, Inevera was on her knees in the water, limp and weeping. Again and again she broke out coughing, the convulsions tearing hot fire through her throat. It was as if there was some last bit of water in her lungs they were determined to expel.

Kenevah was right. The Dama’ting Palace and the Great Bazaar weren’t so different after all, but here there was no Soli to defend her.

Inevera thought about Manvah, and her final words about Krisha. If she could not match sharusahk with Melan and the other girls, she would deal as her mother had done. She would keep her eyes down and do as she was told. Work hard. Listen. Learn.

And then, when no one was looking, she would find Melan’s storage tent and put vermin in it.

1
Arlen
333 AR Summer
30 Dawns Before New Moon

Renna kissed Arlen again. A gentle breeze swept across the thin sheen of sweat on their bodies, cooling them as they panted on the hot night.

‘Been wonderin’ if you were tattooed under that cloth nappy,’ she said, nestling in next to him and putting her head on his bare chest, listening to his heart.

Arlen laughed and put his arm around her. ‘It’s called a bido. And even my obsession has limits.’

Renna lifted her head, putting her lips to his ear. ‘Maybe you just need a Warder you trust. It’s a wife’s duty to take good care of what’s in her husband’s bido. I could paint you with blackstem …’

Arlen swallowed, and she could see his skin flush. ‘The wards would distort even as you drew them.’

Renna laughed, wrapping him in her arms and dropping her head back to his chest.

‘Wonder sometimes if I’m cracked,’ she said.

‘How’s that?’ Arlen asked.

‘Like I’m still sitting in Selia Barren’s spinning room, staring off into space. Everything since has been like a dream. Wonder if my mind just took me to a sunny place and left me there.’

‘You’ve a poor imagination if this is your sunny place,’ Arlen said.

‘Why?’ Renna asked. ‘I’m rid of Harl and that corespawned farm, stronger than I ever imagined, and dancing in the naked night.’ She swept a hand around her. ‘Everything’s awash in colour and glow.’ She looked at him. ‘And I’m with Arlen Bales. How could my sunny place be anywhere else?’

Renna bit her lip as the words rushed to them. Words she had thought to herself many times, but never dared say aloud. Part of her hesitation was fear of Arlen’s reaction, but much of it was her own doubt. All the Tanner sisters had been willing to run to the bed of the first decent man they met, but had any of them ever been in love?

Renna had thought she loved Arlen when they were children, but she only knew him from afar, and understood now that much of what she cherished had been her imagination of what he was like in close, rather than the boy himself.

Renna had convinced herself that she loved Cobie Fisher this past spring, but she saw the lie of that now. Cobie hadn’t been a bad sort, but if any other man had come to Harl’s farm, Renna knew she would likely have seduced him, too. Anything to get away, because anywhere was better than that farm, and any man in creation was better than her da.

But Renna was done lying. And done biting her tongue.

‘Love you, Arlen Bales,’ she said.

Her courage fled as the words left her lips and she held her breath, but there was no hesitation as Arlen tightened his arms around her. ‘Love you, Renna Tanner.’

She exhaled, and all the fear and doubt left her.

Charged as she was with magic, Renna found no sleep as they lay, but she would not have wished for any. Warm and safe, she wondered almost idly how she and Arlen could have been fighting a demon prince and its servants on this very spot a few hours before. It seemed a different world. A different life. For a short time, they had escaped.

But as the sweat dried and the glow of passion faded, the real world began to creep back into focus, terrible and frightening. They were surrounded by the bodies of dead corelings, black ichor splattered all over the clearing. One, the shape-shifting demon, still wore her form, its head neatly severed and leaking ichor. Not far off, Twilight Dancer still lay with his legs in splints after nearly being killed by a mimic demon.

‘Going to need to heal Dancer again before he can walk,’ Arlen said. ‘Even then, it might be another night or two before he’s at full strength.’

Renna looked around the clearing. ‘Don’t like the idea of staying here another night.’

‘Me neither,’ Arlen said. ‘Corelings will be drawn here tomorrow like worms to a rain puddle. I have a safehold nearby with a cart big enough to carry Dancer. I can fetch it and be back not long past sunrise.’

‘Still have to wait for nightfall,’ Renna said.

Arlen tilted his head at her. ‘Why?’

‘Horse weighs more’n your da’s house,’ Renna said. ‘How we gonna get him in the cart without night strength? Who’ll pull the thing, for that matter?’

Arlen looked at her, and even through the wards tattooed all over his face, his expression told all. ‘Stop that,’ she snapped.

‘What?’ Arlen asked.

‘Deciding whether or not to lie to me,’ Renna said. ‘We’re promised now, and there oughtn’t be lies ’tween man and wife.’

Arlen looked at her in surprise, then shook his head. ‘Wan’t gonna lie, exactly. Just tryin’ to decide if it’s time to talk about it.’

‘Is if you value your skin,’ Renna said. Arlen squinted at her, but she met his eyes and after a moment he shrugged.

‘Don’t lose all my strength in the day,’ he said. ‘Even under the noon sun I reckon I could pick up a milk cow and throw it farther than you can skip a brook stone.’

‘What makes you so special?’ Renna asked.

Arlen gave her that look again, and she scowled, shaking a fist at him only half mockingly.

Arlen laughed. ‘Tell you all once we get to my safehold. Honest word.’

Renna smirked. ‘Kiss on it, and it’s a deal.’

While she waited, Renna took out the warding kit Arlen had given her, placing a clean cloth on the ground and laying the tools out in a neat row. She took out her brook stone necklace and her knife, and slowly, carefully, lovingly, began to clean them.

The necklace was a promise gift from Cobie Fisher, a stout cord strung through dozens of smooth, polished stones. It was so long Renna needed to loop it twice, and it still fell below her breasts.

The knife had belonged to her father, Harl Tanner. He’d always kept it at his belt, sharp as a razor. He’d used it to murder Cobie when she ran away to be with him, and she in turn had used it to kill him.

If that hadn’t happened, Renna and Cobie would have been man and wife when Arlen came back to Tibbet’s Brook. The necklace was a symbol of her failure to be true to Arlen, a promise gift from another man. The knife was a reminder of a man who had kept her in a private Core her entire life.

But Renna could bring herself to part with neither. For better or worse, they were the only things in the world that were truly hers, the only parts of her day life that had come into the night. She had warded them both, the necklace with defensive wards, and the knife with offensive. The necklace could serve as a ward circle in need, but proved an even more effective garrotte. And the knife …

The knife had punched through the chest of a coreling prince. Even now, its magic shone brightly to her warded eyes. Not just the wards – the entire blade had a dull glow to it. It drew blood on her finger at the barest touch.

She knew the power would burn away with the sun, but at the moment, the weapon seemed invincible. Even in the day, it would be stronger. Magic always left things better than it found them. Likewise, the barest brush of the polishing cloth brought the necklace back to a shine, the cord even tougher than when it was made.

Renna stood guard over Twilight Dancer until dawn. The morning sun struck the scattered bodies of the corelings, setting them ablaze. It was a sight she never tired of, though it came at a heavy price. Even as the demons burned, the blackstem wards on her skin began to tingle as their magic faded. The knife grew hot in its sheath, burning her leg. She had to lean against a tree for support, feeling like a Jongleur’s puppet with the strings cut, weak and half blind.

The disorientation passed quickly, and Renna took a deep breath. With a few hours’ rest, she would feel fitter than the best day of her life, but even that was but a pale shadow of how she felt in the night.

How did Arlen retain his power in the sunlight? Was it that his wards were permanent tattoos rather than blackstem stains? If so, she would take a needle and ink to her skin that very day.

The demon corpses burned hot and fast, in seconds leaving only scorched ground and ash. Renna stamped out the last few scrub fires before they had a chance to grow, and then finally gave in to her exhaustion, curling next to Twilight Dancer and falling asleep.

Renna was still next to Twilight Dancer when she awoke, but rather than the moss bed she had gone to sleep on, she was now lying on a rough blanket in the back of a trundling cart. She popped her head up and saw Arlen out front wearing the yoke. He pulled them along at an impressive pace.

The sight washed the last vestige of sleep from her, and Renna vaulted easily into the driver’s seat, grabbing the reins and giving them a loud crack. Arlen jumped straight up in surprise, and Renna laughed. ‘Giddyap!’

Arlen gave her a sour look, and Renna laughed again. She leapt down from the cart and kept pace with him. The road was poorly kept and overgrown in places, but not so much as to hinder them.

‘Sweetwell’s just up ahead,’ Arlen said.

‘Sweetwell?’ Renna asked.

‘S’what they named the town,’ Arlen said. ‘On account of how good the well water tasted.’

‘Thought we were avoiding towns,’ Renna said.

‘None but ghosts in this one,’ Arlen said, and Renna could hear the pain in the words. ‘Sweetwell was taken by the night a couple years ago.’

‘You knew the place before it was taken?’ she asked.

Arlen nodded. ‘Used to come here sometimes, back when I was a Messenger. Town had ten families. “Sixty-seven hardworkin’ folk”, they loved to say. They had some queer ways about them, but they were always glad to see the Messenger, and they made the harshest poteen you ever drank.’

‘You ent had my da’s,’ Renna grunted. ‘Worked same as drink or lamp oil.’

‘Sweetwell’s was so strong, the Duke of Angiers had it outlawed,’ Arlen said. ‘Struck the town from the maps and ordered the Messengers’ Guild not to visit there any more.’

‘But you still did,’ Renna said.

‘Corespawned right we did,’ Arlen said. ‘Who’s he think he is, cutting a town off like that? Besides, a Messenger could make six months’ pay with one poteen run to Sweetwell. And I liked the Wellers. They had their whole town warded, the place abustle day and night. You could hear them singing a mile away.’

‘What happened?’ Renna asked.

Arlen shrugged. ‘Started working farther south, and stopped visiting for a few years. Wasn’t until after I started warding my flesh that I came back this way. I’d spent months in the wild at that point. Got so lonely I used to talk out loud to Dancer, carrying the conversation for the both of us. I was cracking, and I knew it.’

Renna thought of all the times she’d talked to the animals on her father’s farm the same way. How many heartfelt talks had she had with Mrs Scratch, or Hoofy? Even with Harl around, she knew lonely.

‘Realized I was near Sweetwell one day,’ Arlen said, ‘and decided to wrap my hands and face in cloth and tell ’em some tampweed tale about how I was burned by firespit. Anything to talk to a person and have them talk back. But when I got to the town, it was quiet for the first time.’

They passed a stand of trees, and the village came into view, ten sturdy thatch-roofed houses and a Holy House in a neat circle around a central boardwalk with a great well at its eye. There were wardposts along the outer perimeter, and each house had two storeys, the top for living and the bottom a work space/shopfront. There was a smithy, a tavern, a stable, a baker, a weaver, and others less easily identified.

Renna felt unnerved as they crossed the boardwalk to the stable. Everything was so well preserved. There was no sign that demons had come, and it seemed that at any moment, people would come pouring out of the buildings. She could see their ghosts in her mind’s eye as they went about their lives.

‘Boardwalk was full of bones and blood and demonshit when I got in close,’ Arlen said. ‘Still stank, as if it had only been a few days. Days! If only I’d come sooner, I could have …’

Renna touched his arm, saying nothing.

‘One of the wardposts looked like it cracked and blew over in the wind,’ Arlen went on. ‘Wood demons must’ve found the gap and fell on the folk at evening supper. A few fled into the night, but I tracked them and found only remains.’

Renna could picture it vividly, the Wellers all gathered around the wooden tables on the boardwalk, sharing a communal meal, completely unprepared when the corelings struck. She could hear the screams and see the dying. Dizzied by it all, she dropped to her knees as her stomach churned.

Arlen put his hand on her shoulder a moment later, and Renna realized she’d been weeping. She looked up at him guiltily.

‘Ent nothin’ to be ashamed of,’ he said. ‘Took it a fair bit worse myself.’

‘What did you do?’ Renna asked.

Arlen blew out a breath. ‘Blacked out a few weeks. Spent the days burying bones, drunk on poteen, and the nights killing every corespawn that came within ten miles of Sweetwell.’

‘Saw fresh tracks on the way in,’ Renna noted.

Arlen grunted. ‘They’ll be bonfires come tomorrow morning.’

Renna put her hand on the hilt of her knife, spitting on the boardwalk. ‘Honest word.’

They moved on to the stable, and Arlen eased Twilight Dancer down to the floor. He grunted with the exertion, but managed the task easily enough. Renna shook her head, doubting she could have done the same even when charged with magic in the night.

‘We’ll need some water,’ Arlen said.

‘I’ll fetch it,’ Renna said, turning towards the central well. ‘Want to taste water so sweet they named a town after it.’

Arlen grabbed her arm. ‘Water ent too sweet any more. Found Kennit Sweetwell, the town elder, floating in the well. Rotted for more’n a week before I could climb down and haul what was left of him up. Well’s poison now. Pump behind the tavern still runs clean, but it ent anything to name a town over.’

Renna spat again, fetching a bucket and heading to the tavern. Again, her hand drifted to her knife, caressing the bone handle. Night couldn’t come soon enough.

When Dancer was seen to, they took time to wash and ate a cold meal in the empty tavern. ‘There’s a rent room upstairs,’ Arlen said. ‘We can get a few hours’ sleep before night falls.’

‘Rent room?’ Renna asked. ‘When there are whole houses for the taking?’

Arlen shook his head. ‘Dun’t feel right to take someone else’s bed after they been cored. That room was where I slept when I was a Messenger, and it’s good enough.’

Love you, Arlen Bales, she thought, but there was no need to repeat what had already been said. She nodded and followed him up the stairs.

Even the rent room was bigger than any Renna had ever slept in before, with a large feather bed. Renna sat on it, amazed at its softness. She had never slept on anything softer than a straw mattress. She lay back. This was softer than a cloud.

Her eyes wandered the room as she sank further into the feathery embrace. Arlen had clearly spent some time here. There was his signature clutter on every surface – pots of paint, brushes, etching tools, and books. A small writing desk had been made into a workbench, and there were wood shavings and sawdust all over the floor.

Arlen crossed the room, folding a rug out of the way and finding a loose floorboard beneath. He pulled and an entire section of the floor came up with it, cleverly disguised with sawdust to hide the cracks. Renna sat up, and her eyes widened as she looked within. It was full of weapons – oiled, sharp, and heavily warded. She slid off the bed, moving to him and crouching for a better look, her eyes dancing along Arlen’s warding.

Arlen selected a small goldwood bow and a quiver of arrows, handing it to her. ‘Time you learned to shoot.’

Renna’s lip curled in distaste. He was trying to protect her again. Keep her from fighting in close. Keep her safe. ‘Don’t want it. Don’t want no spears, neither.’

‘Why not?’ Arlen asked.

Renna held up her brook stone necklace in one hand, and drew her knife with the other. ‘Don’t wanna kill corelings from some hiding spot. I kill a demon, I want it to die knowin’ who did it.’

She waited for him to argue, but he only nodded.

‘Know exactly how you feel.’ Arlen continued to hold the weapon out to her. ‘But sometimes you’re outnumbered, or need to kill a demon quick before it cores somebody.’ He smiled. ‘And got to say, it ent a bad feeling, to just point at a coreling and kill it from afar.’

Renna took a deep breath. He was right of course. Yes, he was protecting her, but it was in the way he always had.

By teaching her to protect herself.

Love you, Arlen Bales.

She took the bow, marvelling at its lightness. Arlen handed her a small quiver of warded arrows, then began hauling out the rest of the weapons and rolling them in oilcloth.

‘What do you need all them for?’ she asked.

‘Gonna need these and a lot more,’ Arlen said. ‘Doin’ what I shoulda done a long time ago. Gonna give warded arms to every man, woman, and child strong enough to hold one. Been making these stores all over Thesa, but I kept them all to myself. No more. I don’t need weapons to kill demons. I’m past that, now.’

‘How’s that?’ Renna asked. She waited for his eyes to flick to the side as he decided how to evade the question. Love him or no, she would smack the top of his bald head if they did.

But Arlen looked right at her, his eyes dancing. ‘Gonna show you tonight.’ He reached out, caressing the wards of vision stained in circles around her eyes. ‘Gonna need your night eyes to understand.’

Renna took his hands and rose to her feet. She backed away, pulling him along until her legs struck the bed. They sank into the feathered mattress, and kisses quickly turned to caresses. Blood pounded in her ears, a thrumming that made her feel as alive as she did in the night.

The sun was setting as they came back to the taproom for supper. After they had eaten, Arlen rose and rummaged behind the bar. He reappeared a moment later with a heavy clay jug. ‘Demons like to rise in the fields out back. What say we have a drink while we wait for ’em?’

They walked together in the gloaming, watching the lavender sky darken. The Wellers’ fields were south of the town proper and ran for acres, mostly potato, barley, and sugarcane. The fields hadn’t been tended in years, but a wild patchwork crop still clung tenaciously to the land. There were wardposts at regular intervals throughout the fields. Most were in poor repair – worthless, but here and there she saw fresh ones, their painted wards still crisp and clear. Her eyes ran over the posts, finding the pattern.

‘You made this place a maze,’ she said. ‘Like the one in the desert you told me about.’

Arlen nodded, finding a clear spot and sitting. ‘Good for cutting demons off from the horde, and a moment’s succour is never more than a step away.’ He took the heavy jug and filled two tiny clay cups with clear liquid.

‘They have a spirit in Krasia that the Sharum sometimes drink before going into battle. Call it couzi. Say it gives a warrior courage.’ He held a cup to her. ‘I’ve found poteen to have a similar effect.’

‘Thought you said the Sharum embrace their fear,’ Renna said, sitting down next to him with the jug in between.

‘Most do, and there ent no better way,’ Arlen said. ‘But embracing leaves a body cold. Don’t want to be cold when I’m in a place like Sweetwell. Want to be mad as the Core itself.’

Renna nodded. That was something she could understand. She ignored the tiny cups, sticking her finger through the jug handle. She braced the container on her arm and brought it to her lips with practised smoothness, taking a long pull.

The poteen was as strong as Arlen warned, and she coughed a bit, but it was sweeter than her father’s brew, and the ball of fire that struck her belly soon calmed and spread warmth throughout her limbs.

Arlen dropped the cups, taking the jug and pulling as she had. They passed it back and forth until the light failed completely and the telltale mists began to rise, heralding the corelings. The mists began to coalesce into field demons, sleek and low to the ground, prowling on all fours like lions, faster than anything alive. A few wood demons appeared as well, the larger demons taking longer to form.

Renna got to her feet, swaying unsteadily for a moment before she regained her equilibrium. She moved towards a coalescing wood demon, carrying the much-lightened jug loosely with one finger.

She glared at the demon as she waited for it to materialize, thinking of the night she had spent locked in her farm’s outhouse, screaming as demons rattled at the door. She thought of the empty buildings, and the poisoned well behind her.

She took one last pull of poteen and stoppered the jug. With her free hand, she reached into the pouch at her waist.

At last the demon solidified, opening its mouth to roar at her. The orifice was great enough to swallow her entire head, with row upon row of pointed teeth.

Before it could let out a sound, Renna flicked her hand at it, tossing an acorn into the gaping maw. The heat ward she had painted on the acorn activated when it made contact with the demon’s tongue, exploding the nut with a flash and bang.

At that very moment, Renna spat poteen into the demon’s face.

She stepped out of the way as its head exploded in flames. The demon fell to the ground, thrashing as its barklike armour burned.

There was a laugh, and Renna turned to see Arlen clapping his hands at her. ‘Nice work, but I’ll do you one better.’

Renna smirked, and crossed her arms, stepping over to the safety of a wardpost. ‘Like to see you try, Arlen Bales.’

Arlen bowed. A field demon turned solid a few feet away from him, bigger than a nightwolf. It growled and tamped down, ready to pounce.

Arlen crossed his arms the same as Renna, standing his ground. His hood was down – he almost never put it up any more – but he still wore the rest of his day robes, covering the powerful wards tattooed all over his body. Field demons were fast as the wind, and without the protection of his wards, it seemed the demon would knock him down and savage him. Renna’s hand dropped to her knife, and she gripped it tightly.

But the field demon passed through Arlen as if he had been made of smoke. His body swirled where the creature passed through it, returning after a moment to sharp clarity.

Arlen took a brief bow as the demon recovered. ‘Nothing can touch me in the night now, Ren. Not if I see it coming.’

The field demon hit the ground and turned instantly, leaping back at him. Renna expected it to pass through him again, but this time Arlen flowed around the attack faster than her eye could see, wrapping an arm around the coreling’s neck and sharply arresting its momentum. He quickstepped around the demon’s back to avoid the flailing claws, maintaining the headlock with one arm. He reached his free hand around to draw a heat ward on the demon’s chest with his bare finger.

The line he traced came alive with fire as he completed the symbol, and he let go his hold and backed away as the demon was consumed in flames.

Renna gaped, but Arlen wasn’t finished with the lesson. He strode towards another field demon, provoking an attack. The demon obliged, roaring and coming at him with claws leading.

‘Of course, if I don’t see it coming in time to stop it …’ Arlen was knocked back several steps and grunted as the demon’s claws struck home, tearing into his abdomen.

Renna gasped as blood arced through the air. She pulled her knife and darted forward to interpose herself between Arlen and the demon.

But Arlen straightened and stopped her up short with a raised hand. The demon pounced again, but once more Arlen blew apart like smoke.

When he re-formed, there was no sign of his injury. Even his robe was mended. ‘… given a moment to catch my wits, I can heal just about anything that doesn’t kill me.’

The demon came at him a third time, but this time Arlen drew a quick warding in the air, and the demon was thrown back as if kicked by a mule before it ever got close to him. His new power seemed limitless.

But as the demon struck the ground several yards away, Arlen staggered in his bow. To Renna’s warded eyes, he had been bright with magic a moment before. Now the glow of his wards was noticeably dimmer.

Arlen caught the look she gave him, and nodded. ‘I draw wards on a demon, the coreling powers them itself. I draw them in the air, they draw their magic from me, instead.’

The demon came back at him a fourth time, but this time Arlen seized it by the throat and pinned it to the ground in a sharusahk hold. As he held it down, Renna could see the wards on his hands throbbing with power, and his glow began to return even as the coreling’s dimmed. The demon shrieked and thrashed, but Arlen held it as easily as a man might hold down a small child. The power in his hands built in intensity until the demon’s throat collapsed. With a flex of his muscles, Arlen tore its head clean off.

Renna caught sight of a field demon stalking her and shifted position to look dim and helpless. It wasn’t difficult. All she needed to do was recall the useless cow she had been all her life. The victim.

But that part of her had died with Harl. When the coreling pounced, it struck the forbidding like an invisible wall, and Renna pivoted in an instant, thrusting her knife into its chest. The wards along the blade flared, cutting through the demon’s armour and sending a jolt of magic into her that warmed her limbs even more than the poteen. She bulled forward, stabbing again and again, each blow sending a thrill of power through her.

When the demon hit the ground, dead, she crouched and reached out her hand, tracing a heat ward on the demon’s rough armour.

Nothing happened.

‘How come you can do it and I can’t?’ Renna called as she scanned the field for more demons. There were some still circling, but they were wary of the two humans now, and kept their distance.

‘Didn’t know myself for a long time,’ Arlen said. ‘Didn’t understand any of my powers. But when I fought that demon along the path to the Core, our minds touched, and a lot came clear. I really have become part demon.’

‘Demonshit,’ Renna said. ‘You ent evil like them.’

Arlen shrugged. ‘Most demons ent evil, either. Ent smart enough to be evil – or good, for that matter. Might as well call a wasp evil for stinging. The mind demons, though …’

‘Them bastards are more evil’n Harl,’ Renna said.

Arlen nodded. ‘By a month’s ride.’

Renna furrowed her brow. ‘So you’re saying … what? Corelings are just animals? I ent sold. Wasps don’t burst into flame when the sun comes up. Even if demons ent evil, they ent natural, either.’

‘That’s day folk talking,’ Arlen said. ‘Folk who haven’t warded their eyes. Look around you. Is magic unnatural?’

Renna considered. She looked at the way the power vented up from the Core, drifting across the surface like a glowing fog swirling at their feet. She saw it at the heart of plants and trees, even animals and people. Would life even exist without it?

‘Maybe not,’ she allowed, ‘but that don’t explain why you think you’re part demon, or why you still have powers in daylight when the sun burns magic away.’

Arlen hesitated, and his eyes flicked away, considering. Renna’s eyes narrowed, and Arlen caught the look. ‘Ent gonna lie to you, Ren, or hold back. It’s just something I ent proud of, and I don’t want you … thinking less of me.’

Renna moved in close, putting a hand on his cheek. His skin tingled with magic. ‘Love you, Arlen Bales. Ent nothin’ in the world ever gonna change that.’

Arlen nodded sadly, not meeting her eyes. ‘It’s the meat that gave me the power.’

‘Meat?’

‘Demon meat,’ Arlen clarified. ‘Ate it for months when I was living in the desert. Seemed only fair, the way they’re always eatin’ on us.’

Renna gasped and took a step back. Arlen met her eyes then, and she knew from his expression that the look on her face was horrified.

‘You … ate them? Demons?’

Arlen nodded, and Renna felt sick to her stomach. ‘Didn’t have much choice in the matter. Left in the desert to die, no food, no hope. I was wretched as a man could be.’

‘Think I would have let myself die.’ Renna immediately regretted the words as a look of anguish crossed Arlen’s face.

‘Yeah, well,’ he said. ‘Guess I ent as strong as you, Ren.’

Renna rushed to him, taking his hands and pressing their foreheads together. ‘You’re stronger than I ever was, Arlen Bales,’ she said, feeling tears well in her eyes. ‘You hadn’t slapped the fool out of me, I’d have let myself die to just keep the Tanner shame a secret. Ent no strength there.’

Arlen shook his head, and a tear of his own struck her lip, cold and sweet. ‘Needed the fool slapped out of me more than once over the years.’

Renna kissed him. ‘You sure it’s the demon meat gave you these powers?’

Arlen nodded. ‘Coline Trigg used to say that what you eat becomes a part of you, and I reckon that’s so. I’ve absorbed the corelings’ ability to store magic in their cells, but my skin has retained its proof against the sun. I’ve become like a battery.’

‘Cells? Battery?’ Renna asked.

‘Science of the old world. It doesn’t matter.’ Arlen waved the questions away in that annoying way he had, keeping the knowledge from her simply because he thought it too tedious to explain. As if she wouldn’t listen to him speak all night. As if there were a better sound in all the world. ‘Think of it as a drain barrel after a night’s rain. Full of water even after the sky clears and the ground dries up. Can’t tap the magic in sunlight, but I feel it inside of me, healing my wounds, making me tireless and strong. At night I can let it out like opening a bung, and I’m only just scratching the surface of what can be done.’

Renna paused, considering. Whatever Arlen might say, it was nearly impossible to see corelings as anything but evil abominations of nature, an offence to the Creator. Despite the fact she was often covered in the foul ichor they called blood, the thought of putting it in her mouth was abhorrent.

But the power …

‘Know what you’re thinkin’, Ren,’ Arlen said, snapping her out of her reverie. ‘Don’t go tryin’ this one.’

‘Why?’ Renna asked. ‘Din’t seem to hurt you none.’

‘You don’t know what it was like, Ren. I was crazed. Suicidal. Lived like an animal.’

Renna shook her head. ‘Alone in the middle of nowhere, no one to talk to but Dancer and the corelings. Know what that’s like. Apt to make anyone have a night wish, demon meat or no.’

Arlen looked at her, and nodded. ‘Honest word. But eating demon ent like painting blackstem on your skin. Won’t fade away after a few weeks, and you ent ready for it.’

‘Who’re you to say what I’m ready for?’ Renna demanded.

‘Ent giving you orders, Ren, I’m begging you.’ Arlen knelt in front of her. ‘Don’t eat it, and if anyone asks, you tell ’em it’s poison.’

Renna stared at him a long while, unsure if she should hold him or slap the fool out of him. At last she sighed, letting her swirling emotions drift away. ‘Think on it. And won’t tell anyone else. Honest word.’

Arlen nodded, getting to his feet. ‘Then let’s hunt. Need to be holding as much magic as possible when I heal Dancer.’

Twilight Dancer was lowing in pain when they returned to the stable, tongue hanging from his mouth. His feed was untouched, and the only water he had drunk was what they had poured down his throat. He laboured for breath.

With a single blow, the mimic demon had broken the great stallion’s ribs, puncturing Creator only knew what inside, and launching him through the air. Dancer had struck a tree, breaking his back, and the fall had shattered his legs. Arlen had saved Dancer’s life with his magic, but without further help he would never walk again, much less run.

But Arlen had suffused himself with so much magic his wards glowed of their own accord, lighting the stable bright as day. He seemed like the Creator Himself as he reached for one of Dancer’s legs, pulling the broken bones into proper position and tracing wards on the skin around the fractures.

Dancer whinnied in pain as the bones and sinews knitted back together, a terrible sound Renna could hardly bear. Arlen’s glow lessened a bit with each healing, and there were many. Soon his wards dimmed, and then winked out entirely. Still he worked, his sensitive fingers running over the horse’s body, probing for places to focus his power. Dancer’s chest inflated as the ribs healed, and he began to breathe normally. Renna sighed with relief until Arlen gave a slight groan and collapsed.

He was shivering when she carried him up to bed, his breath coming in short gasps. She could barely hear his heartbeat, and the glow of his magic had faded so much she thought it might wink out at any moment. She stripped and slipped into bed next to him, clutching him tight and willing some of the magic she had absorbed into him, but it seemed to make no difference.

‘Don’t you die on me, Arlen Bales,’ she said. ‘Not after all we been through.’

Arlen did not respond, and Renna stood, brushing back tears as she paced the room, her mind racing.

Needs magic, she thought. Go and get him some.

She had her knife in hand in an instant, grabbing her cloak and running out the door without bothering to pull her clothes back on. With the Cloak of Unsight around her, she was invisible to the corelings, and quickly found a field demon prowling not far from the wards.

She cast the cloak aside, and before it knew she was there, she had leapt on the demon’s back, pulling its chin up with one hand while she cut its throat. She took a bucket from the stables, draining the creature’s foul black ichor, rich with glowing magic.

Her naked skin was soon covered in the stuff, and she could feel her blackstem wards pulling at the power. She felt strong beyond belief, moving like wind back to Arlen’s side. She laid him on the floor and dumped the reeking bucket over him, watching the wards on his skin brighten and absorb the magic, then dim as his internal aura brightened. He began to breathe easier, and Renna fell to her knees.

‘Thank the Creator,’ she whispered, drawing a ward in the air.

The gesture was an instinctive one, but so similar to the way Arlen healed Dancer. If only she had been able to do the same for him.

She looked to the bucket, a slimy piece of demon gut clinging to its lip. She scooped the black thing up in her hand, poking at it like jelly. It stank, and her stomach heaved. She had to breathe deeply to keep her supper down.

He’ll pull away, I let him, she thought. Strong as he is, he can’t do this alone. Got to keep the pace, or I’ll be left behind again next time he’s pulled into the Core.

‘Done thinkin’,’ she muttered.

She held her breath, and put the meat in her mouth.

2
Promise
333 AR Summer
28 Dawns Before New Moon

Renna woke not long after dawn. Arlen slept peacefully now, and she moved carefully so as not to wake him as she washed the dried gore from her skin.

With the curtains drawn tight, Renna still felt charged with power, but as soon as she went out into the sunlight, that strength burned away. She stretched experimentally, seeking some evidence that her disgusting meal had had an effect on her. If there was a change, she couldn’t sense it. Arlen had eaten demon meat exclusively for months to achieve his level of power. Renna’s stomach churned at the thought of even another nibble.

She moved to the stable, brushing down Twilight Dancer and giving him his morning feed. The stallion looked hale, showing no sign that just two nights ago he had been moments from death. Even his scars were faded things, barely visible.

When she was done, she went out into the field, harvesting potatoes and vegetables from the wild crop, enough to make a proper breakfast for once. She had it ready when Arlen stumbled into the kitchen looking haggard, as if he hadn’t slept at all.

‘Smells like Heaven in here,’ he said.

‘Ent got eggs or proper bread, but I caught a rabbit in the fields, so there’s meat,’ Renna said, spooning the stew into a pair of wooden bowls they took out into the taproom.

When they sat, Arlen looked at his bowl for a moment, then put his head in his hands. ‘Might’ve overdone it last night.’

Renna snorted. ‘That’s undersaid.’

Arlen puffed his cheeks and blew out a slow breath. ‘Regrettin’ all that poteen now.’

‘Eat,’ Renna ordered. ‘Your stomach will calm with something in it. And best drink all the water you can stand, sweet or not.’ Arlen nodded and soon was eating voraciously, his bowl quickly emptied.

‘There any more?’ he asked, and Renna started. She’d been so busy watching him eat, she hadn’t touched her own food.

‘Take mine.’ She slid the bowl to him and took his empty one. ‘I’ll get another.’ She was pleased to see his second helping emptied by the time she sat back down.

‘Feeling better?’ she asked.

‘Feel human,’ Arlen said, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth. ‘Been a while.’

‘Can rest up another day,’ Renna said. ‘Charge you up again tonight.’

Arlen shook his head. ‘Miles to go today, Ren. Got one stop this afternoon and then it’s straight on to the Hollow fast as we can manage.’

‘What stop?’ Renna asked.

Arlen smiled again, this time wider, with a glitter to his eyes. ‘Need to pick you a proper promise gift.’

Arlen set a strong pace as they headed down the Messenger road. Renna could see it took a toll on him after a few hours, but he steadfastly refused to ride.

‘Dancer needs the rest more’n me,’ he said.

The sun was well past its high point when they came to a fork in the road and Arlen turned onto the less travelled way, little more than a bridle path heading into the wild hilly plain.

‘What’s off this way?’ she asked.

‘Rancher I know,’ Arlen said. ‘Owes me a favour.’ Renna waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming.

It was an hour’s walk before the ranch came in sight. There were three barns, each with its own wards in addition to the posts set around the exercise pen and yard. Wide grazing areas had been warded as well.

A boy appeared on the roof of the closest barn, holding a short bow with an arrow nocked and pointed at them.

‘Whozzat?’ he called.

Renna crouched at the sight, ready to dodge left or right if the boy should shoot. She gripped the familiar bone handle of her father’s knife, though it would do her no good here. She’d hated Harl Tanner, but always felt safe when touching the knife she’d used to kill him.

Arlen seemed unconcerned as he shouted back to the boy, ‘Someone who’s going to regret not letting you get et by that wood demon, Nik Stallion, you don’t put down that bow and fetch your da.’

‘Messenger!’ Nik shouted, lowering the bow and waving. ‘Ma! Pa! Messenger’s come, and he’s brought Dancer!’

The boy slid down the roof to the porch awning, swinging easily to the ground from its lip. He ran to the garden and pulled up a couple of carrots before hurrying over to them, staring at Twilight Dancer in wonder. ‘He’s grown big as a barn!’

He eased carefully up to the great stallion, holding out the carrots. ‘Easy, boy, it’s me, Nik. You remember, don’t you?’ Twilight Dancer nickered, taking the carrots, but the boy stayed tense, ready to run.

Renna couldn’t understand his tension. If the boy knew Dancer, he should know the horse was gentle as the dawn. ‘He ent gonna kick or bite you, boy.’

Nik turned and seemed about to say something, but he paused mid-breath, noticing Renna for the first time. His eyes roamed her body, and she wasn’t sure if he was looking at her blackstem wards or the flesh they were painted on. She didn’t much care what he saw, but it was rude, and she put her hands on her hips and gave him a glare to remind him of his manners. The boy jumped and looked away so quickly Renna had to stifle a laugh.

Nik turned to Arlen, blushing fiercely. ‘You tamed him?’

Arlen laughed. ‘Hardly. Dancer’s still the meanest horse alive, but he only bites and kicks corelings now.’

A low whistle came from behind them, and Renna whirled. Without thinking, her hand found the knife handle again. She took it away quickly, hoping no one had noticed.

And I meant to teach young Nik his manners.

The man who approached showed no sign that he had seen. Like the boy, he only had eyes for the horse at first. He approached calmly, giving Dancer time to get used to his presence. The stallion snorted and stamped a bit, but accepted his touch.

‘He has grown,’ the man said, running his hands over Dancer’s heavy flanks. He was tall and lean, with a thick but close-cropped beard. His brown hair was long and braided in back. ‘Must be two hands taller than his sire, and old Rockslide’s bigger’n any horse I ever saw.’ He picked up one of the stallion’s feet. ‘Could do with a shoeing, though.’

The man looked up at them at last, and like the boy he let his eyes range over Renna, examining her as if she were a horse. A low growl formed at the back of her throat, and the man gave a start when his eyes finally met hers and saw her glare.

Arlen stepped between them. ‘Just a look, Ren,’ he murmured. ‘These’re good folk.’

Renna gritted her teeth. Much as she hated to admit it, he was right about what the magic did to a person, even in the day. Passion came quick to her now. She took a deep breath and let her anger fall away.

Arlen nodded and turned to the rancher. ‘Renna Tanner, this here’s Jon Stallion and his boy Nik. Jon breaks and breeds wild Angierian mustang.’

‘Catches and breeds, anyway,’ Jon said, his eyes offering an apology as he put out his hand. ‘Ent easy to tame something that can trample a field demon to death and outrun anything else in the naked night.’ Renna took his hand, but let go quick when he winced at her grip.

‘Know how they feel, sometimes,’ she muttered.

Jon nodded back at Dancer. ‘Take that’un. Caught him as a colt not six months old. Thought for sure I could break the wild out of one that young, but he wouldn’t take so much as a halter, and kicked his way out of the barn more’n once.’

‘The naked night ent forgiving,’ Arlen said. ‘Six months is a lifetime out with the demons.’

Jon nodded. ‘Didn’t think even you could tame him.’

‘Didn’t,’ Arlen said. ‘Just brought him back where he belonged.’

‘Got him taking a saddle and reins, though,’ Jon noted, ‘but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Back then, you were just the crazy tattooed Messenger who saved my boy. Now I hear tell you’re the ripping Deliverer!’

‘Ent,’ Arlen said. ‘I’m Arlen Bales out of Tibbet’s Brook, and I just got more sack than sense, sometimes.’

‘So you have a name, after all,’ a woman said, coming out from the ranch house. She was plain, but had the vigorous look of one used to hard work. She wore men’s clothes – high leather boots, breeches, and vest with a simple white blouse beneath. Her hair was brown and braided back much like Jon’s.

‘Don’t mind the boys,’ she told Renna. ‘Ent gonna talk about much else when there’s horseflesh about. I’m Glyn.’

‘Renna.’ Renna shook her hand, then clenched her fist as the woman embraced Arlen. Was it the magic that made her resent another woman touching him?

‘Good to see you again, Messenger. Can you stay for supper?’

Arlen nodded, showing the first warm smile Renna had ever seen him give another person. ‘I’d like that.’

‘What brings you out this way?’ Jon asked. ‘Ent just for the shoeing, I’d guess.’

Arlen nodded. ‘I need another horse. A filly I can breed with Dancer.’

He looked at Renna and gave her a half smile. ‘Startin’ a family.’

Mack Pasture, who lived up the road from Renna’s father’s farm, had been a horse breeder. Renna visited his ranch often when her mother was alive. It was a good deal smaller than Jon Stallion’s, but it worked much the same. After Dancer was brought to the farrier, Jon led the way towards a great fenced field where dozens of horses grazed under the watchful eyes of mounted ranch hands and barking dogs. On the way, they passed thick, heavy corrals, too high for even Twilight Dancer to jump in daylight, used for training and quarantine.

In one of these, Renna saw a giant black stallion cantering by itself, watched by two nervous ranch hands with ready whips. She stopped short.

‘Ay, that’s old Rockslide,’ Jon said. ‘Dancer’s sire. Caught him on the plain with half a dozen mares and young Dancer. Call him Rockslide ’cause that’s what it felt we’d been through when we finally herded him into a corral.

‘Big bastard won’t do a lick of work, but he’ll kick holes in the barn all night long, you let him. Mean as a demon, and too smart by half. City breeders’ll tell you wild horses ent smart because they won’t follow commands, but don’t you believe ’em. Mustang got their own smarts. Enough to survive the naked night, which is more than most folk can say. Rockslide liked to throw anyone that tried to mount, then trample them into the yard. Retired him to the breeding pen when we got tired of bone setting.’

Renna looked at the magnificent animal, and felt a profound sorrow. You were a king out on the plains, and here they have you running circles in a pen and mounting mares all day. She had to suppress an urge to walk right up to the gate and set him free.

‘Good foaling this summer,’ Jon said as they made their way out onto the field. ‘Lots of fillies to choose from.’

‘Your choice, Ren,’ Arlen said. ‘Any one you want.’

Renna looked out over the herd. At first glance, Jon’s horses looked little different from Mack’s, but as she drew closer and took in their scale, her eyes widened. The foals looked juvenile next to the mares, but even they were bigger than some of the stallions Mack kept. Jon had yearlings big enough for a grown man to ride, and there were no poor specimens. Demons had culled all but the strongest strains, and the remainder were giants, sleek and dark-coated.

There were a number of strong-looking fillies, but Renna found her eyes drawn instead to a grown mare who stood apart from the herd. The mare had a blotchy coat of brown and black, and stood a hand taller than the others. She had a surly look about her, and even the other horses gave her a wide berth.

‘What about that one?’ Renna asked, pointing.

Jon grunted. ‘You got a good eye, girl. Most folk can’t see past that ugly coat. That’s Twister. Caught her last summer, right before the worst windstorm I ever seen. Stronger’n most stallions and barely five years old, she’s tried to get away more times’n I can count. Go near her with a halter – night, go near her at all – and she gets all kinds of mean. Even bit old Rockslide when I put her in his pen to see if they’d get on.’

‘Ent gonna need a halter,’ Renna said, vaulting the fence and heading across the field.

‘Telling you, that horse is dangerous,’ Jon called after her. ‘Sure you know what you’re doin’?’ Renna waved a hand dismissively, not even bothering to look at him.

Twister didn’t back away as Renna approached. That was good. The mare seemed to be ignoring her, but the way her ears were pointed, Renna was sure she had the horse’s full attention.

She held up her empty hands. ‘Ent got a halter. Don’t reckon I’d care to wear one, so I ent gonna ask you to, either.’

Twister let her get in close, but when Renna reached out to stroke the horse’s neck, she moved fast, powerful jaws snapping. Renna barely snatched her hand away before it was bitten off.

‘Weren’t no call for that!’ she snapped, slapping the mare hard on the nose. Twister went wild at the blow, rearing up and kicking her feet, but Renna was ready. Months of hunting demons and absorbing their magic had left her stronger and faster than she had ever dreamed, and now that her blood was up she could feel a new tingle in her limbs, a taste of night’s power, even here under the sun.

Renna weaved like a barley stalk in the wind, feeling the whoosh of air as the kicking hooves missed her by scant inches. Again and again the frenzied mare tried to crush her. Powerful blows. And fast. Kicks that could break a field demon’s back.

But Renna’s moves were smooth and fluid like a dance, and she remained untouched. It went on for some time, and she began to wonder which of them would give in first. The new power in her limbs was only a fraction of what she felt in the night. The horse seemed tireless.

But at last, Twister’s kicks began to slow, and she bunched her muscles, ready to flee. Renna rushed in before the mare could gallop off, gripping a handful of mane in her fist and vaulting onto the horse’s bare back.

If Twister had been crazed before, her rage was tripled now. She fought true to her name, leaping and writhing in mid-air, bucking and galloping in circles, trying to throw Renna.

But Renna had her seat, and wasn’t giving it up. She threw her arms around the horse’s throat, so thick she was barely able to clasp her wrists. Once she had the hold, that powerful neck became her entire world, her only adversary. Nothing else mattered.

She called upon every bit of power she could muster, and began to squeeze.

It seemed to go on forever, but finally Twister began to calm. She stopped bucking and galloped around the pen, setting the dogs into a frenzy as the other horses leapt from her path.

Renna continued to squeeze, slow and sure, and soon even that gallop slowed to a wilful canter. Renna smiled. Wilful was good.

She eased her grip from Twister’s neck, taking two fists of mane and pulling hard to the left. She laughed aloud when Twister obediently turned. Gripping the horse’s flanks with her knees and the mane in her fist, Renna drew her knife and slapped the horse’s rump with the wide flat of the blade. ‘Hyah!’

Twister leapt ahead, breaking back into a gallop. Renna sheathed her knife and took the mane in both hands. A tug here or there would turn the horse, but Renna let her have her head, exhilarated as the wind whipped her long braid about, and she was jarred again and again by the horse’s powerful strides.

Renna leaned in, putting her mouth to Twister’s ear. ‘You belong in the night, girl. Ent gonna let you end up like Rockslide. Promise.’

Renna ran them back to the edge of the fence where Arlen and the others waited, pulling up short.

‘Made your choice, then?’ Arlen asked. ‘Twister?’

Renna nodded. ‘But Twister ent a good name. Gonna call her Promise.’

Dinner on the Stallion ranch was a family affair, and that family extended down to the last ranch hand and laundry girl, over thirty people in all. Even some of the dogs lay on blankets along the walls of the great hall, ready to leap for scraps. Renna and Arlen sat by Jon, Glyn, and Nik at the head of a long trestle table heavily laden with food and pitchers of water and ale.

Jon led them in a prayer to the Creator, and Renna saw some of the hands staring at Arlen’s warded face. Even over Jon’s intonation, her sharp ears caught the word ‘Deliverer’ whispered about the table. Unbidden, her fingers stroked the smooth bone handle of her knife.

Jon finished his prayer and straightened. ‘Dunno about you lot, but I’m starved! Set to passin’.’ At that, the still table came alive with motion as thirty diners began passing trays of meat, bowls of vegetables, crusts of bread, and boats of gravy around the table with practised efficiency.

Everyone filled their plate, laughing and talking as they ate and drank while the sun set outside. People continued to glance Arlen’s way, but he pretended not to notice, filling his plate three times. But no sooner had the plates been cleared and the pipes lit than he was on his feet.

‘Dinner was delicious as always, Glyn, but it’s time we were on our way.’

‘Nonsense,’ Glyn said. ‘It’s full dark out there. We’ve plenty of room for you to spend the night.’

‘’Preciate the hospitality,’ Arlen said, ‘but Ren and I got miles to go tonight.’

Glyn frowned, but she nodded all the same. ‘I’ll have the girls pack you something for the ride. Creator only knows what you’ve got to eat in your saddlebags.’ She rose and headed for the kitchen.

Arlen reached into his robes, handing Jon a pouch of coins. ‘For Promise.’

Jon shook his head. ‘Your coin’s no good here, Messenger. Not after what you did for me and mine. Even beyond my boy, those warded arrows you gave us have gone a long way toward everyone sleeping easy in the night.’

But Arlen shook his head. ‘Hard times a-comin’, Jon. Refugees from Rizon are pouring north in a flood, and don’t think the war won’t get here eventually. Krasians have their sights set on Miln and beyond, and now that folk are fighting back, don’t expect the corelings to take it well. They’ll be out in force at night, especially when the moon is dark.’

He pressed the bag into Jon’s hands. ‘Got plenty of gold. No reason I can’t pay fair for what I take. Leaving you a couple warded spears, too. You’re smart, you’ll get your forge hands and Warders to copy them and make enough to go around.’

Renna put a hand on his arm, and when Arlen looked at her, she met his eyes with a pleading look. ‘Take Rockslide, too. Ent right, him locked up like that. Meant to be out in the night.’

‘Can’t argue that,’ Arlen said, ‘but we got a long way to go in a hurry, and ent got time to drag another wild mustang all the way back to the Hollow.’ He looked to Jon, counting out more coins. ‘Can you send him on after us?’

‘Owe you that much and more,’ Jon said, ‘but I can’t risk my hands on a trip like that. Rocky will pull his stake and likely kick out the warding circles the first time they camp.’

Arlen nodded. ‘I’ll send Cutters to fetch him once I get to the Hollow. If anyone can handle a giant horse like that, it’s them.’

They flew down the road now. Twilight Dancer had to slow his full stride to match Promise, but Renna knew that it was only a matter of time.

‘I’m done wardin’ you up,’ she whispered in the mare’s ear, ‘he’ll be the one tryin’ to keep pace with you.’

Already, Promise wore shoes Arlen had warded himself, same as Dancer. A wood demon stepped onto the road in their path, and Renna rode it down in a thunderclap of magic. She pulled up, trampling the hapless demon and laughing as Promise crushed the life from it and got her first taste of demon magic. She leapt on down the road after Dancer, closing the gap between them with new vigour.

They made camp not long before dawn. ‘Stay with the horses,’ Arlen said. ‘Need to get a bit of my strength back.’ He disappeared into the gloom.

Renna gave him a few breaths to draw away, then moved off after prey of her own. She caught sight of a field demon stalking not far from camp, and fell into the lack-witted stumble of the old Renna, heaving her chest and whimpering in fear.

The demon gave a growl and pounced, but Renna was ready and caught it in a sharusahk throw, bearing it down. Her fists were painted with powerful wards, and she beat it about the head until it lay still.

She drew her knife, and this time didn’t even bother to cook the demon’s flesh before she ate it, sucking down the ichor like Glyn’s gravy. The taste was even fouler, but the remembrance of her power under the sun that day kept Renna’s stomach strong.

She was cleaned up and back in camp, chewing a sourleaf and carving wards into Promise’s hooves, when she heard Arlen returning.

‘He ent gonna know what I done,’ she told Promise. ‘Ent no way he could. And so what if he does? Arlen Bales don’t tell me what to do, promise or no.’

It was true enough, but it felt like a lie all the same.

She lifted her chin as Arlen appeared. He was glowing so brightly with magic that she had to squint her warded eyes to look at him. She understood why others thought him the Deliverer. There were times when the Creator Himself didn’t shine like Arlen Bales.

3
The Oatingers
333 AR Summer
27 Dawns Before New Moon

They said little the next day as they raced down an ill-used Messenger road. Arlen’s hood was drawn against the sun, but Renna knew the look of frustration it hid.

What business does Arlen have in Deliverer’s Hollow that’s so all-fired important?

It had to do with a girl, she knew. Leesha Paper. The name itched at her like a chigger. Arlen was evasive the first time Renna tried to ask who Leesha was to him, but they hadn’t been promised then, and she’d no right to insist.

Reckon it’s time to ask again, she thought.

‘Look out!’ Arlen cried as they turned a tight bend. Right in front of them, a cart was turned across the road, thick bushes to either side making it impossible to ride around. Renna dug her knees into Promise and pulled hard on her mane. The giant horse reared, whinnying and kicking wildly, and it was all Renna could do to keep her seat. Arlen watched, amused, from atop Twilight Dancer, who had already pulled up short and composed himself.

‘Promised you no halter,’ Renna said to the mare when she finally calmed. ‘Din’t say nothin’ about no saddle. You think on that.’ Promise snorted.

‘Ay, Tender! We could use a hand!’ a grey-bearded man called, waving at them with a worn and beaten hat. He and another man stood behind the cart, pushing as the skinny nag in front pulled.

‘Let me handle this, Ren,’ Arlen murmured, edging Twilight Dancer ahead of Promise. ‘What happened?’ he called.

The man came over to them, taking off his hat again to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his dirty hand. His hair and beard were mostly grey, the deep lines of his face streaked with dirt. ‘Stuck in the rottin’ mud. Think you might lend us one o’ them big horses long enough to break free?’

‘Sorry, can’t help,’ Arlen said, his eyes scanning the area.

The man’s eyes gogged at him. ‘Whaddaya mean, you can’t help? What kind of Tender are you?’

Renna looked at Arlen, surprised he would be so rude to a greybeard in need. ‘Dancer could pull them free in no time.’

Arlen shook his head. ‘Cart ent stuck, Ren. This is the oldest trick in the bandit handbook.’ He snorted. ‘Didn’t think folk still did this one.’

‘Bandits? Honest word?’ Renna looked around again, this time with her night eyes. She and Arlen were cut off in the middle of nowhere, in daylight when they were weakest. The mud wasn’t even up to the ankles of the men, and the bushes on either side of the road could easily conceal more men. Her fingers drifted towards her knife, but Arlen whisked a hand at her and she left it in its sheath.

‘Bad enough we got demons at night,’ Arlen said. ‘Now folk turn on each other in the day.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ the greybeard cried, but he was stepping back, and Renna could see the lie in his eyes now, so clear that she wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. That day folk, even elders, could be just as bad as demons was no new lesson to her. Harl had been grey, and Raddock Lawry.

The man standing behind the cart ducked out of sight a moment, and then reappeared holding a crank bow. Two men came from the bushes, aiming drawn hunting bows at them. From around the bend behind them came three more men with spears, blocking their retreat. All were gaunt, with dark circles under their eyes and ragged, patched clothing.

Only the greybeard was unarmed. ‘Ent looking to hurt anyone, Tender,’ he said, putting his hat back on, ‘but these are desperate times, and you’re carrying an awful heavy load for a Tender and his …’ He squinted at Renna. She was dappled in shadows, obscuring the wards on her skin, but there was no missing the scandalous cut of her clothes. The man with the crank bow let out a low whistle, moving forward for a closer look.

‘Don’t go gettin’ any ideas, Donn,’ the greybeard warned, and the crank bowman checked himself.

The greybeard flicked his eyes back to Arlen. ‘In any event, we’ll be taking any food, blankets, or medicine you got, not to mention those big horses.’

Renna gripped her knife, but Arlen only chuckled. ‘Trust me, you wouldn’t want the horses.’

‘You don’t get to tell me what I want, Tender,’ the greybeard snapped. ‘Creator abandoned us a long time ago. Now you two get down off those horses or my men will fill you full of holes.’

Arlen was off Twilight Dancer in an instant. Renna barely saw him move as he closed the distance to the greybeard, catching him in a sharusahk choke hold and twisting the old man between him and the bowmen.

‘Like you said,’ Arlen said, ‘ent looking to hurt anyone. Just looking to be on my way. So why don’t you tell your men to …’

He was cut off as one of the bowmen let fly. Renna gasped, but Arlen snatched the arrow out of the air the way a quick man might snatch a horsefly.

‘This was apt to hit you more than me,’ Arlen noted, holding up the arrow in front of the greybeard. He tossed it aside.

‘Corespawn it, Brice!’ the greybeard shouted. ‘You trying to kill me?!’

‘Sorry!’ Brice cried. ‘Slipped!’

‘Slipped, he says,’ the greybeard muttered. ‘Creator help us.’

While all the attention was on the bowman, one of the spearmen took the opportunity to quietly move up behind Arlen. He was sneaky enough by day folk standards, but Renna didn’t cry an alarm. She could tell just from Arlen’s stance that he knew the man was coming. Was baiting it, even.

Just as the spearman lunged, Arlen shoved the greybeard away. The man put his spear horizontally over Arlen’s head, meaning to come up under his chin in a choke. Arlen grabbed the shaft, bending forward with a twist that turned all the man’s momentum against him, flipping him over to land heavily on his back. Arlen, now holding the spear in one hand, put his foot on the man’s chest and looked at the others.

In the struggle, his hood had come down, and the men gaped at the sight. ‘The Painted Man,’ Brice said, and all the bandits began to mutter among themselves.

After a moment, the greybeard remembered himself. ‘So you’re the one everyone says is the Deliverer.’ He squinted. ‘You don’t look like the Deliverer to me.’

‘Never said I was,’ Arlen said. ‘I’m Arlen Bales out of Tibbet’s Brook, and I ent gonna deliver anything but a whipping to anyone doesn’t start acting neighbourly right quick.’

The greybeard looked at him, and then around at his men. He waved a hand and they put their weapons up, all staring at Arlen, who glared back at them like Renna’s mam when she’d caught the girls at mischief and was readying a scolding.

Even the greybeard couldn’t weather that stare for long. He wiped the sweat from his weathered brow again, wringing his hat in his hands. ‘Ent gonna apologize,’ he said. ‘I got mouths to feed, and folk in need of proper succour. Done some things I’m not proud of to get by, but it ent from greed or malice. A man tends to forget himself when he’s been on the road a long time with nowhere to go.’

Arlen nodded. ‘Know what that’s like. What’s your name?’

‘Varley Oat,’ the greybeard said.

Arlen nodded at the surname. ‘You’re out of Oating, then? Three days’ north of Fort Rizon, past the Yellow Orchards?’

Varley’s eyes widened, but he nodded. ‘You come a long way from Oating, Varley,’ Arlen said. ‘How long you been on the road?’

‘Nigh three seasons. Since the Krasians took Fort Rizon,’ Varley said. ‘Knew the desert rats would come for us next, so I told folk to pack up everything they owned and set off right away.’

‘You Town Speaker?’ Arlen asked.

Varley laughed. ‘I was the Tender.’ He shrugged. ‘Guess I still am, after a fashion, though I been doubting there’s anyone watching from above.’

‘Know that feeling, too,’ Arlen said.

‘Whole village of Oating left together,’ Varley went on. ‘Six hundred of us. We had Herb Gatherers, Warders, even a retired Messenger to guide us. Plenty of supplies. Honest word, we started with more than we could carry. But that changed quick.’

‘Always does,’ Arlen said.

‘Desert rats came quickly,’ Varley said, ‘and their scouts were everywhere. Lost a lot of folk to the running, and a lot more to the winter. Krasians stopped chasing us eventually, but no one felt safe until we got to Lakton.’

‘But Lakton wouldn’t have you,’ Arlen guessed.

Varley shook his head. ‘We were looking a bit shabby by then. Folk would look the other way for a bit if we camped for a week in a fallow field or fished a bit in their pond, but no one was looking to take five hundred new folk into their town. Someone would accuse us of stealing something, and before you know it, whole town comes out with rakes and hoes to run us out.

‘Went on from there to the Hollow, where they’re taking in Rizonans by the thousand, but folk there were chewing bark and digging bugs just to fill their bellies, and the Cutters roam the refugee camps, looking for recruits to get themselves killed in the naked night. Some of us lost everything to the Krasians, and they want us to start fightin’ demons? Won’t be no one left.’

‘So you set off north,’ Arlen said.

Varley shrugged. ‘Seemed like the wisest course. I still had nigh three hundred folk to look after. Hollowers gave us a couple of warded spears and what help they could. Farmer’s Stump wasn’t half so kind, and the bastards in Fort Angiers turned us away at spearpoint. Heard there might be work up Riverbridge way, but that place was no better. Packed full. So now we’re here, and got nowhere else.’

‘Show me your camp,’ Arlen said. The bandit looked at him for a moment, then nodded and turned to his men. The cart was out of the mud in an instant, and they were soon travelling off road through a narrow pass in the trees. Arlen dismounted, leading Twilight Dancer by the reins. Renna did the same, laying a hand on Promise’s strong neck to guide her. The mare stomped and snorted when any of the men drew near, but she was growing used to Renna’s touch.

It was over an hour before the Oatingers’ camp came in sight, hidden well away from the road. Renna’s eyes widened at the ragtag collection of crudely patched tents and covered wagons, thick with the stench of sweat and human waste. Perhaps two hundred souls were gathered there. Varley’s men, ragged themselves, were the pick of the lot.

Women, children, and elderly stumbled about the camp, exhausted, filthy, and half starved. Many wore bandages, and most feet were wrapped in rags. Everyone was working – repairing and warding tattered and meagre shelters, tending gruel pots, airing laundry and scraping dishes, gathering firewood, preparing wardposts, tending scrawny livestock. The only idle were the sick and the wounded, housed under a poorly constructed rain shelter. Their moans of pain could be heard clear across the camp.

Arlen led Twilight Dancer through the camp, his back stiff as he looked in the lost and tired eyes of the people. They started when they caught sight of his warded face, and began to whisper among themselves, but none had the courage to approach him as he passed.

They came to the shelter for the sick, and Renna choked on the sight like it was demon meat. Almost two dozen folk spread out on narrow cots, covered in bloody bandages, filthy and reeking. Two of the patients had soiled themselves, and another was covered in her own sick. None of them looked apt to recover.

One frazzled woman attempted vainly to tend them all. Her grey hair was pulled in a tight bun, and her narrow face pinched. She wore no pocketed apron on her worn dress.

‘Creator, they don’t even have a proper Gatherer,’ Arlen whispered.

‘My wife, Evey,’ Varley grunted. ‘She ent an Herb Gatherer, but serves as one, for those in need.’ Evey looked up, and her eyes widened in shock as she took in Arlen’s and Renna’s warded skin.

Arlen went to his saddlebag and fetched his herb pouch. ‘I’ve some Gatherer’s art, particularly when it comes to coreling wounds. Like to help if I might.’

Evey fell to her knees. ‘Oh, please, Deliverer! We’ll do anything!’

Arlen’s brows knit in sudden anger. ‘You can start by not acting the fool!’ he snapped. ‘I ent no Deliverer. I’m Arlen Bales out of Tibbet’s Brook, and I’m just looking to help as I can.’

Evey looked as if he had slapped her. Her pale cheeks grew a bright red, and she got quickly to her feet. ‘I’m sorry … I don’t know what came over me …’

Arlen reached out, squeezing her shoulder. ‘You don’t have to explain. Know the ale stories the Jongleurs spin about me. But I’m here to tell you I’m a man like any other. Just learned some old world tricks folk these days have forgotten.’

Evey nodded, finally looking him in the eye and relaxing.

‘’Bout sixty miles north of here is the village of Deadwell,’ Arlen told Varley. ‘I can draw you a good map, with places you can camp along the way marked off.’

‘Why should they want us at Deadwell more’n anywhere else?’ Varley asked.

‘’Cause there ent no one in Deadwell any more,’ Arlen said. ‘Corelings got in and killed every man, woman, and child there. But we just been there, and swept the place good. Might be cramped at first, but it’s got everything you need to start a new life. Just make sure you brick up the well, and dig a fresh one.’

Varley gaped at him. ‘You’re just … giving us a village?’

Arlen nodded. ‘Used to go there a lot. Place was special to me. I’d like it to be a home to good folk again.’ He gave Varley a pointed look. ‘Folk that take a dim view of banditry.’

Varley seemed unconvinced. ‘Canon says, Trust not the man who offers all you desire just when you need it most.’

Arlen smiled. ‘Creator abandoned you, but Tender Varley can’t stop quoting Canon?’

Varley chuckled. ‘World’s full of contradictions.’

‘Deadwell ent gonna do you any worse than you already are,’ Arlen said. ‘Your wards are weak. Could see that just passing through.’

Varley nodded and spat. ‘Ent got so much as a Hedge Warder outside a hospit cot. Folk are just warding their carts and tents as best they can.’

Arlen nodded to Renna. ‘This here’s Renna Tanner, my intended. She’s a fair hand at warding. I’d like you and your men to take her around the camp. Help her see if she can’t grant you more succour.’

Evey bowed to Renna. ‘It’s a real blessing, you doing this for us.’

Renna smiled and grabbed Arlen’s arm. ‘Excuse us a minute.’ She turned and dragged Arlen back between the horses.

‘What are you playing at, Arlen Bales?’ she demanded. ‘Had to fight tooth and nail for you to let me ward my own backside, and now you trust me to ward this whole camp?’

Arlen looked at her. ‘Saying you ent up to it? I shouldn’t trust you?’

Renna put her hands on her hips. ‘Din’t say any such thing.’

‘Then why we talkin’ about this?’ Arlen asked. ‘Light’s wastin’, and you need to shore up them wards any way you can. Bully folk and slap the fool out of them if you have to, but get it done. Take a few spears and some warded arrows, to give to those as can use them.’

Renna blinked. No one had ever trusted her to ward more than the barn before. Or given her any responsibility, really, beyond milking the cow and making supper. Now, without a wave, Arlen was trusting her to be Selia Barren to these people.

Love you, Arlen Bales.

Renna quickly saw the wards were even worse than they feared. There was no proper circle around the camp at all. The Oatingers had spread haphazardly through the clearing, each of their carts, wagons, and tents individually warded, with varying levels of skill. The best of them were barely adequate.

‘How many folk you losing every night?’ she asked.

Varley spat. ‘Too many. And more each night.’

‘Only gets worse every night you stay in one place,’ Renna said. ‘Big camp like this, smell of fear and blood in the air, will draw corelings like ants to an apple core.’

Varley swallowed. ‘Don’t like the sound of that.’

‘Shouldn’t,’ Renna said. ‘You get these people on the road to Deadwell tomorrow, whatever it takes.’ She stopped in front of one cart, surrounded by wardposts staked into the ground.

‘Been seein’ a lot of these posts,’ Renna said.

Varley nodded. ‘Our Warder made them before he was cored. Used to be enough to surround the camp, but we’ve lost a few and ent been able to replace ’em.’

Renna nodded. ‘Pull them all, if you please, and bring them over to the edge of the clearing.’ She pointed. ‘We’ll circle the biggest wagons and put the posts in the gaps in between. Whole camp needs to squeeze in tight to fit inside.’

‘Folk ent gonna take kindly to us pulling up their wards,’ Varley said.

Renna gave him a hard look. ‘Don’t care what they like, greybeard, or you. ’Less you want to lose more folk tonight, you best mind me ’tween now and sunset.’

Varley’s bushy eyebrows widened, and he took his hat off again, twisting it in his hands. ‘Ay, all right.’

‘I’ll need paint,’ Renna said. ‘Any stain will do, darker the better, and a lot of it. And posts this high.’ She held up a hand parallel to the ground. ‘Many as you can put together. Take axes to live trees if you got to. They only need to last till you make Deadwell.’

‘Donn,’ Varley said. ‘Collect posts. Anyone argues, you send ’em to me.’ Donn nodded, picked a few men, and left. ‘Brice,’ Varley said. ‘Paint. Now.’ The man ran off, and Varley turned to the rest of his men. ‘Fresh posts. Rip apart anything you need to.’ He looked back at Renna expectantly.

‘Wagons need to be in place before I start planting posts,’ Renna said, ‘and that means right now.’

Varley nodded, moving off to speak to the owner of one of the carts, pointing.

‘That will practically put us in the midden!’ she complained.

‘You want the midden, or a coreling’s belly?’ Varley replied.

It was almost dark when Renna returned to Arlen. Some of the patients in the makeshift hospit seemed to be resting more comfortably, but many still suffered horribly. Arlen knelt by a cot, holding a young girl’s hand. Her other arm ended before the elbow in a bandage soaked through with brownish yellow pus. Half her face was scabbed and oozing from firespit burns, still angry and red. Her skin had a grey pallor, and her breathing was shallow. Her eyes were closed.

‘Demon fever,’ Arlen said without looking up at her approach. ‘Flame demon bit her arm off and left an awful infection. Gave her what cures I know, but the sickness is far enough along I doubt it’ll even slow.’

The pain in his voice cut at her, but she embraced the feeling and let it pass. There was work to be done still.

Arlen looked out at the others in the sick tent. ‘Might be I saved a couple, but I’m out of herbs and most are beyond my skill in any event.’ He sighed. ‘In the sunlight, at least.’

‘Your rooster strutting this afternoon was bad enough,’ Renna said. ‘You start healing folk in the night and there’ll be no end to this Deliverer business.’

Arlen looked at her, and she saw his face was streaked with tears. ‘What would you have me do? Leave these folk to die?’

Renna looked at him, and her resolve weakened. ‘Course not. Just sayin’ there’s a price.’

‘Always a price, Ren,’ Arlen said. ‘This is all my fault.’ He swept his hand out over the Oatingers’ camp. ‘Made this happen.’

Renna raised an eyebrow. ‘How’s that? You drove these people from their homes?’

Arlen shook his head. ‘Woke the demon that did. Never should have brought the spear to Krasia. Never should have trusted Jardir.’

‘What spear? Who’s Jardir?’ Renna asked.

‘Mind demon was willing to kill to answer those questions,’ Arlen said. ‘Sure you want to know?’

‘Killin’ is all demons ever do,’ Renna said, and pointed to the mind demon ward painted in blackstem on her forehead. ‘And those bigheaded bastards ent ever gettin’ inside my skull again.’

Arlen nodded. ‘Jardir is the leader of the Krasian people. Met him a long time ago, and we became friends. Night, friends don’t even cover it. Taught me half what I know, and saved my life more’n once. Couldn’t have loved him more he was my own brother.’ Arlen clenched a fist. ‘And all along, he had a ripping knife to my back.’

‘What happened?’ Renna asked.

‘Bought a black market map to a lost city in the desert, said to be the home of Kaji,’ Arlen said.

‘What’s black market?’ Renna asked. ‘They only open at night?’

Arlen smiled, but there was little humour in it. ‘Guess you could say that. Black market means the people I bought it from stole it.’

Renna frowned. ‘That don’t sound like the Arlen Bales I know.’

‘Ent proud of it,’ Arlen said, ‘but had dealings with a lot of shady folk since I left Tibbet’s Brook. Folk to make what Varley’s doin’ seem honest. When you’re out beyond the wards, sometimes shady folk are all there are.’

Renna grunted. ‘So you got a map to this Kaji place. Then what?’

‘Kaji ent a place,’ Arlen said. ‘He was a man. The last general from the demon wars. The Deliverer, if you believe such things.’

Renna laughed. ‘You, Arlen Bales, went huntin’ the Deliverer? Now I know you’re spinning an ale story.’

‘Wasn’t hunting the Deliverer,’ Arlen snapped. ‘Was hunting his wards. And I found ’em, Ren. Deliverer or no, I found Kaji’s tomb and rescued his spear. The ancient battle wards, means to fight the corelings, brought back to the world! Took it to Jardir, and he had the nerve to say I stole it. That it belonged to him. Offered to make him a copy, down to the last ward, but that wasn’t good enough.’

Arlen inhaled deeply, breathing in rhythm for a few moments as he centred himself. It was ironic that a Krasian meditation technique gave solace here, but Renna was glad for it nevertheless.

‘What’d he do?’ she asked after a moment.

‘Took the spear in the night,’ Arlen said. ‘Laid a trap and smiled as his men threw me in a demon pit to be cored. Now he’s come north, meaning to enslave us all for a new demon war.’

‘So kill him and have done,’ Renna said. ‘World’s better off without some folk.’

Arlen sighed. ‘Sometimes I think that I’m the one the world would be better off without.’

‘Say again?’ Renna asked. ‘You can’t seriously be comparing yourself to that …’

‘Ent excusing Jardir,’ Arlen said. ‘But try as I might, can’t help but think none of this would have happened, not to you, the Rizonans, or anyone, if I’d just kept our promise and stayed on the farm. Everyone’s looking to me to put things right, but how can I, when I’m the one made it all wrong?’

Renna gritted her teeth and slapped him in the face. Arlen recoiled, looking at her in shock. Evey and some of the patients looked up at the sound, but Renna ignored them.

‘Don’t you go looking surprised, Arlen Bales,’ she said. ‘You’re the one told me to slap the fool out of any not helping shore the wards, and it’s almost dark. You ent done nothing but true by anyone I seen, and we don’t got time for another lick of this nonsense.’

Arlen shook his head as if to clear it, and then suddenly he was smiling at her. ‘Love you, Renna Tanner.’

Renna felt a thrill rush through her, but embraced the feeling and let it pass. There was business to attend to. ‘Scrounged and made enough posts to go three-quarters of the way around the camp. Had to draw wards in the dirt to close the circuit.’

‘Never trust dirt wards,’ Arlen said.

‘Ent a fool,’ Renna said. ‘Posted guards with warded spears, but half Varley’s men are dozing like they’re playing possum on the road, and the other half are ready to piss themselves.’

Arlen nodded, and that hint of smile was back in the corner of his mouth. ‘Don’t worry. I’m getting good at this next part.’

Renna led the way to where the guards stood, and just as she’d said, there were half a dozen who gripped their new warded spears with shaking hands, and then another group, Varley’s bandits led by Donn and Brice, lounging on the ground playing Succour. Their warded weapons lay nearby, half forgotten. The wagons and warded tents were all shut, but there were plenty without such shelter that watched in fear as the sun set. Varley stood nearby, but still he held no weapon. He wrung his hat in his hands.

Everyone looked at Arlen as he passed. There were whispers from every part of the camp, and Renna even saw some of the wagon shutters and tent flaps peek open.

Arlen walked right over to Varley’s men, kicking a shaking cup of dice right from Donn’s hand.

‘Ay, what’s that about?’ the man cried.

‘The sun is setting and you’re playing at dice is what it’s about,’ Arlen snapped.

‘You crazy, Donn, talkin’ back to the Deliverer?’ Brice asked.

‘He ent the Deliverer,’ Donn said. ‘Said so himself.’ He turned to Arlen. ‘Sun ent gonna set for ten minutes, and there’s wards right there in the dirt for all to see.’

‘Can’t trust wards in the dirt,’ Arlen said.

Donn looked up. ‘Don’t look like rain to me.’

‘Ent just rain you got to worry about,’ Arlen said, going to inspect the wards. ‘Anything can scuff out a dirt ward.’ With that, he reached out with his sandalled foot and rubbed out a yard of Renna’s carefully drawn wards. She gasped, but Arlen laughed as the men scrambled to their feet, grabbing their weapons.

‘Ten minutes doesn’t feel like such a long time any more, does it?’ he called loudly, for the whole camp to hear.

‘Creator, are you cracked?’ Varley cried, but Arlen ignored him, striding back over to the dicers.

He nodded to Donn, now gripping his new warded spear tightly. The others, too, had quickly grabbed their warded weapons. ‘Now, you show respect for the coming night.’

Donn glared at him. ‘You’d best be the Deliverer now, ’cause if you ent, you are made of crazy.’

Arlen smiled and moved to face the other men, who now seemed doubly terrified – and with good reason. Already it was dark enough that Renna’s warded sight was coming to life. Luminescent wisps of magic, invisible to the others, were beginning to seep from the ground, pooling in the shadows and strengthening against the light. Soon the paths to the Core would open fully and the demons would rise.

Jered, who was barely sixteen, clutched his spear so tightly his knuckles showed white. ‘Why’d you go and do that? Don’t wanna die.’

‘Everyone dies,’ Arlen said. ‘It’s how we die that matters. Do you want to die because you were too piss-scared to defend yourself? You want your family to die because your knees buckled when you were supposed to protect them? Or do you want to take a coreling with you? Maybe more’n one?’

‘You need to let demons into our camp to make your point, boy?’ Varley demanded. He pointed as he did at the shapes of demons beginning to form just outside the clearing as full dark fell upon them.

‘Ent no demon getting in this camp,’ Arlen said, and he drew a deep breath. Renna watched as the soft glowing mist at Arlen’s feet suddenly rushed towards him like smoke sucked into a bellows. The air around him grew dark as Arlen absorbed the magic, then brightened again as the wards on his skin flared to life. Even the unwarded eyes of the Oatingers could see it, and they gasped as one.

A field demon solidified and ran towards the gap in the wards. Somewhere in the camp a woman screamed. Arlen swept a hand through the air, drawing a large ward. It flared to life as the demon struck the spot, its leap checked in mid-air with a crunch. The magic rebounded, throwing the demon back away from the camp.

‘Creator,’ Varley whispered.

‘Mind if I borrow your spear?’ Arlen asked Jered, snatching the weapon from the boy’s nerveless fingers.

Arlen stepped out beyond the ward, pointing to the recovering demon with the spear. ‘See how the field demon had to thrash to get to its feet,’ he called loudly for all to hear. ‘There ent nothing faster on four legs, and their sharp scales can blunt the attack of even a warded spear …’ The demon leapt at him, but Arlen stepped nimbly to the side, striking the demon with the butt of the spear. Impact wards flared, flipping the demon onto its back. ‘… but put it off its feet, and you expose its belly, which ent armoured for spit.’ He struck hard, putting the spear directly into the demon’s chest.

As he spoke, Renna moved to confront the next demon taking form. She inhaled as Arlen had, willing the ambient magic into herself. The air about her did not darken, but Renna could swear she felt something. The day’s weariness was gone. She felt strong.

The field demon swiped at her, its arm like a whip, but Renna saw the move coming and was well ahead of the flashing talons. She darted in before it could recover, whipping her beaded necklace around its throat. The wards painted on the brook stones flared to life, crushing inward. The demon tried to scream, but it came out a hoarse gasp. Renna locked her legs around it, carefully tucked in behind the claws as it rolled and thrashed about. Another moment, then a flash of magic as the beads came free with a jerk and the demon’s head fell free. She drew Harl’s knife and watched the other demons that stalked the area as Arlen continued his lesson.

It was nearly morning when Arlen approached the healing tent. All the Oatingers were asleep except for the guards patrolling the wards. Renna had finished the remaining wardposts, and Arlen had given Varley a map to Deadwell. He drew a little skull over the town well.

‘Sure you gotta do this?’ Renna asked.

Arlen nodded. ‘Can’t turn a blind eye, Ren.’

‘Don’t suppose you can,’ Renna said. ‘So do it quick, while no one’s looking.’

Arlen knelt by the young girl, armless and dying of demon fever, and drew wards in the air. The girl breathed in sharply as the magic swept through her, then relaxed again. The redness and blisters faded from her face, and a healthy pallor began to return to her skin.

‘Where’d you learn healin’ wards, anyhow?’ Renna asked. ‘You pull that from the demon’s mind?’

‘Sort of,’ Arlen said. ‘Ent exactly healing wards. Body wants to make itself well and knows what to do. The wards just give it power to do it fast.’

Arlen moved from one patient to the next, working quickly. He had charged himself with as much energy as he could hold, but it faded quickly with the healing. Soon he was swaying. Finally, his eyes half closed and he stumbled.

Renna was there in an instant to catch him. ‘That’s enough,’ she whispered. ‘Done what you could. Will you kill yourself to heal the rest?’

‘Sneaks up,’ Arlen said. ‘Feel invincible one second, and like I’m drowning the next. Need to learn my limits.’ He drew a deep breath, and again all the magic pooling across the ground like fog was drawn to him. The glow of his wards brightened, but it was nothing compared with the power he had radiated just a few minutes before. He looked haggard, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

‘Time to go,’ Renna said.

They galloped for several miles before Renna pulled up. Arlen wheeled Twilight Dancer around when he noticed her fall behind.

‘Go,’ Renna said.

‘Eh?’ Arlen asked.

‘Hunt something,’ Renna said. ‘Ent light yet, and you need more than just the magic in the air to get back up to speed. This ent the time to be getting sloppy.’

Arlen tilted his head, considering her, and that hint of smile crept back onto his face.

Renna was cold to it. She pointed off the Messenger road to the plains. ‘Go.’

He nodded and was off, leaping Twilight Dancer off the road and onto the grasses. Renna waited until he was out of sight, then turned Promise and galloped back the way they had come.

She didn’t have a lot of time, but Renna didn’t need a lot. The wood demon she had glimpsed a few minutes before was still lurking by the thick tree that had hidden it from Arlen’s warded eyes.

She ran Promise right up to the tree and set her kicking, warded hooves exploding into the demon like thunderbolts, hurling it twisted and broken to the ground.

Renna leapt lightly from the horse, drawing Harl’s knife. Arlen’s pushing himself hard.

The demon thrashed as she came for it. Already, its magic was healing its wounds. In moments it would be ready to attack her again, but the demon did not have moments. Wood demon armour was a thick tough skin, gnarled and knobbed, with heavy bone plates jutting from beneath. The ridges between the plates were where they were most vulnerable. Renna struck hard, prising the demon’s breast plates apart and cutting its heart out before it stopped writhing.

He’d have kept on healing folk until it killed him. Always trying to give his life for someone, Arlen Bales. That ent changed in all these years.

It almost seemed to frustrate Arlen that he could find no demon great enough to destroy him, no burden too great to bear. He would keep seeking until he found one. Always trying to die a Krasian death.

Renna bit into the demon’s heart. It was foul and bitter, slick with black ichor, slimy and tough. There was a burst as her teeth met, sending some even fouler liquid spraying in her mouth. She thought there could be no viler taste until she retched, bile flooding around the half-chewn demon heart and up into her nostrils. She longed to spit the horrid mixture on the ground and give heave to her stomach, but she ground her teeth instead.

Arlen can’t find his death here, he’s gonna look for it in the Core, and I ent letting him go alone. Promised to stay with him, and never slow him down.

Renna swallowed, letting the tears stream down her face. She embraced the nausea, riding it like she had ridden Promise that first time, forgetting all else and holding on until her stomach finally calmed. Then she took another bite.

She had collected herself when Arlen returned, his glow restored. The dark circles were gone from his eyes, his movements sharp and agile once more. And his blood was up. She could hear it in his breathing and see the magic crackling around him, bringing with it primal urges not easily suppressed.

She felt much the same. Only the utmost concentration let her keep focus on the wards she was painting onto Promise’s blotched coat. The mare swatted Renna with her tail, but didn’t nip or pull away.

‘Feeling stronger?’ she asked.

Arlen nodded. ‘Still feel off, though. Charged and exhausted at the same time. But it’ll do. We got a long way to ride, and I don’t mean to stop till we reach the Hollow.’

He pointed. ‘Path up ahead will take us east to the Old Hill Road. Fell out of use ’round ninety years ago when the corelings destroyed Fort Hill. Should give us a straight, clear run to the Hollow. We ride on through tomorrow night and we’ll be there noon the next day.’

Renna nodded. ‘Who’s Leesha Paper to you?’

Arlen breathed three times in rhythm, the surest tell he was embracing some feeling or memory, but there was no way to know what that might be. ‘Leesha Paper is Herb Gatherer of Deliverer’s Hollow, but she’s more like Selia Barren from back in the Brook. People hop when she claps. Innkeep in Riverbridge said Jardir snatched her from the Hollow and forced her to his bed. Need to see if that’s so. Pick up the trail, if I can. Find out Jardir laid a finger on her, gonna kill him.’

Renna smiled. ‘Wouldn’t be the man I love if you didn’t. What he did to you, I’m part fixin’ to kill him myself.’

‘Don’t you go tryin’ that, Ren,’ Arlen said. ‘You ent a match for him, no matter what you think you’ve learned. Jardir’s been fighting demons since before either of us was born.’

Renna shrugged. ‘Still haven’t answered my question. Din’t ask “Who’s Leesha Paper?” Asked “Who’s Leesha Paper, to you?” Hear tell the Krasians been forcing a lot of women to their beds. Why’s this the one that makes you come running?’

‘She’s my friend,’ Arlen said.

‘You don’t talk about her like a friend,’ Renna said. ‘You go all stiff. Cold. Can’t read you. Makes me think you’re hidin’ somethin’.’

Arlen looked at her and sighed. ‘What do you want me to say, Ren? You’ve got your Cobie Fishers, and I’ve got mine.’

‘Cobie Fisher is one,’ Renna said, feeling her blood pounding in her veins. ‘Da drove off any other boy who came to court more’n once. How many you got?’

Arlen shrugged. ‘Two or three.’

‘Well ent you popular.’ Renna spat. She could feel the monster raging within her, the demon essence, shrieking for violence. She gritted her teeth. It was too big to embrace. It was overwhelming. She tensed, fighting back the urge to leap at him. To kill him, even.

‘What?’ Arlen snapped, seeing the fierce look in her eyes and returning it tenfold. ‘Was I supposed to hold true because our das bartered us like cattle? I left Tibbet’s Brook and never meant to come back, Ren.’

Renna recoiled. Arlen Bales, just the idea of him and the memory of that kiss in the hayloft and her words of promise, had been Renna Tanner’s whole world when she was young. Dreams of Arlen had kept her going through hard times that would have broken other folk. That did break other folk. The thought that she had meant nothing to him back then, that she didn’t even enter into his thoughts, was too harsh to bear.

Arlen rushed at her, and instinctively she drew her knife. He was quicker, grabbing her wrists and holding them down with the strength of a rock demon. She strained against him uselessly.

‘Din’t know the girl you were then,’ Arlen said. ‘Or the woman you’d be. I had, I would have turned right around to take you away with me.’

Renna stopped struggling and looked at him. ‘You mean that?’

‘Honest word,’ Arlen said. ‘You askin’ if I got some past with women? Ay, I do. But past, as in done.’ He reached out, cupping her face and lifting it so their eyes met. ‘My future is Renna Tanner.’

Renna let her knife drop to the ground, but when he let her go, she still leapt on him.

4
Second Coming
333 AR Summer
26 Dawns Before New Moon

They galloped until dawn, then eased the horses into a walk as the sun burned their night strength away. Arlen took them off road, leading Twilight Dancer with confidence down a Messenger way so overgrown and twisted it was almost invisible. The path beneath Renna’s feet never vanished, but it opened up suddenly before her and closed off quickly behind, like she was wandering through a thick fog.

Around midday, the path merged into a wide Messenger road, and they were able to mount again after a break for lunch and necessaries. Like the roads in Riverbridge, the Old Hill Road was made of stone, but most of it was now cracked and eroded into enormous potholes, filled with dirt and thick with stunted patches of scrub and weed. In more than one place, a full tree had broken through, leaving great blocks of broken stone, moss-covered and filthy. In other places, the road ran for long stretches as if untouched by time, miles of grey stone, flat and uniform with nary a crack or seam.

‘How’d they haul stones that big?’ Renna asked in wonder.

‘Din’t,’ Arlen said. ‘They made a muddy porridge called crete, which hardens into solid rock. All roads used to be like this, wide and stone, sometimes hundreds of miles long.’

‘What happened to them?’ Renna asked.

Arlen spat. ‘World got too small for big roads. Now Old Hill Road’s one of the last of her kind. Nature doesn’t take them back quickly, but eventually she does take ’em back.’

‘We’ll make good time here,’ Renna said.

‘Ay, but night will be a race,’ Arlen warned. ‘Field demons are drawn here like pigs to the trough. Come up through the potholes.’

Renna smirked. ‘Who am I to worry? Got the Deliverer with me.’ Arlen scowled, and she laughed.

Renna wasn’t laughing any more. Promise had relented to take a few strips of braided leather as a girth, but it was still all Renna could do to hang on as the giant Angierian mustang galloped flat-out over the ancient highway, leaping obstacles and barely keeping ahead of the reap of field demons at her heels.

Twilight Dancer fared no better, with as many of the corelings on his tail as Promise’s. The demons seemed bred for the road, their long tireless strides eating up the pavement.

Above, the raptor cries of wind demons filled the night sky. Renna glanced up and saw the demons clearly by the glow of their magic, massive wingspans blotting out the stars. Even wind demons weren’t quick enough to dive and take a galloping horse, but if they slowed …

‘Do we fight?’ Renna shouted to Arlen. Both their senses were far more acute in the night, but it was still hard to tell if he heard her over the thunder of hooves and the shriek of demons sensing a kill.

‘Too many!’ Arlen shouted back. ‘We stop to fight, more will catch up! Keep on!’

His face was clear as day to her night eyes, lined with worry. He was in no danger, of course. Nothing could harm Arlen in the night. But Renna had no such security. Her warded cloak would not shield her at a gallop, and while she had painted much of Promise’s splotchy coat, those wards wouldn’t last long in a pitched battle against an ever-increasing number of demons. Even Twilight Dancer’s warded barding had gaps necessary for mobility.

Renna’s hand itched to go to her knife, but she kept her arms tight around Promise’s powerful neck. A coreling nipped at the mare’s heels, and caught a hoof in the face for its efforts. The wards Renna had carved into it flared, and the coreling’s long, razor-sharp teeth shattered as the demon was thrown back.

Renna’s satisfaction at the blow was short-lived. Promise stumbled, momentarily losing her stride, and the other corelings gained quickly, almost upon her. Back down the road, the demon she had kicked rolled to a stop and wobbled to its feet. Already its magic was repairing the damage. It would be back in the chase before long.

Arlen let go of Twilight Dancer’s reins and turned, drawing a ward in the air. Renna felt a rush of air, and the corelings at her heels were thrown back like leaves in the wind.

Renna smiled and looked back at Arlen, but the curve fell from her lips as she saw how his glow had dimmed. He couldn’t keep using that trick, and the field demons at his own back were barely a stride behind. She cursed her own stubborn refusal to practise with the bow he had given her.

A field demon leapt, its long hooked talons digging deep grooves into Twilight Dancer’s hindquarters just beneath the barding as it tried to pull the massive stallion down.

Dancer broke stride to kick back, his warded hooves crushing the demon’s skull, but the pause gave another of the demons time to climb atop an ancient pile of crete and hurl itself at Arlen.

Arlen twisted, catching a swiping paw in one hand and punching the demon hard in the head with the other. ‘Don’t slow!’ he called as Promise ran past.

Magic flared from the wards on his fist as he struck again and again, leaving the demon’s face a ruined mass. He hurled the demon back into the reap, knocking others to the ground in a jumble, then kicked Dancer back into a gallop.

They soon caught up, but Dancer’s flanks were wet with running blood, and his speed began to lessen as the demons renewed their chase.

‘Night!’ Renna looked up the road, seeing another reap of demons charging at them from the opposite direction, spread as wide as the road. To either side the ground fell away in a thicketed ditch. There was no escape there.

Part of Renna longed to fight. The demon in her blood shrieked for the carnage, but the sense left to her knew it was a hopeless battle. If they couldn’t break the ring and outrun the pack, it was likely only Arlen would survive to see the dawn.

The thought gave her some comfort as she leaned in to the charge.

‘Stomp right through,’ she whispered in Promise’s ear.

‘Follow my lead,’ Arlen called. He had leached some power from the demon he’d killed, though it was still less than he’d started with. He drew a quick ward in the air, and the demons directly in front of the horses were knocked aside. He laid about with a long spear, jabbing at any demon that drew too close, but one was not fast enough and was trampled under Twilight Dancer’s hooves, magic flashing in the night. Renna followed right behind, trampling the hapless demon further, leaving it crushed and broken.

Left to itself, the demon might have recovered from even these grievous injuries, but its reapmates sensed its weakness and temporarily gave up the chase, falling upon it viciously, rending its armour with their long talons and tearing away large chunks of flesh in their teeth.

Renna bared her teeth, and for a second, imagined herself joining them, feasting on demon meat and revelling in the power it brought.

‘Eyes in front!’ Arlen snapped, breaking her from the trance. Renna shook her head and turned away from the grisly scene, putting her mind back to the business at hand.

It looked like they might clear the trap, but the clash had slowed them enough for a wind demon to chance a dive at Renna, talons leading to snatch her right from horseback and carry her off.

The blackstem wards on Renna’s arms and shoulders flared, forming a barrier that gave the demon’s talons no purchase, but the force of the rebound threw Renna from Promise’s back. She hit the ground hard, smashing her right shoulder with a pop and tasting dirt and blood in her mouth. The wind demon crashed shrieking down beside her, and she rolled, just barely avoiding the razor-sharp talon at the end of its massive wing.

Her shoulder screamed at her as she shoved herself to her feet, but Renna embraced the pain as wood embraces fire, awkwardly pulling her knife in her left hand. To lie still was to die.

Not that her chances of living were very good. Nearby, Promise reared and bucked, kicking at the field demons snapping and clawing at her from all sides. In a moment they would be upon Renna as well.

‘Renna!’ Arlen wheeled Twilight Dancer about, but even he couldn’t be quick enough.

The wind demon struggled awkwardly to its feet. Wind demons were clumsy on land, and Renna used that to her advantage, kicking a leg out from under it and driving her warded knife deep into its throat as it fell. There was a hot splash of ichor on her hand, and she felt a wave of magic pump into her. Already, her injured shoulder felt stronger.

A field demon leapt upon Promise’s back, and Renna reached into her pouch for a handful of chestnuts. The heat wards she had painted activated when they struck the coreling, and the nuts exploded with a series of bangs and flashes, scorching its coarse armour. The demon wasn’t badly injured, but it was startled and stung, enabling Promise to buck it from its tenuous perch.

Renna didn’t have time to see what happened next, as the corelings took note of her and several raced her way. Renna sidestepped the first and kicked it in the belly, the blackstem impact wards on her shin and instep flashing with power. The demon was launched away like a child’s ball. Another hit her from behind, clawing through her tight-laced vest and scoring deep lines in her back. She fell to her knees as another came at her from the front, biting hard at her shoulder.

This time, her wards were not enough to turn the demon. Blood and filth had weakened them, and Renna screamed as the demon locked down, its four sets of talons raking at her. Some of her wards remained in effect, but others did not. The demon’s claws skittered along the flash of magic until they found openings and dug in hard.

But the pain and the magic both were a drug to Renna. In that moment, she didn’t care if she lived or died, she only knew that she would not die first. Again and again her arm pumped, stabbing her father’s knife into the coreling, bathing in its ichor. Her power intensified even as its weakened. Slowly, she began to force it back, feeling its talons slide back out of her flesh inch by agonizing inch.

It was dead when Twilight Dancer scattered its reapmates to stand over her and Arlen leapt down, his robe cast aside. His wards flared bright as he prised open the snout of the demon and pulled it off her, hurling it into several others, all of them going down in a heap. Another came at him, but he took it down in a sharusahk pivot and stabbed a finger that sizzled like a hot poker through the coreling’s eye.

Renna growled, raising her knife. Her body screamed at her, but the magic that gripped her was stronger. The night was a dizzy haze of blurred figures, but she could make out Promise’s huge form, and the demons surrounding her. One swung wildly from her neck, grasping for purchase. If it found its grip, Promise would be pulled down. Renna gave a mad howl and ran her way.

‘Renna, corespawn it!’ Arlen shouted, but Renna ignored him and waded into the demons’ midst, kicking and shoving corelings aside and laying about with her knife as she struggled to Promise’s side. Every blow sent a shock of magic thrilling through her, making her stronger, faster – invincible. She leapt up and caught one of the scrabbling hind limbs of the demon on Promise’s back, pulling it into position as she stabbed it in the heart.

Arlen ran after her, collapsing into smoke as demons struck at him, only to turn deadly solid a split second later, striking hard with warded fists and feet, knees and elbows, even the top of his shaved head. He was beside her in an instant and gave a shrill whistle, calling Dancer to them.

The great stallion scattered another group of demons on the way, giving Arlen time to draw large field demon wards in the air around them. With her warded eyes, Renna could see the thin trail of magic he left to hold each symbol together. A field demon leapt at them, and two of the wards flared, throwing it back. The wards would only grow stronger the more they were struck. Arlen moved in a steady line, forming a circle around them, but ahead of him, several demons barred his path, continuing to snap and claw at Promise’s flank. She moved for them, knife leading.

Arlen grabbed her arm, yanking her back. ‘You stay put.’

‘I can fight,’ Renna growled. She tried to pull her arm free, but even with her night strength, he held her in place easily. He turned and drew a series of impact wards in the air, knocking the demons away from Promise one by one.

As he did, his grip weakened, and Renna used the opportunity to pull away from him with a snarl. ‘You don’t get to tell me what to do, Arlen Bales!’

‘Don’t make me slap the fool out of you, Ren!’ Arlen snapped. ‘Look at yourself!’

Renna looked down, gasping at the deep wounds gaping in her skin. Blood ran freely in a dozen places, and her back and shoulder were on fire. The mad night strength left her, and her knife dropped, too heavy to lift. Her legs gave way.

Arlen was there in an instant, easing her to the ground, and then moved off to complete the wardnet around and above them. More and more field demons came racing down the road, surrounding them like an endless field of grass, but even that great host could not pierce Arlen’s wards, nor the flight of wind demons circling in the sky.

He was back at her side as soon as the net was complete, cleaning the dirt and blood from her wounds. There was a fallen demon inside the forbidding, and he dipped a finger in its ichor like a quill in an inkwell, writing wards on her skin. She could feel her flesh tightening, pulling as it knit back together. It was incredibly painful, but Renna accepted it as the cost of life and breathed deep, embracing it.

‘Put your cloak on while I tend the horses,’ Arlen said when he had done all he could. Renna nodded, pulling her warded cloak from the pouch at her waist. Lighter and finer than any cloth Renna had ever felt, it was covered in intricate embroidered wards of unsight. When drawn about her, it rendered Renna invisible to corespawn. She had never cared for the cloak, preferring to let the demons see her coming, but she couldn’t deny its usefulness.

Lacking the warded barding of Twilight Dancer, Promise was easily the more wounded of the two horses, but she stamped and snorted at Arlen’s approach, teeth bared and snapping. Arlen ignored the posturing, moving almost too fast to see as he swept in and took a great handful of Promise’s mane. The mare tried to pull away, but Arlen handled her like a mother changing a struggling baby’s nappy. Eventually, Promise relented and let him tend her, perhaps realizing at last that he was trying to help her.

The casual display of power might have surprised her a few days ago, but Renna was used to surprises from Arlen now, and it barely registered. Again and again, she saw her gaping wounds in her mind’s eye, terrified to think she’d been ignoring them as her life’s blood drained away.

‘That what happens to you?’ Renna asked when he returned. ‘Feel so alive you don’t even realize it’s killing you?’

Arlen nodded. ‘Forget to breathe sometimes. Get so drunk on the power it feels like I shouldn’t need to do something so … mundane. Then I suddenly break out gasping for air. Almost got me cored more’n once.’

He looked up, meeting her eyes. ‘The magic will trick you into thinking you’re immortal, Ren, but you ent. No one is, not even the corelings.’ He pointed at the field demon carcass beside her. ‘And the struggle never goes away. It’s a new fight, every time you taste the power.’

Renna shuddered, thinking of the irresistible pull of the magic. ‘How do you keep from losing yourself?’

Arlen chuckled. ‘Started keeping Renna Tanner around to remind me I’m just a dumb Bales from Tibbet’s Brook, and ent too good to breathe.’

Renna smiled. ‘Then you got nothing to fear, Arlen Bales. You’re stuck with me.’

Renna and the horses were well recovered by morning, but Arlen eased the pace, never taking Twilight Dancer above a trot, and stopping to rest twice before midday.

‘Thought we were in a rush,’ Renna said when they dismounted the second time.

‘Day or two don’t matter at this point,’ Arlen said.

‘That’s not how you felt yesterday,’ Renna said.

Arlen looked away, and his shoulders sagged. ‘Had my priorities wrong, Ren. Sorry for that. Ent right to push you and the horses past your limits.’

Renna took a deep breath. She hated the way he turned from her when saying things he didn’t think she’d like. Men were always doing that, thinking it spared feelings.

And maybe it does, Renna thought. But only their own.

‘Don’t mean you got to baby us, either,’ she said.

‘You came an inch from dying last night, Ren,’ Arlen said. ‘Promise and Dancer, too. Ent no harm in stopping now and again to stretch our legs and have our necessaries.’

He was right, but Renna didn’t feel like she’d been close to death. In truth, she felt stronger and more alive than ever in her life. There was new pink flesh where her wounds had been, lighter than her natural tan and needing fresh blackstem, but smooth without even hint of scar. Her body thrummed with power.

Her eyes flicked to Promise, already knowing it was not the same. Arlen had used the same healing wards on the mare’s flank as he had on Renna, drawn in demon ichor thick with magic. Nothing remained of Promise’s wounds but a few strips of hairless flesh on her blotchy coat, but there was still a tenderness to the horse’s movements, and she showed little sign of her usual wilfulness.

Renna looked up at the morning sun, and smiled. Power’s inside me now. And gettin’ stronger, more I eat. Ent gonna slow you down, Arlen Bales. Soon, you’ll need help to keep up with me.

‘Tell me about the Hollow, then,’ she said. ‘Everyone there think you’re the Deliverer, too?’

Arlen sighed. ‘There most of all. Two years ago, Cutter’s Hollow was a town not even as big as Southwatch. But a flux hit last year, laying half of them low. Someone dropped a lamp in the inn, and fire spread quick, with no one to fight it. Wasn’t long before the wards failed.’

Renna saw the disaster in her mind’s eye and ground her teeth. She found herself clutching at the bone handle of her knife, and it took the full force of her will to let go. ‘Trouble makes for trouble, my mam said.’

‘Honest word,’ Arlen said. ‘Came on them the next day, and found more’n a hundred dead, and half the rest on their backs. With night coming, I warded their axes and taught those that could to fight. Put the rest in the Holy House and made our stand out front. Lot of folk died that night, but they gave better than they got, and more than not were on their feet come dawn. Built the town back from scratch, putting the roads and houses in the shape of a forbidding. Ent no demon setting foot in the Hollow now, not even the princes.’

Renna grunted. ‘Sounds like you made quite the Jongleur’s show of it. Figure you must want them thinkin’ you’re the Deliverer, at least a little.’

Arlen’s face darkened. ‘Last thing I want anyone thinking. Waitin’ for the Deliverer’s kept us hiding behind wards for three hundred years.’

‘Ay, but the wait’s over, ent it?’ Renna said. ‘Painted Man’s come to save us all.’

Arlen scowled, but Renna dismissed it with a wave. ‘Oh, you slap the fool out of any that bow to you and call you Deliverer, but you’re just as quick to temper when folk don’t take one look at you and start hopping to your words.’

Arlen pulled back, stung, but Renna matched his stare and didn’t back down. Finally he gave a helpless chuckle and shrugged. ‘Can’t deny it helps get things done, Ren. And there’s a lot to do. Folk ent got any idea of what’s coming with the next new moon, and I ent got time to baby ’em.’

Renna smiled. ‘Ent arguin’, just keepin’ you honest.’ Quick as a rabbit, she darted in and kissed his warded cheek.

They rode for some time before splitting off from the Old Hill Road down a thickly overgrown Messenger way. Late in the day they met up with a new road of hard-packed dirt. There was a large warded campsite at the intersection.

‘Huh.’ Arlen hopped down from Twilight Dancer, moving to inspect the wards. ‘Little clumsy, but thick and strong. Darsy Cutter painted these.’ He grunted. ‘Hollow must be growing like wildfire, they’re this far north already.’

‘Sun’s setting.’ Renna said loosening her knife in its sheath as magic began to seep into the lengthening shadows, opening the paths from the Core. ‘We should get moving.’

Arlen shook his head, again not meeting her eyes. ‘We’re stopping here.’

‘Ent going to hide behind the wards every night over one close shave,’ Renna growled.

‘Ent asking you to,’ Arlen said.

‘Then we’re going,’ Renna said.

‘Going where?’ Arlen asked. ‘Right where we need to be.’ He went to the camp’s wood stores, then began laying kindling in the firepit. He did not meet her eyes, but there was a smugness about him, like this was a game.

Anger flared in her, hot and fast, and out of the corner of her eye Renna saw the magic drifting in gentle whorls and eddies at her ankles suddenly flow into her like smoke from a pipe. As soon as she noticed it, the flow stopped and nothing she could do could will it back.

She looked at Arlen, still laying a fire, proud as a cat with a mouse in its teeth, and grew angrier still. Magic came to him easy as breathing, but not to her? Why?

Ent eaten enough. Still got a way to go.

‘Gonna hunt, then,’ she said.

Arlen shrugged. ‘Won’t kill you to have some supper first.’

Renna wanted to slap the back of his shaved head. Her fists clenched, nails digging into her skin, drawing blood. She wanted to rend …

She caught herself. Magic pulsed through her, primal and powerful, awakening base desires and turning them into raging storms.

Maybe I’ve eaten too much already.

Renna breathed deeply, again and again in rhythm, the Krasian technique Arlen had taught during her sharusahk lessons. Slowly her fists began to unclench, and her heart stopped pounding in her chest, or at least slowed to a steady throb. She forced herself to dismount, brushing down Promise and letting her graze on the thick grass at the side of the road.

They had almost finished eating when Arlen craned his head as if listening to something far away. He smiled. ‘There it is.’

‘What?’ Renna asked, but he stood quickly, scraping the remains from his bowl and stowing it with his cookpot. He drew a ward in the air, and the fire winked out.

‘Come on.’ Arlen leapt into the saddle and kicked Twilight Dancer into a gallop, tearing down the road.

‘Son of the Core,’ Renna muttered, dumping her own bowl and hurrying after. Promise had limbered as the day went on, but it was still several minutes until she caught up to Arlen as he pulled to a stop. Up ahead was a hazy glow and the sounds of battle, but he seemed unconcerned.

‘Seems the Hollow’s expanding again. Reckon the Cutters got it in hand.’ Arlen dismounted and nodded into the woods. ‘Put your cloak on and let’s see if we can get a peek.’

He led them quickly through the trees. A wood demon stepped into their path, ready to strike, but Arlen hissed at it and the wood wards on his body flared, driving the coreling back. They soon came to a thin spot in the trees just outside a huge clearing, still full of stumps and the smell of fresh lumber. Here Arlen stopped, watching from the darkness.

In the centre of the clearing, bonfires burned in a large warded circle, full of tents and tools and draught animals. The fires gave light to the men and women moving about the clearing, fighting a great copse of wood demons and a ten-foot rock demon.

Every instinct in Renna’s body told her to leap into the battle – her blood was on fire with the need to kill demons. She smelled ichor and felt her mouth water, ready to aid in choking down their foul meat.

But Arlen stood calmly, clearly having no intention to interfere. She forced herself to relax, taking her hand off the handle of her knife and letting her warded cloak envelop her fully, hiding her from demon eyes.

The cloak had changed since she began eating coreling flesh. She could feel the wards drawing off her own personal magic, but rather than flare brighter, they, and the cloak itself, seemed to dim and blur. Staring at it too long made her dizzy. She wondered how much demon meat she would need to eat before it faded from sight entirely. More than Arlen, it seemed, for he could still see the cloak, though she noted he never looked her way long when she wore it.

‘What are they doing?’ Renna asked, when silence and inaction began to weigh on her.

‘Clearing a greatward,’ Arlen said. ‘They start by chopping trees to form a centre for the town, then they branch out, clearing land in the shape of a ward of forbidding miles wide. At night, they kill the demons that rise in the area, so they’re culled and not just pushed to the edge of the forbidding when the ward activates.’

‘Why doesn’t everyone do that?’ Renna asked. A ward that big would draw so much magic that no corespawn could penetrate it, and it would be almost impossible to mar.

‘Reckon they used to, back in the demon wars,’ Arlen said. ‘But people forgot, and since the Return, folk have been too busy hiding to use their heads.’

Renna grunted and watched the battle more closely, recognizing the Cutters immediately. Cutter was a common name in the hamlets, the surname of most anyone who felled trees or sold wood. Even in Tibbet’s Brook, hundreds of miles away, there were close to a hundred Cutters, living in a cluster by the goldwood trees. It was shocking how alike they were to the Hollowers.

The men were big and burly, dressed in sleeveless vests of thick leather, with banded bracers and biceps that seemed bigger than Renna’s head. She could almost squint and see Brine Cutter, who had defended Renna in council, those months ago. She hadn’t had the will to move that night, even to speak in her own defence, but she remembered every word as the elders of Tibbet’s Brook condemned her to death. The Cutters had stood by her.

There were women as well, all armed with crank bows or heavy warded blades. At first Renna thought they wore heavy skirts, but when they moved she could see the skirts were divided, giving freedom of moment without sacrificing modesty.

Renna snorted. That was exactly the sort of ridiculous thing the goodwives in Tibbet’s Brook would do, which was likely why they had never taken well to Renna and her sisters. The Tanner girls seldom hid much skin from the sun. Renna herself bared as much as possible, so the blackstem wards on her flesh could embrace the magic-charged night air.

Surrounding the women were a group of men that stood in stark contrast to the Cutters. Clad in thick wooden armour, lacquered with wards and fired hard, they wore heavy helms and carried matching spear and shield. At the centre of the warding circle on their shields was a painted toy soldier.

‘Who’re they?’ Renna asked, pointing.

‘The Wooden Soldiers,’ Arlen said. ‘Royal guard of Angiers. Duke Rhinebeck said he would send ’em here to train with the Cutters.’

‘Looks like they haven’t been at it long,’ Renna noted. Despite their splendid armour, the men stood stiffly, clutching their weapons tight and casting nervous glances at the demons.

‘City guards,’ Arlen said. ‘Used to bullying folk and maybe handing down a beating or two, but I doubt any of them ever so much as thrust a spear outside the practice yard before coming to the Hollow.’ He pointed. ‘And Prince Thamos looks to be the worst of the lot.’

Indeed, the man Arlen pointed to was clad as she imagined a prince might be, his steel armour gilded with golden wards and polished bright. He was tall and lean, powerfully built with a trim black beard lining a strong jaw.

But the prince shifted his feet, stretching his arms and rolling his head, trying vainly to limber muscles gone tense. Renna could smell his fear from across the clearing, and she knew the demons could scent it, too.

It was clear the Cutters had relegated the Wooden Soldiers to the back of the fray, given the specious duty of guarding the women, who seemed neither to want nor to need such protection.

Years ago, Renna’s father had asked Brine Broadshoulders and some of the other Cutters in Tibbet’s Brook to help clear some land for planting. Renna and Beni had watched the men work for hours, systematically felling trees, hauling off the wood, and tearing free the roots. Every movement smooth and practised, letting the weight of the tools power their swings, wasting no energy.

It was much like that to see the Hollow Cutters fight. They still carried the tools of their trade, now warded, and put them to work with brutal efficiency.

Two men wielding great long axes took turns hacking at the legs of a wood demon. It was tall and thin, with tremendous reach, but whenever it went after one man, the other came at it from the opposite side. When the demon’s strikes came in too close, the men would catch them on their warded bracers, deflecting the blows with flares of magic. Finally, one of the axes took the demon in the back of the knee, and the limb buckled.

‘Samm!’ one of the axe-wielders called, and a third Cutter came up behind the demon, putting a giant boot into its back and knocking it facedown, his full weight holding it prone. The man carried a great, two-handed saw, and he bent to the task, sawing through the thick barklike armour of its neck in a shower of magical sparks and spraying ichor. In seconds the head fell free.

‘Night,’ Renna whispered.

Arlen smiled and nodded. ‘That’s Samm Cutter, but everyone calls him Samm Saw. Used to cut the limbs from trees the Cutters felled so they could be hauled off. Hundreds a day. Now he cuts off demon limbs just as quick.’

Another call came, and Samm turned to a Cutter who swung a heavy axe mattock, chopping at a wood demon. Each warded blow knocked the demon back a step, unable to recover its balance, but the demon showed no sign of real damage, healing as fast as the blows could come. Samm came in behind the demon, sawing through one of its trunklike legs while the demon still stood. It collapsed with a shriek, and the Cutter shouted thanks as he raised his mattock to finish it off.

Across the clearing, a dozen Cutters hauled on ropes looped around the rock demon’s arms and shoulders, thrown this way and that as the coreling thrashed. Two women with crank bows fired repeatedly, the heavy bolts sticking from the obsidian carapace like porcupine quills, but they seemed to do little beyond provoke the rock demon’s rage.

Three men and a boy stood by the scene, two younger men with small but heavy mallets, and the third, older, with a heavy sledge. The boy held a thick metal wedge.

‘Tomm Wedge and his sons,’ Arlen pointed. ‘Watch.’

The rock demon set its feet to pull on the ropes, and the younger men darted in, jamming warded spikes into the gap in the armour plates at the demon’s knees. Almost simultaneously, they struck with their mallets, once, twice, sending showers of magical sparks as they drove the spikes in.

The demon shrieked and staggered, teetering as the Cutters threw their full weight onto the ropes to bring it down. Its thrashing tail caught one cluster of men, knocking three of them to the ground, their rope flying free. The sudden release sent the demon staggering in the other direction, and it soon lost balance and fell.

Quick as a rabbit the boy was up on the rock demon’s back, planting the warded metal wedge into a gap where the plates met on the demon’s armoured back. Tomm Wedge went into action, swinging his hammer in a smooth arc to come down on the wedge with a thunderclap of magic. The flare was so bright Renna blinked, and when she opened her eyes the demon collapsed from the blow’s rebound and lay still.

Practised. Efficient. No wasted energy.

‘It’s eerie,’ Renna said. ‘They might as well be felling trees.’

Arlen nodded. ‘Wasn’t time to make weapons or train folk to fight that first night. Had to ward whatever was at hand, and the Cutters gave me the most precious things they owned – their tools. More and more folk join the fight every day now and are handed mass-produced spears, but the best of them can’t keep up with the Cutters. Using their old tools marks them. Sets them apart. Folk step lightly when they’re about, and spin ale stories about them when they’re not.’

‘All because they were fortunate enough to meet Arlen Bales on a bad day,’ Renna said. ‘Like me.’ Arlen looked at her, but she held up a hand to check him. ‘Don’t think you’re the Deliverer any more’n you do, but you can’t deny you’ve a knack for showing folk their spines,’ she touched her knife hilt again, ‘and teeth.’

Arlen grunted. ‘Everyone’s got a knack for something, I guess.’

‘Doesn’t hurt that the Hollowers are so big you’d have to jump to kiss them, as my sister used to say,’ Renna noted.

‘Didn’t all start that way,’ Arlen said. ‘Magic’s played its part. Sun may burn it off come morning, but not before it affects whatever it touches. Warded weapons don’t tend to break or dull, and the Cutters have been soaking magic up nightly for nigh a year. Old ones get younger, and young ones grow into their full before their time.’

He pointed. ‘See that one with the salt-and-pepper hair?’

Renna looked where he was pointing and saw a man with arms and legs bunched with thick-veined muscle, standing toe-to-toe with a seven-foot wood demon. She nodded.

‘Name’s Yon Gray,’ Arlen said, ‘and he’s the oldest man in the Hollow. Hair was stark white a year ago. Needed a stick to even walk crooked, and his hands shook.’

‘Honest word?’ Renna asked.

Arlen nodded, pointing again, this time to a huge man in the prime of his life, charging in behind the demon while Yon kept its attention. ‘Linder Cutter. Ent no more’n fifteen years old.’

One of the wood demons struck one of the huge men a backhand blow that lifted him from the ground and threw him back several feet. He landed with a heavy thump, his axe mattock flying from his grasp. Renna saw no blood, but the prone man had no time to rise as the demon charged.

Her knife was in her hand in an instant, but Arlen took hold of her shoulder as she started to move. She snapped a glare at him, but he only inclined his head back at the scene. Renna looked and saw an enormous wolfhound leap on the demon’s back, bearing it down as the dog’s huge jaws tore loose a chunk of the demon’s rough, knobbed armour, sinking into the soft flesh beneath.

The man had recovered by then, and buried his mattock in the coreling’s skull with a wet thwack. The dog looked up at him with its muzzle wet with black demon ichor, glowing bright with magic to Renna’s warded eyes. It was the biggest dog Renna had ever seen, five hundred pounds at least, with gnarled charcoal fur and claws so great they couldn’t fully retract. It growled at the Cutter, but he only laughed and gave it a scratch behind the ears. He whistled as he ran back into battle, and the dog licked the ichor from its teeth and followed.

‘Creator,’ Renna said. ‘It’s as big as a nightwolf.’

‘Didn’t used to be,’ Arlen said, ‘but it’s been eating demon. Corespawned dog’s bigger every time I see it.’

‘That how nightwolves grew so big in the first place?’ Renna asked.

‘Reckon,’ Arlen said.

An eight-foot-tall wood demon got past the Cutters in the heat of battle and came at the Wooden Soldiers. The men shrieked, forgetting their spears entirely to lock their warded shields together. They were pushed back by the rebound as the wards flared, stumbling into the women they were supposed to be guarding. One soldier lost his feet completely, taking down two women with loaded crank bows in the tumble. Another soldier screamed as one of the bows went off and the bolt took him in the back of the thigh, punching right through his lacquered armour.

The wood demon had barely lost balance when the attack was deflected, and moved for the gap with frightening speed.

Prince Thamos gave a shout, throwing off his fear as he leapt to interpose himself. With one swipe of his arm, he caught the demon’s claws with his shield, sending them skittering off trailing sparks of magic as he followed through with a thrust of his short, stabbing spear into the demon’s belly. Renna could see the magic that pumped up the weapon into the prince’s arm, filling him with power.

It was a masterfully executed attack, but Thamos’ blow had struck no vital area, and after a shocked instant the demon recovered and swung its branchlike arms at him again. Thamos ducked the first blow and caught the next on his shield, never letting go of his spear as he tried vainly to pull it free of the demon’s thick, barklike armour. The piercing wards on the speartip had broken through easily enough, but there was nothing to aid him pulling it back out.

‘Bad warding for such a nice spear,’ Arlen noted. ‘He’s smart, he’ll let go and let the women handle it.’ Indeed, several women held crank bows at the ready, and would have fired had the prince not been in their way.

But Thamos surprised them. He gave a roar and, still holding on to the shaft of the spear, raised his armoured boot and kicked repeatedly at the coreling’s midsection. Impact wards flared on his boot heel, and the demon was bashed and battered as the prince hammered it off his spear and knocked it onto its back. He was on it in an instant, stabbing his newly freed spear right into the coreling’s heart.

The prince put a foot on the demon’s chest for leverage as he tore the weapon free in a spray of ichor, turning with a shout to assist a pair of Cutters in their own battle. He growled as he put his spear into the back of the demon they faced, pressing in so close the wards on his armour flared.

The frightened man Renna had seen was gone, the prince screaming like a madman as he ran about the clearing, fighting with abandon and little regard for his own safety.

There was a shriek, and Renna turned to see a wood demon bury its talons into a Cutter’s chest. The man knocked the demon back a step with a weak blow from his axe, but the weapon fell from his fingers as he collapsed to the ground.

Renna tensed, but Arlen was already off and running. She followed on swift feet, but neither of them would be there in time as the demon moved in for the kill.

She saw a sudden blur and felt a familiar dizziness as a slender girl appeared, throwing back the folds of a warded cloak much like the one Renna wore. The girl was clad in bright motley – loose pantaloons and blouse, with a tight fitted vest. She was half the size of the Cutter who had fallen, and when she stepped in front of the great wood demon, it was like a house cat hissing at a nightwolf. Still, she stood boldly, meeting the demon’s gaze, and when it reached its claws for her, she raised a fiddle and put bow to string, sending out a series of discordant sounds.

The demon shrieked and swiped at her, but the girl leapt away, tumbling across the ground and coming back to her feet, never ceasing her playing. The demon put its clawed hands to its ears and shrieked again, stumbling back.

Another dizzying blur, and a large woman appeared behind the demon, unnoticed until she swung a heavy warded blade, severing one of its thin arms. The wound, coupled with the grating sounds of the fiddle, proved too much for the demon and it fled the scene, coming right at Arlen and Renna. Arlen barely paused, catching the coreling by one of its horns and pulling it close as he drew a heat ward on its chest. He spun the demon aside, and it blazed into a ball of bright shrieking flames as he rushed to the wounded Cutter.

Both women’s eyes flared at the sight of Arlen running their way, recognition mixed with shock and more than a little fear. The one who had severed the demon’s arm shook her surprise away first.

‘’Bout time you got back,’ she said, kneeling at the injured man’s side and pulling implements from a heavy pocketed apron to treat his wounds. The young girl continued to stare openmouthed at Arlen.

Arlen’s mouth twisted. ‘Good to see you again too, Darsy.’ He looked to the girl. ‘Mind on your music, Kendall.’ He pointed his chin at her fiddle before kneeling beside the Herb Gatherer. Kendall straightened, bringing up her fiddle and scanning the area for other threats.

The Cutter gave a racking cough, blood splattering Arlen’s face, and fell still. Arlen paid it no mind, holding the man steady as Darsy examined his wounds.

‘Night,’ she whispered. Three deep gashes ran from his breast to hip, and there was blood everywhere. ‘Ent nothing we can do.’

‘Demonshit,’ Arlen said, grabbing the first gash and pinching it closed with one hand as he drew a series of wards in the air with the other. A soft glow surrounded them as he worked, Darsy and girl staring dumbfounded as the fatal wounds knitted closed.

The man suddenly pulled in a deep gasp of air, followed by a round of coughing as he attempted to rise. Arlen put a hand on his chest and held him back down. He opened his eyes, looking up at Arlen. ‘You come back,’ he croaked.

Arlen smiled. ‘Course I came back, Jow Cutter.’

‘They said you abandoned us,’ Jow whispered, ‘but I never lost faith.’

Arlen’s mouth tightened, but he bent and lifted the man like a child, carrying him to the safety of the warded circle. There was a Tender there, an older man with a beard the grey of a rain cloud. Over his plain brown robes he wore a thick surplice emblazoned with wards of protection surrounding the crooked staff symbol of his order. The man caught sight of Arlen and his eyes widened, but he came in quickly with an acolyte by his side, taking Jow and bringing him to a warded tent, its flaps bearing the Tenders’ staff. His eyes never left Arlen as they went, and he reappeared from the tent moments later carrying a staff of polished goldwood carved with wards, watching from the safety of the circle.

The battle was dying down now, and the prince, who had leapt from fray to fray, suddenly found himself without an opponent. He looked around frantically, panting, but when there was no threat to be found he gave a great shudder, suddenly leaning heavily on his spear. His men were by his side in an instant, crowding around him and blocking him from sight. Renna could make out the sound of his retching from within the ring of armoured backs.

‘Always like this,’ Darsy said. ‘There’s no one fiercer than the count when his blood is up, but it’s slow to rise, and drops like a falling tree.’

‘Ent nothin’ to be ashamed of,’ Arlen said. ‘Felt that way myself plenty of times. Fact he’s out in the night at all says a lot …’ He paused. ‘Count?’

Darsy nodded. ‘Came with a fancy royal decree naming him “Lord of Cutter’s Hollow and All of Its Environs”, along with a train of carts a mile long. Soldiers, too. More than a thousand, with bowmen aplenty, to fortify against the Krasians. They already started building him a fort. Folk were so thankful for the food and blankets they didn’t argue, especially with you and Leesha gone off to Creator knows where.’

‘So you just handed him the Hollow?’ Arlen asked.

‘Din’t have a lot of choice,’ Darsy said. ‘But it ent been so bad. Thamos mostly lets folk who know their business go to, and none can deny the aid he’s brought, or the hope he’s given to folk who ent got naught else.’

The fighting was over, but Renna could still see Arlen’s training as the Cutters went through the clearing methodically, confirming their kills. Demons healed magically fast, and even against warded weapons they could recover in minutes from anything short of death or dismemberment. More than one seeming-dead demon lying in the field shrieked when the Cutters approached, slashing at them or trying to escape. These were quickly pinned, thrashing wildly as the Cutters began cutting at the thick armoured ridges around their necks. Taking the head of even a small wood demon took a few strokes of the axe, and even Samm Saw had to put his back into the task.

Renna came to stand by Arlen and the women, eyeing their dizzying warded cloaks.

‘You warded their cloaks, too?’ she asked Arlen, dreading his answer.

Darsy turned suddenly, noticing Renna for the first time, particularly the state of her dress, or lack thereof. She glanced at Renna’s shoulders, and her nostrils flared. She grabbed the edge of Renna’s cloak and held it up so she could see it better in the light, then turned to Arlen with a look of indignation and put a meaty finger in his face.

‘You gave your Cloak of Unsight away?! Do you know how Mistress Leesha slaved over it? More than her own! You didn’t even thank her, and ent worn it once! Now you just piss it away—’

‘Ay, you stupid cow!’ Renna shouted, snatching the edge of her cloak back and moving to interpose herself between the two of them. ‘Don’t you talk to him like that!’

‘Or what?’ Darsy demanded, looming over Renna and bending so their noses practically touched. ‘This doesn’t concern you, girl, so shut your mouth or you’ll go over my knee.’

Darsy might have been a Herb Gatherer, but Renna knew a fighter when she saw one. She was more than a head taller than Renna and had a heavy frame, packed muscle and not fat. She wore the same floppy pantaloons as the other fighting women, and her heavy warded knife curved inward like a scythe. It would serve equally in hewing thick herb stalks or the limbs of a demon. Its handle was well worn.

But none of that seemed to matter as Renna grabbed her by the throat and began to squeeze. Darsy struggled, her mannishly thick hands pulling at Renna’s arm, but she might as well have been pulling at a bar of steel. She swung a heavy fist, but Renna diverted the blow easily, locking on to Darsy’s wrist and yanking her arm straight, using the limb to increase her leverage. Darsy went red in the face, the veins in her neck distending.

‘That’s enough, Ren!’ Arlen snapped, grabbing her arms. He squeezed hard, and both her grips lost strength. He pulled her aside as easily as a cat that had jumped on the counter to sniff the butchering block.

‘She started the fire,’ Renna growled, struggling against his iron grip much as Darsy had against hers. ‘You saw.’

‘Ay,’ Arlen agreed quietly. ‘She did. But that ent call to kill someone. Or were they right to try and stake you back in the Brook?’

Like he’d dumped a cold bucket on her head, Renna stopped struggling immediately. He was right, of course. Few would deny that Harl Tanner got what was coming to him when Renna stabbed him with his own knife, but this Darsy Cutter was no Harl.

Still, a part of her screamed for the woman’s blood. Renna breathed deeply, embracing the feeling and letting it pass. Arlen felt her relax and let her go immediately.

‘You all right?’ he asked Darsy, who was gasping and rubbing her throat.

‘Fine,’ Darsy croaked.

Arlen nodded, a sharp gesture. ‘Then keep to mind that what I do with my own property ent any of your corespawned business. Don’t think Leesha would care to hear you gossipmongering over her relations, either.’

‘Ay,’ Darsy coughed. ‘Think maybe you’re right at that.’ She turned to Renna. ‘My mum tried to beat some manners into me, but she never managed the task.’

Renna grunted. ‘Guess I wasn’t quite neighbourly, myself.’

The girl cleared her throat, and all eyes turned to her. She was perhaps seventeen summers and pretty, but up close Renna saw thick scars coming up over the neckline of her blouse. She had been near death once. Very near. And she could charm corelings with her music. Renna might have doubted Arlen’s stories about the red-haired Jongleur, but this she had seen with her own eyes.

Arlen smiled and bowed to the girl. ‘Your fiddling’s gotten better, Kendall. Looks like Rojer’s been working you and the other apprentices hard.’

Kendall looked at the ground, and there was a sadness in her eyes.

‘Rojer’s been gone for months,’ Darsy said, her voice still hoarse, but getting stronger. ‘Went to Rizon with Mistress Leesha. And the rest of his apprentices are more interested in playing reels than fighting demons.’ She gave Kendall a gentle punch on the shoulder. ‘But not our little fiddle witch. Worth a dozen men with spears, she is.’ Kendall kept her eyes down, but Renna could see her pale skin flush, and a thin smile crept onto her lips.

‘How long’s Leesha been gone?’ Arlen asked.

‘Left with the Krasians going on two months ago,’ Darsy said.

Arlen grunted. ‘It true, then? Jardir came to the Hollow and stole her away?’

‘After a fashion,’ Darsy said.

Arlen’s brow drew tight. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Darsy took a deep breath and looked at him. ‘He’s asked her to marry him.’

Arlen’s eyes bulged, and his jaw dropped. It was only a split second before the look dropped from his face, but it had been there, clear as day. Even the aura of magic surrounding him changed noticeably, its surface crackling and popping like green wood in a fire.

Renna had never seen anything take Arlen by surprise, and wasn’t sure how to read it. Past Leesha Paper might be, but she still had power over him.

Arlen leaned forward, his face utterly serene, but his eyes intense. ‘You telling me Leesha’s gone to marry Ahmann Jardir? That lyin’, rapin’, murderin’ son of the Core? That what you’re fixing to tell me, Darsy Cutter?’ His low voice grew louder as he spoke. Not loud, but louder. Again, Renna saw the ambient magic in the area rush to him, his wards beginning to glow. Darsy drew back from him as one might from a hissing rattlesnake.

‘She ent said yes!’ Darsy practically shouted. ‘And she ent playing the fool. Said it was an excuse to see what he’s done to the south. To count his troops and learn his ways. Didn’t go alone, either. Took Rojer, Gared, Wonda, and her parents to watch over her.’

‘Don’t matter,’ Arlen said. ‘The fact she went at all, and took her da, tells the Krasians Erny’s put her to market and is just waiting for the right price.’

Darsy scowled. ‘How dare you! Mistress Leesha ent some cow to buy and sell!’

‘To them she is!’ Arlen snapped. ‘Krasians don’t treat women as free folk. Don’t matter if they’re a duchess or a milkmaid, women are just property to those people, bought and sold. And no one outbids Ahmann Corespawned Jardir when he sets his mind on a prize, Darsy Cutter. No. One.’

Darsy deflated, the fight gone out of her, and she nodded. ‘Told her it was stupid to go, but she wouldn’t listen. Stubborn as a coreling.’ A pained look crossed her face, as if admitting fault in her precious mistress hurt her. Renna spat on the ground. Darsy flinched, but made no comment.

‘Don’t think she’s in danger just yet, anyway,’ she said. ‘I’ve gotten regular letters from her, and the codes all say she and the others are well. Say one thing for the Krasians, they make excellent Messengers.’

‘Codes?’ Arlen asked.

‘Said she wasn’t playing the fool,’ Darsy said, daring to meet his eyes at last. ‘Mistress Leesha figured the Krasians would read her letters, but she gave me phrases and words to memorize so she could let me know how things stood even if they were forcing her hand. So far, Jardir seems to be keeping his word, but she says his army is spread out over all Rizon, and their numbers are impossible to count. She specifically asked that we not mention you, but she left a code to signal your return.’

‘Tell her,’ Arlen said, ‘and tell her that she needs to get back to the Hollow right quick. Got news that can’t wait and you ent got codes for it.’

‘You’ll get no argument from me,’ Darsy said. ‘Creator never meant me to be town Gatherer.’

‘It’s hard times, Darsy Cutter, and you got to shoulder what burdens come to you,’ Arlen said. ‘Something bad’s coming with the new moon. Something to make Jardir look like a horsefly buzzing in our ear.’

Darsy’s face grew pale. ‘What is it?’

Arlen ignored the question. ‘Who’s been speaking for the Cutters with Gared gone?’

‘Who else?’ Darsy asked. ‘The Butchers. Even the new count knew better than to mess with those wards. Gave them royal commissions, but he’s yet to ask them to do anything they weren’t already meaning to do themselves.’

There was a great bark, and a heavy shape bright with magic charged at Arlen. Renna drew her knife, but Arlen simply knelt and opened his arms as the massive wolfhound bowled him over. His laughter was infectious as the beast began to lick his face.

‘Still ent taught this mongrel to heel, Evin Cutter?’ Arlen asked its master as he approached.

‘Shadow heels when he wants to, and no time other,’ Evin replied. ‘Good to have you back, sir.’

‘How’re Brianne and the boys?’ Arlen asked, prising the giant dog back.

‘Boys’re shootin’ up like weeds,’ Evin said. ‘Callen will be a Cutter himself soon, and Brianne’s got another one growin’ in her belly. Been prayin’ on a girl this time around.’ He looked at Arlen expectantly.

Arlen sighed. ‘Babe is what it is, Evin. Ent convinced there’s a Creator at all, much less one that takes my messages. Just hope if it’s a girl she gets her looks from her mam.’

Everyone looked at him in shock, as if unable to believe Arlen had made a joke, but then Evin barked a laugh, and the others joined in, the tension broken.

Darsy cleared her throat, catching Arlen’s eye and nodding to the killing field where Renna saw the count heading their way. He was wiping at his mouth with a silk kerchief, but his stride was determined. At his back were two fighters, a man and a woman.

‘Dug and Merrem Butcher,’ Arlen murmured to Renna. ‘Used to be real butchers, till the Battle of Cutter’s Hollow.’

The Butchers were both heavyset, with thick arms crisscrossed with scars and burns on their faces. Dug was bald and sweaty, wearing a thick leather butcher’s apron reinforced with underplating and spattered with demon ichor. Like Darsy, Merrem wore loose pantaloons that gave the appearance of skirts. Her leather corset was armoured like Dug’s apron and equally ichor-splattered. Either one of them looked strong enough to toss a cow. The heavy cleavers on their belts were little different from the one Harl used when he slaughtered a hog, but these were heavily warded, and Renna doubted they’d been used for butchering in some time.

They walked proudly, like Speakers on the way to town council. The rest of the Cutters drifted in their wake, covered in blood, sweat, and demon ichor, glowing fiercely with magic. All of them towered over Renna, giving her the feeling they were standing in a ring of trees. They whispered excitedly among themselves, pointing at Arlen and drawing wards in the air. By way of contrast, the Wooden Soldiers quickly fell into neat lines at the count’s back, backs straight and spears in hand, ready to kill for their prince at a moment’s notice.

Count Thamos was not as tall as the Hollowers, but he more than made up for it in his bright armour, polished and glowing powerfully with magic.

‘No one in the Hollow has forgotten what you’ve done,’ Darsy said quickly, before the count was in earshot. ‘The Cutters will go where the Painted Man tells them and nowhere else.’

Arlen nodded. ‘This “Painted Man” business is the first thing I mean to clear up.’

Thamos stopped a respectful distance from Arlen and stood haughtily while a smaller man Renna had not noticed appeared before him. The man wore armour and kept a short spear strapped to his back, but he did not have the look of a fighter. Both weapon and armour looked more ornamental than functional. His hands were smooth, likely more used to a quill than a spear. His tabard was embroidered with two emblems, a throne overgrown with ivy and a wooden soldier. He bowed.

‘May I present His Highness Count Thamos of Cutter’s Hollow, Marshal of the Wooden Soldiers, brother to Duke Rhinebeck of Angiers, and Lord of all the lands and peoples between the River Angiers and the southern border.’

Thamos looked at Arlen, giving him an almost imperceptible nod. Renna knew nothing of courtly manners, but she knew a rub when she saw one. She smiled, eager to watch Arlen break the man.

But to her surprise, Arlen bowed deeply. ‘Count Thamos,’ he said loudly, so all could hear. ‘Thank you for bringing aid and succour to the refugees suffering on your lands. You honour the Hollow by standing with the Cutters in the night.’

Thamos’ eyes narrowed, as if waiting for the hook, but Arlen only bowed again. ‘We were never properly introduced,’ he said, looking up to take in Darsy, the Butchers, and all the crowd. ‘Ent been introduced to any of you, really. I’m Arlen Bales, out of Tibbet’s Brook.’

Utter silence fell over the crowd at the words. Renna looked around and saw everyone holding their breath, waiting on his next words.

The silence only lasted a few seconds, though it seemed far longer. Then everyone began talking at once, a cacophony too great to make out the words of any one person. Even the Wooden Soldiers began to chatter in the ranks.

Thamos glanced to Dug Butcher, who turned back to look at the crowd. ‘Shut it!’ he barked, cutting through the din. ‘This ent some Jongleur’s show!’ Immediately, the noise died down to a few mutterings, but Renna could see folk biting their tongues. It wouldn’t last long.

Thamos pursed his lips, digesting Arlen’s words. ‘Tibbet’s Brook,’ he grunted. ‘So you’re Milnese, after all. Beholden to Euchor.’ He spat the name as if it were poison.

Arlen shrugged. ‘Lines on a map may say so, but truer is Euchor never gave a rip about Tibbet’s Brook, and the folk there returned the favour. I grew up in the Brook, ay, but I’m my own man.’ He met the count’s eyes. ‘Euchor no more tells me what to do than you.’

Thamos squinted and they locked stares. The count had killed several demons in the battle, and he and his armour glowed fiercely with Core magic. Renna could see the halo around him pulse with his breath, and knew the count would be inhumanly fast. Incredibly strong. And that the magic was screaming at him to attack.

She might have been concerned, but for all his power, the count was facing Arlen Bales. The tattoos on his skin were glowing fiercely now. Renna did not know if it was intentional, but the effect it had on the crowd was clear. Many of the Cutters began murmuring and drawing wards in the air.

The count and Arlen postured like two dogs presenting over a bitch, but Arlen had bigger teeth, and the loyalty of the pack. All around them, Cutters adjusted their grips on their tools, and the Wooden Soldiers shifted nervously.

Arlen ignored the tension, breaking the stare with a disarming smile. He turned to Renna, bowing and sweeping a hand at her in a smooth, practised gesture. He might not wait on proper manners most of the time, but it was clear he knew them.

‘My apologies for not introducing my companion,’ he said. ‘This is Renna Tanner, also from Tibbet’s Brook.’ He stood, looking up over Thamos’ head to the Cutters clustered around them. ‘And my promised.’

Again Renna saw the collective jaw of the crowd drop, but this time she felt her own fall with them. His saying it aloud, in front of these people, made it seem far more real than it had just a moment before. She was promised to Arlen Bales. Again.

This time, Thamos was quicker to recover, moving to Renna and bowing, taking her hand and kissing it smoothly. ‘An honour to meet you, Miss Tanner. Let me be first to offer my congratulations.’

Renna knew from Jongleur’s pantomime that gentlemen kissed ladies’ hands in the Free Cities, but she’d never so much as seen it done. She stiffened, not having the slightest idea how to respond. She felt her face colour, and was thankful for the cover afforded by the night.

‘Th-Thank you,’ she managed at last.

Thamos rose and turned back to Arlen. ‘Now,’ he said in a low voice, ‘if you’re quite finished making the bumpkins gasp, might we have a word or two in private?’

Arlen nodded, and the count’s manservant escorted the leaders to a large pavilion of heavy canvas at the centre of the warded section of clearing. Inside, the tent was richly appointed with warm fur carpets, a four-poster bed, and a great table surrounded by a dozen chairs. At its head was what Renna could only describe as a throne, a heavy thing of polished wood with a high back and great ivy-carved armrests. It was the biggest chair she’d ever seen, and dwarfed every other seat in the room. Haloed in magic and wearing his bright armour, Thamos looked like nothing more than the Creator himself as he took the seat, sitting in judgement over the proceedings.

A moment later, Arther, Thamos’ manservant, cleared his throat and held the canvas open for the Tender Renna had seen looking after Jow Cutter and the other wounded. He carried his warded staff, but though his beard was grey, he was still straight-backed and seemed to have no physical need for the support.

‘Tender Hayes, High Inquisitor under Shepherd Pether of Angiers,’ Arther announced. Arlen’s brow furrowed, and Renna could sense his immediate mistrust of the man.

‘Sent to replace Tender Jona, I recall,’ Arlen said, looking to Thamos as if the count had been the one to make the announcement. ‘Has Jona gone to your inquisition already?’

‘That is the concern of the Tenders of the Creator, and none of yours,’ Tender Hayes cut in acidly.

Arlen snorted, glancing to Darsy.

‘They took him weeks ago,’ Darsy said. ‘Vika is beside herself with worry, but they wouldn’t let her accompany him, and she has had no word since, despite all her pleas.’ She nodded slightly Thamos’ way.

Arlen looked to the count, but Thamos spread his hands helplessly. ‘As Tender Hayes says, this is a matter for the Council of Tenders. It is out of my hands.’

Arlen shook his head. ‘Not good enough. A wife deserves word from her husband and proof that he is well … as he had best be.’

‘How dare you!’ Tender Hayes demanded. ‘You may wear a Tender’s robe, but you are not of our order, and it remains to be seen if you—’

‘If I what?’ Arlen challenged.

‘Enough!’ Count Thamos said. ‘A Messenger will take a letter from Mistress Vika tomorrow, and return with one from her husband in one week. If she wishes to visit her husband, an escort will be arranged.’

Tender Hayes fixed the count with a stern glare. ‘Your Highness—’

‘I’m not your student any more, Tender,’ Thamos cut him off. ‘Spare me the lecture. If the council has a problem with my ruling, they can take it up with my brother and see who truly has his ear.’

They exchanged a look, and Hayes nodded, bowing. ‘As Your Highness commands.’

Thamos grunted. ‘Good.’ He looked to Arlen. ‘May we consider the matter closed, or do you have more veiled threats for me? We have taller trees to fell than some hamlet Tender preaching off Canon.’

Arlen nodded. ‘Taller by far, Highness. The corelings have tired of our resistance. They mean to push back, and push hard.’

‘Let them,’ Merrem snarled. ‘Every demon in the Core ent got half a wit between them. We’ll make a bonfire so big the Creator will see it.’

Dug grunted in agreement, but Thamos said nothing, staring hard at Arlen over steepled fingers.

‘We haven’t seen a fraction of what the Core has to throw at us, Merrem,’ Arlen said. ‘Less than a week ago, me and Renna met a demon a good sight smarter than either of us. A mind demon. It had a bodyguard, a coreling that could change into anything it wished, and when the mind was around, the demons started behaving different.’

‘Different, how?’ Dug asked.

‘Like soldiers with good generals,’ Arlen said. ‘It sent a copse of wood demons after me that attacked with clubs when their talons failed to pierce my wards.’

‘Night,’ Merrem shuddered, and Dug spat on the carpet. Renna looked to Thamos, but the count seemed not to have noticed. He had gone deathly pale, and she could smell his fear. She wondered what had happened to the powerful leader and savage fighter he had been just a moment earlier.

‘My mother must hear of this,’ Thamos mumbled after a moment.

Everyone looked at him curiously. Tender Hayes scowled. ‘Mother, Your Highness?’ he murmured. It was too quiet for the others to hear, but Renna heard the words as clear as day. Her senses were stretching farther every day.

Thamos gave a start, sitting up straight as some of the colour returned to his face. ‘Brother,’ he corrected. ‘My brother, Duke Rhinebeck, must hear of this immediately. Arther, ready a Messenger!’

Arther moved to comply, but Arlen raised a hand to forestall him. ‘I regret to inform Your Highness that there is worse news. Mind demons can reach right into your thoughts and eat them, knowing everything you do. They can even take over and work your body like a puppet.’

‘Creator!’ Merrem exclaimed. ‘How are we supposed to fight against that?’ The count’s face looked so green Renna thought he might slosh up at any moment.

‘The greatwards are proof against them,’ Arlen said. ‘And for the rest, there are mind demon wards.’ He produced a sheaf of parchment and a warding brush from somewhere in his robes. The brush seemed an extension of his arm as he quickly drew a large mind ward, turning it to face the others at the table.

‘This symbol can block their intrusion.’ He pointed to the same symbol tattooed on his forehead, and the one in blackstem that now adorned Renna’s. ‘Mind demons are even more sensitive to light than regular corelings. Even moonlight stings them. They only come to the surface at the cycling of the new moon. Those three nights, anyone outside an active greatward needs to be wearing this ward on their head.’

Darsy traced a finger along the curves of the symbol. ‘It’s simple enough. We can make stamps and put them all over town.’

Arlen nodded. ‘Do it.’ He looked to the Butchers. ‘And you’re going to need to step up recruiting and get the Cutters ready for corelings that know how to fight smart.’

‘Got recruits aplenty,’ Dug said, ‘but that just means there’s a lot of raw wood running around with warded spears and not a clue how to use them.’

‘They’ve got three weeks to learn,’ Arlen said. ‘I’ll help as I can, but this is on you, Dug Butcher. You and Merrem,’ he looked at Thamos, ‘and your count.’

‘Can’t believe you just gave up an army of demon hunters,’ Renna said as they went back to the horses.

‘Never wanted to lead an army, Ren,’ Arlen said. ‘These days, any army I lead is apt to have more red on their spears than black. Folk need to stand together, day and night. I’d only get in the way of that. Let Thamos have his throne.’

He looked at her and smiled. ‘I can always kick him back off it, if need be.’

Renna laughed, and a nearby wood demon glanced about excitedly at the sound, trying to find its source. She was only a dozen feet away, but in her warded cloak she could have walked right up to it unnoticed.

The cloak Leesha had so lovingly made for Arlen.

‘Knew there was a reason I never quite liked this thing,’ Renna said. She reached up, undoing the clasp and letting the cloak fall to the ground. The demon gave a shriek as it caught sight of her, coming in fast.

Renna let it come, standing her ground until the last moment before sliding aside, stabbing her knife into a fold in the demon’s armour as it stumbled past.

The demon clutched the wound, but it was not fatal, and already its magic would be healing the damage. It turned back to her and shrieked again. Renna met its eyes and spread her arms, waiting.

The demon was more cautious when it came back at her, keeping its distance and using the reach of its branchlike arms to full advantage. Renna bided her time, giving ground freely as she wove around its attacks. Occasionally she hacked at a passing limb with her knife, but those shallow cuts did little more than sting the demon.

Still she waited, until the coreling set its feet a certain way. She dodged its next attack and came in hard before the demon could recover, stabbing into the gap between its third and fourth ribs on the right side, as Arlen had taught her. She felt the beating as her knife pierced the demon’s heart, pumping raw magic into her as the light left its eyes.

Flailing, the wood demon clawed at her, but magic sparked along the blackstem wards on her skin, keeping it at bay. Finally, it collapsed.

She looked at Arlen. ‘That demon knows who killed it.’

Arlen looked down his nose at her. ‘It’s dead, Ren. It doesn’t know anything.’

He bent, picking up the cloak and shaking the dirt and leaves from it before folding it carefully. ‘Honest word, I never liked wearing it, myself. Don’t like hiding any more’n you do. Less, I reckon.’

He grunted. ‘Ever get a gift from someone and know they put a lot of thought into it, but you open it and your first thought is “This person don’t know me at all”?’

Renna nodded. ‘Like when Da would buy a keg of Boggin’s Ale to celebrate my born day, then drink it all himself.’ She shrugged. ‘Tanners ent ever been much for gift giving. Leastways not since Mam died.’

‘How’d she go?’ Arlen asked softly. ‘Heard it was demons, but they never told the tale in town.’

‘Couldn’t say,’ Renna admitted. ‘She was cored sure enough, but there wern’t a breach in the wards – she was out in the yard. Remember she and Da were fightin’ something fierce that night. Didn’t give it a lot of thought when I was little, but now I figure she ran out to get away from him. Night, thought about doing it myself a few times.’

‘Glad you didn’t,’ Arlen said. ‘One thing to run when you got something to run to, but if you gotta go out, better to go fightin’ than runnin’.’

‘Honest word,’ Renna said.

‘Cloak’s got its uses, though,’ Arlen said. ‘We might’ve both been cored without it.’

‘Guess I ought to thank Leesha Paper for savin’ us, then.’ Renna spat on the ground.

‘You saved us, Ren,’ Arlen said. ‘Wern’t the cloak or your da’s knife that walked up to that corespawn and put him down. Mind demon came closer to ending me than any, and I’ve had some close calls at night.’

He held the bundle out to her, and Renna nodded, accepting it. She smiled. ‘Can’t say I won’t enjoy when your Leesha sees me in it. Tells folk you put me first.’

Arlen smirked. ‘Some folk. The rest will see it and think you’re one of Leesha’s apprentices.’ Renna scowled, and he laughed.

5
Tender Hayes
333 AR Summer
25 Dawns Before New Moon

‘Corespawn it,’ Arlen growled.

‘What?’ Renna asked. They had dismounted after a hard ride, leading the horses through a thick stand of trees that had just opened into a small clearing with a jutting rock face.

‘Someone’s found my hideout.’ He pointed.

Renna followed his finger to the rock face, but shook her head. ‘Don’t see anything.’

‘It’s there,’ Arlen said. ‘You’d have to walk right up to it before you saw the door. Got a metal gate covered in corkweed at the entrance, and the rest covered in moss and grass.’

Renna squinted. ‘How do you know someone’s found it?’

Arlen pointed at a thin trail of smoke drifting out the top of a dead tree that stood solemnly atop the small rocky knoll. ‘That’s my chimney. Didn’t leave the hearth fire burning for three months.’

‘Leave anything important there?’ Renna asked.

Arlen shrugged. ‘Some half-finished warding. Folk joining the Cutters were gobbling up weapons faster’n I could ward them, so I never really built up a cache. Just a place to lay my head.’

There was a squawk, and Arlen sighed. ‘Made my nice stable into a corespawned chicken coop.’

‘So now what?’ Renna asked.

‘Reckon we rent a room in town,’ Arlen said, sounding tired. ‘Starting tomorrow. Day or night, expect folk are going to swarm once we show our faces. Need a few hours’ sleep before it starts.’

‘Why can’t we just camp like we been doing?’ Renna said.

‘Ent animals, Ren,’ he said. ‘Nothing wrong with sleeping in a bed, and we ent too good to get to know folk.’

Renna grimaced. She hadn’t had a chance to hunt tonight, and expected that once they were in town, her opportunities to feed on coreflesh without Arlen’s knowledge would be fewer still. The part of her disgusted by the act was fading quickly as her power grew. She was hungry, and mere food could no longer satisfy.

But the tired look on Arlen’s face checked her. He was carrying the world on his shoulders, and she needed to support him in the coming days, no matter what.

‘Fine. Tomorrow.’ She went to him, taking his hands in hers and kissing him. ‘Put down a circle, and I’ll put you down proper.’ She smiled. ‘You’ll sleep like the dead.’

The tired look left Arlen’s face as she began to caress him. He was never so tired she couldn’t rouse him by dropping her clothes to the ground.

It was hours later when Renna, lying awake as she listened to Arlen’s breathing deepen into a snore, slipped from his embrace. She paused, watching him there in the circle. He looked so small, so vulnerable. For all his power, he wasn’t too good to breathe, or to sleep. He needed someone at his back. Someone he could trust.

Someone strong.

She drew her knife and ran off into the night.

Renna woke with her face in the dirt. She must have rolled off the blanket at some point in the night. She spat and brushed absently at her face as she stretched out the morning kinks. It wasn’t quite dawn yet, but the sky was light enough that she could use her normal vision while still watching the drift of magic as it weakened and fled for the shadows.

Arlen was already up and about, wearing only his bido as he dug in Twilight Dancer’s saddlebags, grumbling to himself. ‘Know I left ’em here somewhere …’

Renna smiled as she watched him. She’d gladly wake up with a mouthful of dirt every morning, if the first thing she could see was Arlen Bales. ‘What’s that?’

Arlen looked up at her as he continued to rummage, and the smile that lit his face was a reflection of hers. ‘My clothes. Aha!’

He produced a crumpled bundle of cloth, shaking out a pair of faded denim trousers and a once white shirt. He pulled them on, and Renna laughed at how baggy they were. ‘Still don’t fit in your da’s clothes?’

Arlen gave her a wry look as he tightened his belt and rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘Folk said I was lean back in my Messenger days, but I ate well enough. Think I lost twenty pounds since,’ he swept a hand over his tattooed face, ‘all this.’ He cuffed the loose ends of his trouser legs.

His sandals sat atop his neatly folded robes, all of which he placed in a saddlebag. He pulled out an old pair of leather boots but, after a moment’s consideration, grunted and tucked them back away, remaining barefoot.

It was strange to see Arlen in normal clothes. She squinted, trying to imagine the man he might have been if he had never left Tibbet’s Brook, but it was impossible. The tattoos covering his forearms and calves – not to mention his neck and face – were all the more jarring coming from out the plain shirt and trousers. ‘What’s all this?’ Renna asked.

‘Started wearing robes because the hood let me hide my face in the day, and people were less apt to hassle travelling Tenders,’ Arlen said. ‘Plus they were easy to fling off at sunset.’

He shook his head. ‘But I ent hiding any more, and the robes are giving folk the wrong idea. I’m no Holy Man. And if I need to show my wards in a hurry …’ He snapped his fingers, momentarily turning to mist, and his clothes fell away. He solidified again in an instant, clad only in his bido, his wards revealed.

‘That trick looks handy for more than just fighting demons,’ Renna said, grinning.

Arlen smiled. ‘Some things’re worth doing the old-fashioned way.’

‘So we’re walking into town just as we are?’ Renna asked. ‘You’re not going to ask me to cover up like you did after Riverbridge?’

Arlen shook his head. ‘Sorry about that, Ren. I was just full of steam. Din’t have no right—’

‘You did,’ Renna cut in. ‘I gave you reason to boil. Ent holding it over you. Needed the fool slapped out of me.’

In an instant, Arlen was across the clearing, holding her in his arms. ‘You done as much for me. More’n once.’ He kissed her as the sun finally rose, touching them with gentle beams.

‘No more skulking, Ren,’ Arlen said. ‘We are who we are, and folk can take or leave us.’

‘Honest word,’ Renna said, putting her hands on the smooth skin of his shaved head to pull his lips back to hers.

Soon after, Arlen took them to Deliverer’s Hollow, walking on bare feet and leading Twilight Dancer by the bridle.

‘The roads aren’t warded,’ Renna noted.

‘The roads are the ward,’ Arlen said. ‘Or part of one, anyway. After the corelings razed most of the town, we rebuilt even bigger on a plan for a series of interconnected greatwards, like the one the Cutters were clearing up north. Each ring will take longer than the last, but a decade from now no corespawn will be able to set talon anywhere within a hundred miles of the Hollow.’

‘That’s … incredible,’ Renna said.

‘It will be,’ Arlen agreed. ‘If it can be done while the Core spews forth an army to knock us back into the Age of Ignorance.’

Even this early, the roads and paths were well travelled with regular folk going about their business. Arlen nodded to some as they passed, but said nothing and never stopped. All of them stared wide-eyed, some even bowing or drawing wards in the air. Almost all dropped whatever they were doing and followed. They kept a respectful pace, but the din grew as numbers increased, and more than once Renna caught the word ‘Deliverer’.

Arlen seemed to pay it no mind, his face serene as he guided them towards the centre of town.

There were dozens of homesteads and cottages, all freshly built, and hundreds more under construction. The twists of the greatward left huge swathes of unmolested forest throughout, letting the Hollow retain a simple village feel quite unlike the crete streets, stone walls, and huge buildings of Riverbridge.

‘Place almost feels like home,’ Renna said. ‘Like we could turn this corner and see Town Square and Hog’s General Store.’

Arlen nodded. ‘Here they call it the Corelings’ Graveyard, and it’s Smitt instead of Hog, but you squint a bit, it’s hard to tell the difference. Think maybe it’s why I settled in the Hollow awhile. Wasn’t ready to go home, and this was the next best thing.’

They turned a corner, and the graveyard came into view. The cobbled central area was much like that of Town Square. At one end stood a stone Holy House that could as easily have been Tender Harral’s on Boggin’s Hill, but it was dwarfed by the foundation being laid around it, hundreds of men digging trenches and hauling stones.

Arlen stopped short, and for a moment, the serenity left his face. ‘That Angierian Tender din’t waste any time. Looks like he’s building a cathedral to swallow Jona’s Holy House like a frog does a fly.’

‘You talk like that’s a bad thing,’ Renna said. ‘Town’s growin’ as much as you say, ent they going to need the extra pews?’

‘Reckon,’ Arlen said, but he sounded unconvinced.

There was a great platform at the far end of the cobbled square with a large stage and a shell to amplify sound. Renna was drawn to the chatter of a huge crowd, but one voice rose above the din. She saw Jow Cutter standing onstage, showing no sign that he had been injured near to death just a few hours before. Renna caught sight of a now familiar set of robes, and saw Tender Hayes standing at the edge of the crowd with one of his acolytes, leaning on his crooked staff and watching with cold eyes.

‘Saw Him with my own eyes!’ Jow cried. ‘Woodie laid me clean open, an’ I heard Darsy Gatherer say there wan’t nothing she could do! But then the Painted Man came and waved His hands, and now I barely got a mark on me!’

‘Get off that stage, Jow Cutter!’ someone shouted. ‘You may be a fool, but you’re no Jongleur! Spin your tampweed tales somewhere else!’

‘Swear by the sun!’ Jow cried, and he held up his torn and bloody jerkin, showing the faded scars where the wood demon had mauled him. When the crowd still looked sceptical, he pointed at a man in the crowd. ‘Evin Cutter, you seen it, too!’

All eyes turned to Evin, but his great wolfhound bristled, keeping them back.

‘Din’t see no magic healing,’ he said after a moment. ‘Leastways not with my two eyes. But ay. The Deliverer’s returned.’

Arlen groaned, putting his face in his hand as the crowd turned back to Jow with renewed interest.

‘Ay!’ Jow cried. ‘The real Deliverer’s come back to bring Mistress Leesha home and put that desert rat down!’ The crowd roared in approval.

‘Dumb as a pile of rocks, but he ent all wrong,’ Arlen muttered.

Just then Jow looked up, seeing Arlen and Renna at the edge of the crowd. ‘There He is!’ he cried, pointing. ‘The Deliverer!’

Arlen put his hands on his hips as the entire crowd turned to him at once, looking at Jow like a dog that had shit inside the house.

And then suddenly the crowd closed in, everyone reaching, grabbing. Hundreds of people crushing inward, all shouting at once.

‘Deliverer!’

‘Bless you!’

‘Bless me!’

‘I need—!’

‘You must—!’

Renna struggled in the press, even her new strength overwhelmed by the swarm of people. ‘Get back!’ she screamed, but they seemed not to hear, and Renna felt her blood come to a boil, her vision going red as she reached for her knife.

In that instant, Renna saw a bottle flying through the air at Arlen’s head, but she was in no position to stop it.

She needn’t have worried. Arlen’s hand moved faster than her eyes could see, snatching the bottle out of the air. Everyone gasped, and a path opened up in the crowd along its trajectory, all those innocent of the deed stepping quickly away to reveal a group of three men glaring at Arlen. Their clothes were patched and threadbare, and there was a hollow look about them that bespoke hard times. They had thrown their bottle, but Renna knew drinkers when she saw them, and knew it could spur all sorts of mean. Again, her hand fell to the handle of Harl’s knife.

‘Deliverer!’ one of the men spat on the ground. ‘If you’re the ripping Deliverer, where were you when the Krasians took my daughter?!’

‘And my son!’ another shouted.

‘And my farm!’ the third added.

‘Show some ripping respect,’ Linder Cutter growled, punching the lead man in the face. He went down heavily, and in response the other two tackled the giant Cutter. They struggled back and forth, the men’s legs swinging freely off the ground as they tried to pull Linder down. The man he had punched was shaking his head and struggling to get back to his feet with murder in his eyes.

‘Ay, he asked a fair question!’ someone else in the crowd cried, and there were grumblings of assent and argument. Half a dozen Cutters were racing to the scene.

Arlen was there in an instant, crossing the distance inhumanly fast. ‘Enough!’ He picked the men off Linder by their shirt collars, holding them like insolent children. Linder looked smug until Arlen glared at him as well.

‘Next time you punch someone in my name, Linder, I’ll crack your skull.’ Linder suddenly looked his age, the overgrown boy’s face reddening.

Arlen tossed the other two men aside gently enough for them to land on their feet and reached out to the man on the ground, helping him up. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, but it carried as easily as Jow’s in the sound shell so all could hear.

‘Know you’re hurtin’, friend, and I’m sorry for your daughter, but throwing bottles and acting the fool ent helping her, and I’m not the one you ought to be mad at. Never claimed to be the Deliverer. I may be painted up, but I’m just folk like you.’

‘But you Delivered the Hollow,’ the man said, almost pleading.

Arlen shook his head, scanning the crowd as he did. Everyone was quiet, hanging on his words. ‘Didn’t deliver the Hollow. Hollowers did that themselves, bleeding right here on the cobbles under our feet. I threw in when they had a bad patch, ay, but so did Leesha Paper and Rojer Inn. So did Linder and Evin Cutter, and a hundred other folk. Even Jow, though it seems he’s got it in his head to act the fool as well.’ He glanced at Jow, who looked sheepish as he leapt down from the stage.

Arlen put his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Know what it’s like to lose people. Apt to make you crazy and mad as the Core. But there’s more storms comin’. I’m here to help, but what I do won’t mean spit if I’m doing it alone. It’s your choice if you want to throw in or drink and point fingers, but I don’t owe you any explanations.’

He turned, taking in the crowd as his voice rose to a boom. ‘Got more useful things to do than rabble-rousing in the Corelings’ Graveyard! Wager that goes for the rest of you, too!’

Suddenly everyone was studying their feet and muttering about unfinished business. They left in a steady flow.

Jow Cutter came rushing up to them as Arlen turned to go. ‘I’m sorry. Din’t mean—’

Arlen cut him off. ‘Ent mad at you, Jow. Had it comin’ for being so mysterious last time and keepin’ to myself.’

Jow seemed relieved until Arlen raised a finger. ‘But that sound shell is for Tenders and Jongleurs and fiddle wizards, not any fool wants to shout. Don’t want to see you up there again, ’less you’re doing a song and dance. You ent got wood to chop, go ask the Butchers for something to do.’

Jow nodded eagerly and ran off.

Renna looked back to where the Inquisitor had stood, but he, too, was gone.

‘Place is more like the Brook than I care for,’ Renna said. ‘They gonna stake us, we don’t save them?’

‘Everyone needs the fool slapped out of ’em now and again, Ren,’ Arlen said as they led their horses into the stable behind the newly built inn. ‘Times ent been easy, and we can forgive if folk’re a bit excitable. Don’t need to reach for your knife every time.’

Renna stiffened at that. ‘Din’t know I was that obvious.’

Arlen shrugged. ‘It’s a big knife.’

A young man, thin but well muscled, came to take their horses. He took one glance at Twilight Dancer and his gaze snapped to Arlen.

‘Ay, Keet, it’s me,’ Arlen said. ‘Know space is tight, but my promised Renna and I need a room for a few weeks.’

Keet nodded. He quickly stabled the horses and led them through a small side entrance to a mudroom. ‘Wait here while I fetch my da.’

‘His da, Smitt, is the innkeeper and Town Speaker,’ Arlen said when he was gone. ‘Good man, you don’t cross him. More honest than Hog, but tough enough, time comes to haggle. His wife, Stefny, ent a bad sort in small doses, but she’s always got a look like she ent been to the outhouse in a week and wants to take it out on any who come too close. Quick to get preachy, too, tellin’ you this and that about how the Creator wants you to live, like someone out of Southwatch.’

Renna bristled. The Watches had been quick to condemn her to death and call it Creator’s will.

Moments later a big man, thickly bearded and strong at around sixty summers, came into the mudroom followed by a small, thin woman with grey hair pulled back in a tight bun. Arlen was right about her face. She looked like she’d just eaten a bitter and was ready to spit it out.

‘Thank the Creator you’re back,’ Smitt said, after the introductions were made.

‘Creator ent got anything to do with it,’ Arlen said. ‘Got business in the Hollow.’

‘Creator’s hand is in everything, great and small,’ Stefny said. The edge of a demon scar peeked from the high neck of her dress, and there was a hardness about her that recalled Selia Barren, Speaker of Tibbet’s Brook, who had defended Renna when no one else would. Renna had never met a woman stronger than Selia.

Without thinking about it, Renna reached out to her, brushing the scar lightly. ‘You fought, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘When the wards failed last year.’

The woman’s eyes widened, but she nodded. ‘Couldn’t just stand by.’

‘Course not,’ Renna said, squeezing her shoulder. ‘Can’t ask any to do what you ent willing to do yourself.’

The pinched look left the woman’s face and she smiled. It was an awkward gesture, twisting against the set lines of her face. ‘Come. The inn’s busy, but we keep a couple rooms open for Messengers. Let’s get you settled and put some food in your bellies.’ She turned and led the way up a back stairwell as Arlen and Smitt gaped.

They had barely settled in their room and finished the breakfast Stefny sent up when there was a knock at the door. Arlen opened it to find one of Tender Hayes’ acolytes – the one who was always at his side.

He wore only plain sandals and tan robes, his warded surplice reserved for night. His trim brown beard was flecked with grey.

‘I am Child Franq, aide to Tender Hayes, High Inquisitor and spiritual advisor to His Highness, Count Thamos of Cutter’s Hollow,’ he said with a minimal bow. ‘Apologies for the interruption, Mr Bales,’ he nodded to Renna, ‘Miss Tanner, but His Holiness was most impressed by your words this morning, and requests the honour of your presence at dinner at six o’clock this evening in the dining hall of the Holy House. Formal dress.’

He turned to go, but Arlen’s reply checked him before he could leave. ‘You’ll have to extend our regrets.’

Franq froze for a moment, and when he turned back, he still had a touch of surprise on his face. He gave another shallow bow. ‘You mean to say you have … ah, more important plans on your calendar than seeing His Holiness?’

Arlen shrugged helplessly. ‘Afraid my calendar is quite full. Perhaps after the new moon.’

This time, Franq could not hide his incredulity. ‘That … that is your reply to His Holiness?’

‘Shall I put it in writing?’ Arlen asked. When Franq did not reply, he strode to the door, taking hold of it pointedly. Franq shuffled out, his face a mix of outrage and shock.

‘Ent he a bit old to be a Child?’ Renna asked when she heard his footsteps recede down the hall.

Arlen nodded. ‘Looked close to forty summers. Tenders usually take orders by thirty even if the council ent found them a flock.’

‘So what, he failed the test?’

Arlen shook his head. ‘Means Hayes is powerful, as Tenders go. So powerful that being a Child and his aide is loftier than tending your own flock. Politics.’ He spat the word.

‘Then what’s all this calendar business?’ Renna asked. ‘Din’t seem neighbourly. We just walked into town an hour ago. Ent planned so much as our next privy visit.’

‘Don’t care.’ Arlen waved irritably at the door. ‘Corespawned if I’m going to be bullied into a ripping formal dinner just so some Tender can look important. Got no patience for posturing.’

He dropped his voice to Franq’s low tenor. ‘“… mean to say you have … ah, more important plans than seeing His Holiness?” Bah!’

‘Do we have more important plans?’ Renna asked.

‘Thought we might spend a few hours knocking our heads against a wall,’ Arlen said. ‘That’s about the same as talkin’ to a Tender. They’ve all got that book memorized, but each one reads it different.’

‘Tender Harral from back in the Brook was a good man,’ Renna said. ‘Stood by me when the town was out for my blood.’

‘But not in front of you, Ren,’ Arlen said. ‘Best remember that. And Jeorje Watch, who was full of righteous fire at your staking, was a Tender, too.’

‘You don’t talk bad about the old Hollow Tender,’ Renna said.

Arlen shrugged. ‘Jona’s as fool as the rest of them. Maybe more, in some ways. But he always done right by folk. Earned his respect. Hayes ent earned anything.’

‘Ent given him much chance,’ Renna noted.

Arlen was silent a few moments, but at last he grunted. ‘Fine, I’ll send Keet to let him know we found space in our “calendar”. But ent no way we’re goin’ in formal dress.’

There wasn’t precisely a crowd outside the inn when Arlen and Renna emerged late in the afternoon to head to the Holy House for dinner with Tender Hayes, but there were hundreds of folk milling about the shops and street corners, attempting to look as if they had reason to be there. A frantic buzz began as they caught sight of the pair.

Renna sighed. It seemed nothing Arlen could say would change the minds of some folk, even those who hung on his every word like it was Canon.

There had been a steady stream of knocks at their door through the day. Smitt and Stefny did their best to keep the petitioners from swarming, but they did not deny access to any they deemed important, and there were many of those. The Butchers came with heavy ledgers and rolled maps they spread on the floor, showing their progress in recruiting and clearing land. Dozens of southern hamlets had fled the Krasians as they spread out to overtake Rizon, many of them resettling entirely on their own greatwards in Hollow County. There were six greatwards surrounding the Hollow proper now, though only two, New Rizon and Journey’s End, were fully active. More were still in the early stages.

A glassblower named Benn brought beautiful warded items for Arlen to inspect, and Kendall had snuck in to talk about Angierian Jongleurs that had arrived with Count Thamos’ caravan.

‘Five masters from the Jongleurs’ Guild,’ Kendall said, ‘and a dozen apprentices. Claim they’re here to help Rojer get us better at controlling demons, but they seem more interested in gathering stories about you.’

And so it went. Warders, Messengers, Herb Gatherers, Speakers from refugee towns; one by one and in pairs, they came and went until Renna thought she might scream.

Arlen took it better, greeting many as friends and offering suggestions most folk seemed to take as commands. Still, it was a relief to be out of the room, even though it meant weathering the stares of countless eyes as they passed down the street.

Tender Hayes and Child Franq were waiting for them when they reached the Holy House. Hayes was clad in brown robes, but these were of a finer material than Renna had ever seen apart from her warded cloak. Over this the Tender wore a white chasuble, trimmed with green ivy needlework with a crooked staff stitched in glittering gold in the centre, surrounded by a circle of wards, many of which Renna did not recognize. His stole and skullcap were forest green, embroidered with wards in shining gold thread. His hands glittered with gold rings, one of which held a green stone the size of a cow’s eye.

Franq, too, was formally outfitted with a green warded skullcap and a white surplice over his tan robe, stitched in green-and-gold thread with the same ivy-and-staff design as Hayes. A gold necklace set with a large red stone hung at his throat.

They stood in stark contrast with Arlen, barefoot in his faded denim trousers and shirt, and Renna, who was clad scandalously by anyone’s standards, wearing only a high, leather vest and a calf-length skirt slit to the waist on either side. But if their plain clothes – or lack thereof in Renna’s case – gave offence, the men showed no sign.

‘Welcome to the House of the Creator, Mr Bales, Miss Tanner!’ Hayes said loudly, his voice carrying far. ‘We’re honoured you could join us on such short notice.’

Renna listened for a hint of sarcasm in the old man’s tone, but he seemed sincere. ‘Kind of you to have us.’ She drew a holy ward in the air. Arlen simply grunted and gave a nod.

Hayes’ smile shrank slightly. ‘I must congratulate you on your promising. As you can imagine, it has caused quite a stir among the townsfolk. I would be honoured to perform the ceremony, if you wish.’

‘That’s awful kind,’ Arlen said before Renna could respond, his voice carrying as easily as the Tender’s, ‘but I mean Tender Jona to do it on his return.’

There was another buzz that passed through the bystanders, now a crowd without doubt. Hayes pursed his lips, his mouth becoming a thin line that vanished in his thick beard and moustaches. ‘Close to him, were you?’

Arlen shrugged. ‘Din’t always agree with him, but Tender Jona done right by the Hollow when the need was great. It’s my hope he’ll return soon.’

The smile left Hayes’ eyes, and Franq cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps we should adjourn inside, Holiness. The others are already here. They await you in the dining hall.’

‘Very well, lead the way,’ Hayes said. Franq bowed and led them inside, closing the great doors firmly behind them and leaving the prying eyes and ears behind.

From the small narthex beneath the choir loft, Renna could see a nave meant to hold perhaps three hundred souls. The floors were plain stone, worn smooth by the passage of countless feet over the years. The pews were similarly worn, fine wood with concave depressions where the lacquer had been rubbed away by generations of posteriors. The support beams were carved with wards, as were the stained windows, but they were otherwise unadorned. The main altar was similarly plain, though fresh cloth had been thrown over the table and podium, emblazoned with the ivy and crooked staff of the Angierian Tenders. Thick carpeting had been put down beneath.

‘You’ll have to excuse the meanness of the accommodations,’ Franq said. ‘Once the expansion is complete, we’ll have a worthy House of the Creator, with proper appointments more fitting for His Holiness to receive in.’

Renna’s sharp ears picked up the sound of Arlen’s teeth grinding, but he said nothing as Franq led them to a door to the side of the altar that opened to a narrow hall they followed to a small windowless dining chamber. The dining room was much more richly appointed than the rest of the building. The cold stone walls had been covered in heavy woven tapestries, and a heavy table of polished goldwood ran the length of the room, covered in velvet cloth. The table was laid with delicate porcelain plates, silver utensils, and a golden candelabra. A warm fire blazed in the hearth, and more candles burned overhead on a simple wooden chandelier.

Three men had been sitting at the table, but they rose quickly when the Tender entered.

‘You recall Lord Arther, the count’s aide,’ Hayes said, indicating the man. ‘Next to him is Squire Gamon, captain of the count’s guard.’

Arther was clad in fine leggings and polished boots, wearing a white shirt cuffed with lace and a tabard bearing the count’s insignia, the wooden soldier. Over the back of his chair was slung a harness containing a short polished spear. The weapon was warded, with an elaborate crossguard encrusted with precious stones. It was beautiful and well maintained, but Arther did not have the look of a fighting man to Renna, and she wondered if it had ever tasted coreling ichor.

Her mouth watered at the thought, and she had to suppress a wave of revulsion. What was she becoming, that such things should stir her appetite?

Gamon was clad in similarly fine clothes, though his cuffs lacked the lace, and he had the hardness of a warrior about him, with a close-cropped beard that did not grow over the puckered lines of a demon scar. His eyes were fixed on Arlen, sizing him up as if before a brawl, and his spear had a worn look about it. It rested against the wall in easy reach.

‘Honoured,’ Arther said as he and the captain bowed. ‘The count sends his regrets, but he was delayed overseeing the construction of his keep.’

‘Din’t want to be seen dining with us, he means,’ Arlen murmured.

‘And this is the duke’s Herald, Lord Jasin Goldentone, nephew to Lord Janson, first minister of Angiers,’ Hayes said, indicating the third man. ‘Jasin will be heading back to Angiers on the morrow, but we were fortunate that your arrival allowed him to meet you before heading on his way.’

‘He’d have waited as long as it took to see us,’ Arlen said, again too low for any but Renna to hear.

The herald wore a fine fitted jacket and loose silken trousers of emerald green, tucked into high brown boots of kid leather. His half cape was brown, emblazoned with the ivy throne of Angiers. He swept it out with a flourish as he bowed to Renna, and the inside flashed with the bright motley colour she expected from a Jongleur.

‘I have never been so far as Tibbet’s Brook,’ he said, kissing her hand, ‘but perhaps I should rectify that, if the women there are as beautiful as you.’

Renna felt her face colour. ‘That’s enough of that,’ Arlen snapped.

‘Indeed,’ Hayes agreed, looking reproachfully at Jasin. ‘Please, be seated.’ He indicated settings for Arlen and Renna. Arther swept smoothly behind her and for a moment she nearly struck him until she realized he was simply pulling out the chair to slide it under her as she sat. The chair was padded with velvet. She had never sat on something so soft.

Franq clapped his hands, and acolytes appeared with wine bottles. The men – Arlen included – took their napkins off the table with a snap, placing them in their laps. Renna awkwardly did the same.

‘We have a wonderful menu tonight,’ Franq said. ‘Roast pheasant stuffed with apricot grain in a wine sauce and suckling pig slow-roasted over applewood with plum jelly.’ He turned to Renna. ‘Do you prefer red or white?’

‘Say again?’ Renna said.

Franq smiled. ‘Wine, child. What kind would you like?’

‘There’s more than one kind?’ Renna asked, and she felt her face colour as Jasin, Arther, and Franq laughed. ‘What’d I say?’ she murmured to Arlen under her breath.

Arlen looked ready to spit fire. ‘Nothing,’ he said, making no effort to keep his voice low. ‘They’re being rude, looking down over their fancy food and drink while folk a mile from here are eating weeds and thanking the Creator they have that much.’

Franq paled, glancing at the Tender before looking back at Arlen. ‘I meant no offence—’

Arlen ignored him, looking at Tender Hayes. ‘That what you teach your Children, Holiness? That it’s fair to mock regular folk? ’Cause where we come from, Tenders wear plain robes for a reason.’

Hayes’ jaw tightened. ‘It most certainly is not.’

‘Not how I see it,’ Arlen said. He looked back at Franq. ‘What was it you said about this Holy House? That it was mean? That it was not worthy?’

Franq had the look of a cornered deer. ‘I only meant that something more grand—’

‘You don’t know the meaning of the word,’ Arlen cut him off. ‘This Holy House is a symbol of the Hollowers’ strength. When all else was lost, this building stood strong. We put the wounded here, some in this very room, while their kith and kin stood outside and faced the night to protect them. Ent nothing mean about this place.’ He looked to Hayes. ‘But you’d tear it down and build something bigger, so people forget who they were before you came along, and forget the Tender whose House it was.’

Hayes’ face hardened at that. ‘Again with Jona! You’ve taken off your brown robe but still speak as a Holy Shepherd, telling us how our order is to be run. The count already promised that Jona’s wife would be allowed to see him, yet still you cause a scene outside in full view of the crowd, and again at my table.’

‘It was your scene outside,’ Arlen noted. He glanced at the others at the table. ‘Know you think us fools because we come from the hamlets, but I worked long years as a Messenger, and know politics when I see ’em. Stood in the graveyard and told all that I was neither Holy Man nor Heaven-sent, but that wasn’t enough for you. Had to push and make a show so folk think I’m in your flock,’ he glanced at Arther, Gamon, and Jasin, ‘while the Royals send their footmen through the back door to listen in and report back. Leave me out of your games. I hold to no Canon and swore no oath to the ivy throne.’

Renna leaned back in her seat, watching in amusement. No one paid her the slightest mind. The other men looked outraged, but Hayes held up a hand to calm them.

‘Nevertheless,’ Hayes said, ‘the ivy throne is sovereign in Angiers, and all within its borders are subject to its laws. Duke Rhinebeck and Shepherd Pether have decreed that Cutter’s Hollow is a Canonic holding, Mr Bales. If you reside here, you are subject to both the count’s jurisdiction and my own.’

‘Evejan law,’ Arlen said.

‘Eh?’ the Tender asked.

‘Religion and law are one in Krasia, as well,’ Arlen said. ‘Their holy book, the Evejah, is the basis for their entire culture, and as the Krasians conquer the southland, they press Evejan law on its people, forcing them to cover up and pray to Everam whether they like it or not. They rape the women and enslave the men, taking away their children to be indoctrinated fully. Even if they cease their advance now, in a generation everyone in their territory will be Evejan, quadrupling their numbers.’

‘Then you see why we must resist them utterly,’ Hayes said, ‘and reject this false god with a renewal of faith in the true Creator.’

‘In resisting them, you are becoming them,’ Arlen said. ‘And I won’t stand for it here in the Hollow. Spout all you like from the pulpit. If you can sway folk, that’s their choice. But you try some archaic nonsense like staking a fornicator out for the demons, I’ll break the stake over my knee and shove half through your door and the other half through the count’s.’

‘You wouldn’t!’ Franq growled.

‘You see if he don’t,’ Renna said.

‘How dare you!’ Arther shouted. Captain Gamon leapt to his feet, grabbing his spear. ‘By the authority of Count Thamos, I place you under arrest for treason …’

Arlen snorted, not even bothering to rise. He casually drew a ward in the air, and the blade of Gamon’s spear turned the grey-blue of a hazy sky. The air about the weapon began to shimmer, and both blade and shaft fogged and turned white as rime frost covered its length.

There was a creaking sound, and Gamon cried out and dropped the weapon, clutching his hand as if burned. Jasin leapt out of his chair as the spear struck the stone floor between them, shattering into a thousand pieces.

‘Aaah, Creator, my hand!’ Gamon shrieked.

‘Quit acting the fool and sit back down,’ Arlen said. He looked to one of the serving boys, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed. ‘Bring the squire a bowl of cool water to soak his hand in.’ The boy ran off without so much as a glance to Hayes or Franq.

Hayes steepled his fingers. ‘So you think yourself above the law of both man and Creator? Is this your way of informing me that your speech this morning was a lie? That you really do believe you are the Deliverer?’

Arlen shook his head. ‘My way of informing you that I’m not some bumpkin you can push around. Came back to the Hollow because I’ve got work to do, not to pick a fight with you or the count. So long as you’re doing right by folk – and it seems for the most part you are – want us to be friends. But you been taking liberties, and need to know where the wards end. Got no interest in being a pawn in your politicking, and I’ll have satisfaction the next time one of you is fool enough to mock my promised.’

Hayes nodded. ‘I apologize for any insult to you and Miss Tanner. It was unintentional, and I assure you,’ he glanced at Franq, ‘my aide will be properly reprimanded.’

The Tender spread his hands. ‘I want us to be friends, as well. Neither the count nor I wish to make an enemy of you, Mr Bales. Thamos’ brother the duke commanded he come south, secure the border, and protect its people. My own mandate from Shepherd Pether is much the same. I am to minister to these people as your own Jona would have in his absence – a matter I have little sway over.’

‘Is that your entire mandate?’ Arlen asked.

Hayes shook his head. ‘There is one more matter. You.’

‘Me,’ Arlen said.

‘You are not the first would-be Deliverer in Angiers,’ Hayes said. ‘Tales of His return crop up every few years, especially in the hamlets. The Tenders of the Creator investigate every one for validity. I myself have investigated a dozen in my tenure – every one a fraud.’

Arlen smiled. ‘Add one more to the list, because I ent Him.’

Hayes leaned forward. ‘Perhaps, but neither are you a simple Messenger from the hamlets, no matter what you claim. You’re quick to say what you’re not, but you have yet to say what you are. You use demon magic; who is to say you are not corespawn yourself?’

Silence fell on the room, and Renna bristled. The other men leaned in to hear every nuance of Arlen’s reply even as Hayes sat back. Jasin produced a small notebook and a tiny pencil. Tales were money to Jongleurs, and heralds most of all, though they had an audience of one.

‘Saw me stand in the sun just this morning,’ Arlen said. ‘Can corespawn do that?’

Hayes shrugged. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘And the thousands of demons I’ve killed, including what you witnessed last night?’ Arlen asked. ‘Those just a ruse to gain men’s trust?’

‘You tell me,’ Hayes said.

‘Doesn’t need to tell you anything,’ Renna snapped. All eyes turned suddenly to her.

‘Excuse me, young lady,’ Hayes said, his tone reproachful, ‘but—’

‘Arlen din’t want to come tonight,’ Renna cut him off. ‘Said this would happen. Said you’d try to use him, or accuse him. Said we’d be better off talking to a wall. I was the one told him to be neighbourly.’ She stood. ‘Regrettin’ that decision now, and don’t see any reason we need to stay for this kind of talk. Enjoy your pheasant.’

She strode for the door, and Arlen shrugged apologetically at the Tender, a grin on his face as he moved to follow.

The sun was setting outside, the streets of the Hollow bustling with activity. Squads of Cutters were forming in the Corelings’ Graveyard, preparing for their nightly patrols, and vendors continued their brisk business, selling food, drink, and other items with no apparent plans to pack up for the day. Even the workers digging the foundation to the new Holy House continued to work. Renna knew the greatward kept them all safe through the night, but it hadn’t truly dawned on her just what that meant. Freedom, night and day. In Hollow County, humans were not forced to live on the demons’ schedule.

‘Won’t it be too dark to keep working soon?’ Renna asked.

Arlen shook his head. ‘Magic’s about to rise. There’ll be light enough for all before long.’

Renna wondered at that, watching for the telltale signs of the rise, wisps of smoky light drifting up from the ground, visible only to her and Arlen’s warded eyes.

But there was no sign of magic’s fog on the greatward. Instead, the entire street grew warm underfoot, and began to glow. She thought she was imagining it at first, but it soon grew too bright to ignore. So bright that it was apparent everyone could see the light, warded eyes or no. The casual air of the people on the streets towards the growing dark now made sense. It was not as clear as day, but more than bright enough to see and work by.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Renna said. She could see the edge of the greatward not far off. The magic there rose normally, but flowed towards the greatward in the same way it flowed towards Arlen when he called it. She could feel the ward tugging at her own personal magic, as well. That growing core of power that had been born when she first tasted demon meat was drawn like a lodestone towards an iron pot. Her footsteps felt heavy, and she felt weaker and slightly dizzy.

‘Used to feel … off on the greatward,’ Arlen said, as if reading her mind. ‘Like I was walking through water, or had been out in the sun too long.’

‘Used to?’ Renna asked.

‘Everything’s different now,’ Arlen said. ‘Greatward draws so much power, and tapping into it’s as easy as breathing.’ He drew a deep breath, and his wards flared to life, brighter than she had ever seen them. He blew it back out, and they died away again. ‘I can even let the excess back into the ward if I don’t need it, strengthening the forbidding.’ He looked at Renna. ‘Powerful here, Ren. More’n I ever dreamed. Don’t even need to kill for it. Can’t say it’ll be enough, but come new moon, whatever the Core sees fit to spew at us will be in for the fight of its life.’

He turned to another great building, this one situated on the other side of the cobbles. It was the only warded structure Renna had seen in the Hollow, its symbols large and strong, etched deep into the wood.

‘Hospit,’ Arlen said. ‘Need to see Mistress Vika before she goes off to Angiers, and perhaps I can ease her burden before she goes. Time I’m done in there, she won’t have so much as a kid with a sniffle.’

‘Sure that’s a good idea?’ Renna asked. ‘Liable to start this Deliverer business right back up.’

‘That’s happening like or not,’ Arlen said. ‘I ent the Deliverer, but I’m done hiding what I can do. We stirred up a hornets’ nest, killing that mind demon, and unless I miss my guess, the stinging starts on new moon. Need everyone on their feet.’

Renna scowled.

‘What?’ Arlen caught the look. Renna crossed her arms, turning away.

A moment later she felt Arlen’s arms around her, squeezing gently. ‘Something’s botherin’ you, Ren, just say it. I learned a lot from that demon, but reading minds ent a trick I’m ready to try.’

Renna sighed. ‘Don’t like you healing.’

Arlen stiffened. ‘What? Why? I should leave folk laid up? Crippled? Dying?’

Renna wanted nothing more than to stay in his arms, but she shook them off, rounding to face him. ‘Ent that. Just think it ent safe. You call me reckless, but you near kill yourself every time you heal. Too stubborn to know when to stop. So ay. I’d rather some nit broke his leg heal the old-fashioned way than have you pass out tryin’ to fix it.’

She expected him to shout at her, but Arlen only nodded. ‘Still getting the hang of it. But I got the greatward to draw on, and I’ll be careful, Ren. I promise.’

6
The Earring
333 AR Summer
29 Dawns Before Waning

‘Ah! Aaaaah!’

Inevera fell into her breath as the cries of the Northern whore emanated from her earring.

The ring seemed a simple silver bauble, but it was etched with tiny wards and powered by a half pebble of demon bone at its centre. The other half of that pebble rode in the ring’s mate, which she had given to Jardir on their wedding day, its true nature unknown even to him.

As you love me, you will never remove it, she told him that day.

The wards were normally out of alignment, but with a twist Inevera could activate them, and the bit of hora would resonate with its twin, sound carrying through to her like a child’s toy of cups and string.

Including the sound of Leesha Paper moaning pleasure into her husband’s ear.

I am the palm, Inevera told herself, and this is only wind. I will bend, but I will not break.

Her eyes flicked to Melan and Asavi, her closest advisors. They could not hear the ring – its magic tuned to the wearer alone – but it made little difference. Ahmann and Leesha played their lovegames openly now, at least inside the palace. Inevera was forced to smile and act unbothered, even as it eroded her power among the dama’ting and the men in Jardir’s court.

She clenched her fist. There was little she could do to oppose them. Ahmann was Shar’Dama Ka, and by any accepted interpretation of the Evejah, it was his right to have any woman he desired. Inevera had worked for years to ensure his needs were met by her personally, or women she had carefully selected – ones that brought him power and children, but whom she could easily dominate or eliminate.

Leesha Paper was neither. She could indeed bring Ahmann power, but she was cagey with it, and haughty as an Andrah’s First Wife. She would not be dominated, and Inevera had failed to eliminate her twice. The first time Inevera had commanded her eldest daughter Amanvah, betrothed to the red-haired Northerner Rojer, to poison Leesha. The girl was loyal but inexperienced, and bungled the job badly.

Leesha could have gone to Jardir then, making their fight public and ugly. Jardir would have been furious. Perhaps uncontrollably so.

But Leesha had said nothing, and even allowed Amanvah to remain in her presence. Inevera had been forced to concede her a measure of respect for that, and when she had her eunuch Watchers break into Leesha’s bedchamber soon after, she had foolishly tried to bully the woman off rather than simply killing her. That same night she had been forced to save Leesha’s life, that they might face the mind demon attempting to kill Jardir together.

Of course, if she hadn’t, the demon might well have taken Jardir’s life, and hers as well. Much as Inevera hated to admit it, the Northern hedge witch was formidable, and her power had only increased that night. Inevera had been unable to stop her from taking powerful alagai hora from the mind demon – much as Inevera herself had. She had sent eunuchs to retrieve the bones, but they returned beaten and empty-handed. Leesha would not be taken off guard again.

So Inevera listened. Listened and tried not to feel replaced. Supplanted. Humiliated.

She breathed, restoring her calm. The woman would be returning to her barbarian village soon enough, and good riddance. Inevera would reclaim her rightful place in Jardir’s bed, and all would be as it was.

Perhaps.

The moans and cries of passion faded, replaced by gentle murmuring. Inevera strained her ears, trying to make out the muffled words. This was worse than the cries of passion and the slapping of flesh. Inevera had watched her husband with other women many times, and knew well the sounds he made, and those he drew from women. Confident in her pillow dancing, Inevera had no fear of anything Leesha could do in love. It was the quiet moments, when he and Leesha lay intertwined, that Inevera loathed.

‘Marry me,’ Jardir said.

‘How many times must I refuse you, before you stop asking?’ Leesha replied, feigning ignorance of the incredible honour she was being paid.

‘If you refuse me ten thousand times,’ Jardir said, ‘I will ask ten thousand more. Come, there is still time. I am Shar’Dama Ka, and can marry us with a wave of my hand. Wed me now, in secret. Your mother and Abban can bear witness and sign the contracts. No one else need know until we deem otherwise, but we would know.’

Abban. Inevera’s lip curled. He was wrapped up in this, making his own plays for power and Jardir’s ear. He would need to be dealt with, as well.

‘Ask me ten thousand times, or twenty thousand,’ Leesha said, ‘the answer is still no. You have enough wives.’

‘I will deny them all my bed,’ Jardir said, and Inevera bristled. ‘All save Inevera,’ he amended, and she found her breath again, still stunned at his foolishness. It was said Sharum could not haggle, and Jardir was Sharum to his bones.

‘So I would only have to share you with one other woman instead of fourteen?’ Leesha asked.

‘You share me now,’ Jardir growled, and Inevera bit her lip at the sound of their renewed kissing.

‘We are alone, Ahmann,’ Leesha said, and Jardir gasped in pleasure. ‘For the next few hours, I am not sharing you with anyone.’

‘Damajah!’ Melan cried. ‘Your hands!’

Inevera looked down and saw blood running from her clenched fists. Her long painted nails were sharp, and had cut hard into the heels of her hands. Numb, she hadn’t even realized it. Even now, they seemed someone else’s hands as Melan and Asavi took them, carefully cleaning and bandaging the wounds.

How had it come to this? How had she failed Ahmann, that he shamed her so? She had seen him trained and educated before the Sharum could beat the potential from him or see him killed in waste. She had handed him a unified Krasia, and given him the tools to drive the alagai all the way back to Nie’s abyss. She had given him four sons and three daughters, and selected Jiwah Sen to keep his bed warm and provide him with yet more children.

‘Perhaps I should have selected Northern whores for him to slake his lust for white skin upon,’ she muttered.

‘Men are predictable creatures,’ Melan said.

‘The first thing they do when they overpower something is hump it like a dog,’ Asavi agreed. ‘Many of the Sharum are developing a taste for pale skin.’

Still lovers after all these years, Melan and Asavi shared quarters and were always at each other’s side. They had no personal interest in men beyond their seed, and had long since used the dice to choose a father for their daughter heirs, both doing the deed in one night and never seeing him again.

But for all their bias, the words rang true enough, and Inevera should have anticipated it. Now, because she hadn’t, her husband was bewitched by an infidel whore in the perfumed chamber where they had lain so many times.

Already Leesha’s whispered advice had begun to change Ahmann, making him rethink centuries of culture and tradition. Some of his resulting decrees were innocuous enough, but others were dangerous, alienating his own people for the sake of Northern sensibilities, forgetting they were meant to be his subjects, not allies.

They did not have years to treat with the chin. Sharak Ka was coming. In some ways, it had already begun.

7
Training
300 AR

Inevera always hated when her father brought Sharum to their home. She and her mother did all the cooking and serving while her father shouted and swatted at them, making a great show before his friends as they grew increasingly drunk and rowdy, playing Sharak with clay dice. Even before he took the black, Kasaad had forbidden Soli to do work of any kind. ‘You’re a warrior, my son, not some khaffit or woman!’

When she was younger, the men had ignored Inevera and leered at Manvah, but as she approached womanhood some of those leers had turned Inevera’s way. One Sharum, a disgusting man named Cemal, had even tried to paw at her.

But though he could not cook or carry, Soli was always there to protect. Cemal’s hand had barely begun to squeeze before her brother put a hard knee between the man’s legs and broke his nose.

Kasaad had laughed, mocking Cemal and congratulating his son, but he hadn’t so much as glanced at Inevera to see if she was all right. Worse, he had continued to invite Cemal into their home, and did nothing to stop the leering. Inevera knew the Sharum were only waiting for Soli’s attention to lapse.

Serving her father and half a dozen drunken Sharum terrified Inevera, but not half so much as serving Waxing Tea to the dama’ting.

A semicircle of velvet pillows was spread on the thick carpet of the dining chamber. Kenevah sat first at the centre, and was immediately served a steaming cup of tea by Melan. The girl was like a wisp of smoke, appearing to fill the cup and then vanishing again.

‘Qeva, sit at my right,’ Kenevah bade, gesturing at the pillow there. ‘Favah, my left.’

Qeva sat as she was bade, as did Favah, a venerable Bride who looked older even than Kenevah. Asavi and another nie’dama’ting stepped forward to serve them.

Kenevah lifted her cup, and the three women drank. Then Kenevah invited two more Brides to sit, one on each side. They were served hot tea, and all five drank.

The tea for the next pair of women, served from the same pots, was barely hot. For the next pair, it was merely warm. By the time the last Bride sat and all of them drank, it was cold.

Food was served in the same order, with Kenevah’s most favoured getting the choicest cuts of meat, though all dined on food finer than Inevera knew existed. The smell of it made her dizzy with hunger.

After these rituals, the dama’ting relaxed, talking quite amiably among themselves. Their handsome eunuchs did the cooking and most of the carrying, but it was up to the Betrothed to attend the Brides directly.

The dama’ting before Inevera finished her tea and set the empty cup before her. When Inevera did not immediately move to refill it, she glanced back with a raised eyebrow. Inevera hurried forward with the pot, spilling a single drop on the table. The dama’ting to her other side glanced at it, sniffing disdainfully.

When she returned to the service, Melan pinched her and it was all Inevera could do not to cry out. ‘Idiot,’ the girl whispered. ‘We’ll all pay for that. Spill again and next time you bathe we’ll hold you under until you meet Everam.’

Even in such exclusive company, the dama’ting kept their veils in place, leaning over their bowls and using a pair of smooth sticks to quickly bring morsels to their mouths. Occasionally Inevera caught a glimpse of a mouth or nose, and immediately averted her eyes. The sight felt more obscene than watching Kasaad bend Manvah over a pile of baskets.

When the dama’ting had finished their supper, the Betrothed served themselves from the remains in the kitchen. Melan and the other girls shoved Inevera to the back of the line, and there was little food remaining when they were through. She managed to scrape a bowl’s worth from what clung to the sides of the cookpots, but even then the other girls sat in tight circles, deliberately shutting her out. She ate alone, and followed numbly as Qeva ushered them back to the Vault at sunset.

The nie’dama’ting slept in a communal chamber, lit by a ceiling that glowed with clear wardlight. Inevera’s eyes drifted up and stared at the magical symbols with unbridled wonder.

‘You’ll learn your warding soon enough,’ Qeva said, noting her stare. ‘Melan, where is your cot?’

There were several neat rows of cots at the centre of the room. Melan pointed to a corner spot, well away from the door.

Qeva nodded. ‘Who sleeps there?’ She gestured to the cot next to Melan’s.

‘Asavi,’ Melan said, and the girl stepped quickly forward.

Qeva grunted. ‘Your pillow sister will have to find a new place. Inevera will sleep next to you for the next twelve Wanings, that you may better instruct her.’

Melan gave an almost imperceptible hiss as Asavi moved to collect her possessions – books and writing implements, mostly. She glared at Inevera as she passed, and the look might as well have been knives.

‘You have your liberty until the wardlight fades,’ Qeva said, and left the room.

Inevera held her breath, waiting for the girls to come at her, but again they ignored her, breaking into small, tight circles, locking her out. Inevera went to her cot, took out the Evejah’ting, and began to read.

It was hours before the wardlight faded, but she had barely made a dent in the thick book. She set the ribbon on her page and passed into a fitful sleep.

Inevera woke to find someone hovering over her in the darkness. Her eyes were adjusted to the darkness, but it was still little more than a silhouette, moving cautiously to keep quiet. She caught her breath a moment, then remembered herself and began an even breathing to feign sleep. She let herself snore softly, as her mother often did.

Inevera had no possessions save for her Evejah’ting and hora pouch, nothing to use as a weapon, if such would even do her good against a room full of girls who despised her. Could they kill her here, in the dark, and get away with it? She tensed to run, though there was nowhere she could run to. Even if she could find the door in the blackness, it was barred from the outside.

But the silhouette moved past, shuffling to Melan’s bed. There was a rustle as the blanket was thrown back.

‘I think she might have heard me,’ Asavi whispered.

There was a pause. ‘She’s asleep. I can hear her snoring,’ Melan said. ‘And who cares what the bad throw thinks?’

Inevera lay in her cot, trying to keep the rhythm of her snoring steady as she listened to the sounds of kissing and whispers of love from Melan’s cot. She had never kissed another girl, never even considered it, but she did envy them. Inevera had never felt so alone.

Inevera woke again, this time to a stabbing pain in her side. She cried out, half sitting, and saw Melan drawing back her foot for another kick. ‘Up with you, bad throw.’

The wardlights were active again, and most of the other girls had already woven their bidos. Aching to make water, Inevera moved quickly for the privy curtain, but Melan caught her arm. ‘You should have woken sooner if you wanted time for that. The dama’ting will come at any moment, and if your bido isn’t fully woven when she arrives, a full bladder will be the least of your worries.’

Inevera’s face went cold, and in an instant she was leaping for a fresh silk, her discomfort forgotten. The other girls watched her with scowls on their faces as she quickly wove her bido.

Asavi spat at Inevera’s feet. ‘So she’s a weaver’s daughter. It proves nothing.’

Barely a moment after Inevera finished tying, the heavy doors to the sleeping chamber opened and Qeva stood waiting. The girls lined up in only their bidos, and Inevera followed them out of the Vault and into another great chamber of the underpalace.

‘We begin each day with sharusahk,’ Melan advised. ‘You will not speak. Do exactly as the dama’ting does.’

Inevera nodded as the girls lined up in neat rows, each standing two paces apart. Qeva strode to a small dais at the front of the room, reaching to unfasten her robe. The silk fell away in a whisper, and she stood nude before the assembled girls, save for her veil and headscarf.

Slowly, she began doing a series of stretches. The other girls copied her, and Inevera struggled to do the same. Qeva’s flesh was smooth and muscled, soon coated in a sheen of sweat and scented oil. Inevera wondered how such slow movement could make the woman sweat as if she had run in the hot sun for an hour.

The movements were gentle and precise – nothing like the broad, brutal motions Soli had practised. But though gentle in appearance, the poses proved far more complex than Soli’s. Inevera was forced to attain positions she hadn’t known possible and hold them for extended periods of time. Never-before-used muscles screamed at the strain, and she broke into a heavy sweat, heart thumping as she struggled for air. It seemed no amount of gasping could pull in a full breath, and she feared that at any moment she would lose control of her water.

Qeva leaned forward on her left leg until her body was perpendicular to the floor, arms out before her as if to embrace. Her right foot raised high into the air and curled back over, toes nearly touching her tailbone.

Inevera attempted the pose, but lost her balance, pitching forward onto her hands.

‘Hold pose,’ Qeva said, and the other girls were left balanced in that precarious position as she stepped down from the dais.

‘Stand up straight,’ the dama’ting commanded. Inevera got quickly to her feet, and Qeva put one hand on her bare chest and the other in the hollow where her shoulders met. ‘Breathe in through your nostrils. Deeply.’ She squeezed, and Inevera had to overcome the resistance to inflate her chest.

The dama’ting grunted. ‘Out. Slow.’ She continued to squeeze as Inevera slowly let the air out at an even pace.

‘Again,’ Qeva said. ‘Breath is life. If you have breath, you have your centre. If you have your centre, nothing can truly touch you. You will not feel hunger or pain. Not love nor hate. No fear. No anxiety. Only the breath.’

Already, Inevera felt herself calming. The insistent cries of her full bladder and empty stomach faded as she followed the path of her breath from her nose to her belly and out again. Around her, the girls began to wobble, strain telling on their faces as they held the difficult pose.

‘With me,’ Qeva said. Still squeezing, she began to breathe in a slow rhythm, and Inevera paced her own breaths to match. ‘As the breathing cleanses your mind, these will hone your body, until the two act as one.’ When they were in sync, the dama’ting took her hands away and grabbed Inevera’s arms, spreading them wide above her.

‘Cobra’s hood,’ Qeva said, and glanced at the other girls. ‘Resume.’

There were sighs of relief throughout the room as the girls all stood straight, reaching for the ceiling with arms spread.

‘These are the sharukin,’ Qeva said as she guided Inevera through the next several movements, gently correcting her posture. ‘Vulture’s beak. Jackal’s spring.’

She leaned Inevera forward into the position she had stumbled in. ‘Scorpion’s tail.’ The dama’ting stepped her left foot on Inevera’s, holding her in place as she hooked her right foot around Inevera’s right ankle and lifted her leg until she could catch it, pulling it higher and higher, then bending it over until Inevera felt her tendons straining to the limit. She gasped and wobbled.

‘Breathe,’ Qeva said. ‘You are the palm, and breath is the wind. Use its power to lead you back to balance and guide you from one form to the next.’

Inevera returned to the rhythm, and found the steady breathing did indeed aid her. Qeva noted her renewed balance and nodded, returning to the dais.

The lesson went on for some time. Inevera still wobbled and felt awkward, her joints stretched into fire, but she kept her breath steady, and was relieved when Qeva finally relaxed, reaching into a box beside the dais. There was a clatter of metal and she came away with four tiny cymbals, one strapped to each thumb and forefinger.

At a nod, Melan went and took up the box, taking her own cymbals and passing it along. All the other girls did the same, and soon they were back in place, waiting for Qeva to begin this next part of the lesson.

Qeva turned to stand in profile, her hands held high, cymbals poised. One leg was stretched out before her, the other kept close.

The other girls assumed the same pose, and Inevera did her best to imitate it.

‘Knees bent,’ Qeva said. ‘Weight on the balls of your feet.’

When Inevera corrected herself and found her centre, the dama’ting clapped her cymbals four times, each time snapping her round hips so they cracked like a whip.

‘All,’ she said, and repeated the move. The other girls copied her with practised precision, but Inevera found the move trickier than it looked.

‘Again,’ Qeva said. ‘Watch closer.’

Again she rang the cymbals and snapped her hips, and again the move eluded Inevera. At first she could not figure out how to move her hips, and then her cymbals were out of sync with the others. Doing both at once seemed impossible.

Over and over Qeva took her through the move. Inevera could sense the irritation of the other girls as she struggled, but there was nothing she could do save try and try again.

Finally, Qeva seemed satisfied. She grunted and began to ring the cymbals in a continuous pattern, snapping her hips to match. Inevera fell into the rhythm, and soon it was second nature. She found herself smiling.

But then the dama’ting began to move, stepping around her dais with lithe grace, never ceasing the rhythm of the cymbals or her hips. It was beautiful. Mesmerizing. And when Inevera tried to imitate her, she walked right into Melan, bringing them both down in a heap.

‘Idiot!’ Melan snapped.

Qeva leapt from the dais, slapping Melan hard on the face, her cymbals rang with the impact. ‘The fault is yours, Melan! The Damaji’ting assigned you to teach her the ways of the nie’dama’ting! What have you taught her? She did not know so much as cobra’s hood or the first turn of the hips.’

She lifted a finger and put it in Melan’s face. ‘You must learn to take your responsibility seriously. Until Inevera can keep pace with the class, you are denied the Chamber of Shadows.’

All the other girls gasped, and Melan’s eyes bulged.

‘Point those wilful eyes at me a moment longer,’ Qeva said, ‘and you will find yourself living in the great harem, a plaything of the Sharum.’

Melan dropped her eyes, bowing deeply. ‘Yes, Dama’ting.’

After sharusahk, the girls lined up by the kitchens where a pair of aging eunuchs gave each a ladle of thin porridge. Inevera could see in the eyes of Melan and the other girls that they meant to shove her to the back of the line, so she gave way freely. There was nothing to be gained in pointless confrontation. It was best to appear meek as she learned the ways of the nie’dama’ting.

Inevera’s bowl was less than half full, the final watery remains of the porridge pot. Even so, she barely had time to gulp it down before Melan came for her.

‘It is nearly dawn,’ Melan said. ‘The dama’ting leave for the pavilion shortly, and Nie take us if we are late.’

‘The pavilion?’ Inevera asked.

Melan looked at her as if she were an idiot. ‘The Sharum will be returning from the Maze at dawn, and the injured are taken to the pavilion. We assist the dama’ting in the healing.’

Inevera remembered the screams of injured Sharum filtering through the canvas walls the day before, and imagined men all around her, covered in blood, howling as she helped the dama’ting cut and stitch their flesh.

She felt suddenly dizzy, and her face flushed hot. The thin porridge rose back up her throat.

Melan slapped her hard in the face. Porridge and bile flew in a spray, spattering the stone floor as the crack echoed off the chamber walls. Every girl in the room looked up at that, their gazes cold. There were no dama’ting present, and the eunuchs were mute as ever.

‘Everam’s balls, find your centre!’ Melan snapped. ‘The dama’ting take nothing so seriously as the healing. Already the Chamber of Shadows is denied me. If so much as a drop of Sharum blood falls because of your weakness, the dama’ting will have it from my hide a hundredfold.’ She moved in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘And if that happens, I will cut off your nipples and make you eat them.’

Inevera stared at her as the words sank in. Melan gave her no time to respond, grabbing her arm and pulling her back towards the Vault. The girls quickly washed their hands and faces, donning their white robes and lining up once again. Melan led the way back to the Vault doors, where they met the dama’ting who guided them out of the palace and through the Undercity to the catacombs beneath the Kaji dama’ting pavilion, where they waited for the dama to sing the dawn from the minarets of Sharik Hora.

Assisting the dama’ting in their healing was every bit as bloody and horrid as Inevera had feared. Her ears rang with the shouts and screams, half from Sharum too lost in agony to embrace their pain, and half from Melan and the dama’ting, cursing her slowness.

Once, while carrying a jug of instruments soaking in a harsh fluid that made couzi smell mild, she tripped and spilled a few drops. Melan punched her full in the face for that, with Qeva and another dama’ting looking on. Neither woman said a word, more interested in the instruments Inevera carried than her swelling cheek.

On the table before them, a warrior thrashed and flailed as they tried to cut the black robes away from a deep gash in his abdomen. The Brides tossed shattered bits of ceramic armour plates into a palm basket where they clattered, wet with blood.

Qeva threw a pair of silk cords to Melan. ‘Pin him.’

Melan took one of the cords, handing the other to Inevera. ‘Be swift, and do exactly as I do.’ She wound the cord around her fists with perhaps a forearm’s length between.

Inevera had no time to ponder those instructions before Melan moved in, impossibly fast and graceful as she wrapped the cord around the warrior’s wrist, twisting back and using leverage to hold his arm out straight. He tried to resist, but Melan knew the angles where his arm was weakest and kept control.

‘Now!’ she shouted, as the man grabbed at her awkwardly with his other hand. Inevera rushed in, attempting to do as Melan had. She caught the Sharum’s wrist in a twist of silk, but she did not know precisely where to step or how to shift her weight as Melan had. The warrior caught her with a backhand blow that made Melan’s punch feel like a kiss.

Inevera hit the floor hard and Qeva hissed, stabbing two stiffened fingers into the man’s shoulder joint. His arm spasmed and lost its strength long enough for Inevera to recover her cord and pin him once more. Qeva glared at Melan in irritation, and Melan in turn glared at Inevera silently as they held the warrior prone. The dama’ting forced a sleeping draught down his throat, and he soon went limp. The Brides began to cut, oblivious to the blood and other, fouler fluids that stained their pristine white robes.

‘This will not do,’ Qeva said after a time.

‘He needs hora magic, if he is to survive,’ the other Bride agreed. She looked at Melan. ‘Take him to the catacombs.’

Melan nodded, and she and Inevera heaved at the poles of the stretcher that hung limp at the sides of the operating table. The warrior easily outweighed the two girls combined, but Inevera was no stranger to hard work, and her steps did not falter. Asavi scurried ahead to open the trapdoor, and the dama’ting led them down into the darkness.

Asavi waited until Inevera and Melan had descended the steps, then pulled the door shut behind them, leaving them in perfect pitch until Qeva produced her glowing bit of demon bone, lighting the way to a stone chamber with another operating table. There was a steel door cut into the rock wall, and Qeva took a key from around her neck and opened it, revealing what looked like an assortment of coal lumps and blackened bones. Alagai hora. She selected a modestly sized lump and closed the door with a click as the locking mechanism re-engaged.

‘Suction,’ Qeva said, and Melan fetched a device of tubes and bellows, operated by a foot pedal. Inevera pumped the pedal evenly as Melan inserted one of the tubes into the warrior’s open wound, siphoning the blood into a glass chamber.

The dama’ting cleaned the edges of the wound, first clearing the blood and then shaving the surrounding area. As they worked, Asavi prepared brushes and a bowl of ink.

‘Inevera, step close,’ Qeva said. Asavi took her place at the pedal, and Inevera approached the Brides, taking care to stay out of their way.

Qeva did not look at her as she spoke. ‘First, the siphon ward, drawn at the north edge of the wound.’ She dipped a brush in the ink and drew a strange symbol. Inevera watched intently, expecting the ink to glow, but there was no effect. ‘Next, the wards for strength, endurance, and blood.’ She drew quickly, moving her brush clockwise along the Sharum’s flesh, putting wards at each compass point around the wound.

‘Now they must be connected,’ Qeva said, drawing the same ward four times in the gaps between the others, forming an octagon.

When she was done, she gestured to the other dama’ting, who held forth the lump of demon bone from the cabinet. As soon as the bone was brought close to the wound, the wards Qeva had drawn did indeed glow, flaring fiercely to life.

‘The wards are not magic,’ Qeva said, ‘but they leach magic from the demon bone and turn the alagai’s power to Everam’s purpose.’

As Inevera looked on open-mouthed, the Sharum’s flesh began to knit back together, the wound closing like two cupped hands of water brought together as one. In moments the wound was gone without so much as a scar. The new flesh looked paler, untouched by the sun or ever-blowing sands, healthier even than the skin around it.

‘Praise be to Everam,’ Inevera whispered, awestruck. ‘With such magic, no Sharum need ever die again.’

Qeva shook her head sadly. ‘If only it were so. Even hora magic cannot cure the most serious wounds, and such power is not without its price.’ She gestured to the lump of demon bone, which was crumbling away in the other dama’ting’s hand. ‘Healing is the most taxing of magic, and not used lightly. The alagai may be an endless scourge, but harvesting their bones is costlier in lives than the bones can save. We must use the power sparingly.’

‘And secretly,’ the other Bride added sternly. ‘The Sharum are already too reckless with their lives. Everam only knows what heights of idiocy they might reach if they knew we possessed such power. Better to let as many as possible heal naturally.’

Qeva nodded. ‘We will keep this one from his brothers for some time, drugged senseless as he “heals”.’

‘But is he not needed to defend us from the alagai?’ Inevera asked.

Melan laughed, and Qeva glanced her way. ‘Thank you for volunteering to carry this warrior back up to the pavilion and wash bido silks for the rest of the day, daughter.’

Melan stiffened, but she bowed. ‘I apologize for my disrespect, Mother.’

Qeva whisked a hand, dismissing her. ‘Accepted. Take Asavi with you.’

Unsure of what to do, Inevera stood frozen as the two girls heaved the healed Sharum back up on the stretcher and carried him from the chamber. The other dama’ting led their way with a glowing demon bone.

When all were gone, Qeva turned back to her. ‘Despite her lack of respect, Melan is not incorrect. It is the wardwalls, not warriors, that protect the Desert Spear. Until the Deliverer comes again, alagai’sharak is only the pride of men, throwing lives away for victories not worth their price.’

Inevera’s eyes widened at the blasphemy. Soli and Kasaad risked themselves in the Maze every night. Her grandfathers, uncles, and male ancestors going back three hundred years had died in the Maze, as she had always thought her own sons would. It could not simply be the pride of men. ‘Does not the Evejah tell us that killing alagai is worth any price?’

‘The Evejah tells us that obeying the Shar’Dama Ka is worth any price,’ Qeva said. ‘And the Shar’Dama Ka commanded we kill alagai.’

Inevera opened her mouth, but Qeva raised a finger and cut her off. ‘But the Shar’Dama Ka has been dead for three thousand years, and took the fighting wards to his grave. Each night, more men die in the Maze than are born each day. There were millions of us before the Return. Now, less than a hundred thousand, all because of men and their ridiculous game.’

‘Game?’ Inevera asked. ‘How is defending the city’s walls from demons in sacred alagai’sharak a game?’

‘Because the walls need no defence,’ Qeva said. ‘Kaji built the Desert Spear with two wardwalls – one outer, at the city’s ancient perimeter, and one inner, to protect the oasis and its surrounding palaces and tribes. Between them lies the Maze, built on the ruins of the outer city.’ She paused, making sure to meet Inevera’s eyes. ‘Neither wall has ever been breached.’

Inevera looked at her curiously. ‘Then how do demons get into the Maze each night?’

‘We let them in,’ Qeva growled. ‘The Sharum Ka opens the gates wide till the Maze is well seeded, then closes them again, trapping the demons in the Maze for his men to hunt.’

Inevera felt much as she had earlier in the day, when Melan slapped her. She felt dizzy, and put a hand to the wall to steady herself.

‘Breathe,’ Qeva said. ‘Find your centre.’

Inevera did as she bade, drawing deep, rhythmic breaths and using them to steady both her limbs and her pounding heart.

The technique helped, but not enough to step away from all the anger she felt. Part of her wanted to slap every man in the city across the face. She had thought Soli and her father brave; their sacrifice great as they stepped into the Maze each night. But if the solution was to simply leave the gates closed …

‘Those … idiots,’ Inevera said at last.

Qeva nodded. ‘But idiots or no, it is not the place of nie’dama’ting to make light of their sacrifice.’

Inevera remembered Qeva’s punishment of Melan, and her face flushed. She bowed. ‘I understand, Mother.’

Qeva’s eyebrow arched. ‘Mother?’

Inevera bit her lip. ‘Is “Mother” not the proper form of address from a Betrothed to a Bride?’

Qeva’s eyes crinkled in what Inevera took as a smile. ‘No. Melan addresses me so because she is my daughter.’

The knowledge did nothing to quell Inevera’s sudden tension. ‘She called Kenevah Grandmother …’

Qeva nodded. ‘And so she is. I am the Damaji’ting’s heir.’

Inevera felt her heart clench. Qeva had always seemed stern, but fair. Not a friend, perhaps, but neither an enemy. But now …

‘Breathe,’ Qeva said again, holding up a hand and waiting as Inevera found her centre. ‘I am not your enemy. I’ve grown used to my place of power as second among the dama’ting, but I learned long ago to accept that I would not succeed my mother in leading the women of Kaji. Melan has yet to embrace this truth and bend before its wind, but I pray to Everam that she will in time.’

Qeva’s placating hand changed into a pointing finger. ‘But do not mistake my meaning. I am not your enemy, but neither am I your friend. It takes a special woman to lead the Kaji dama’ting with strength, competence, and humility before Everam as my mother does. If you prove not humble, competent, or strong enough to survive and advance to the white,’ she shrugged, ‘then that is inevera.’

Inevera’s face went cold, but she focused on her breath and kept her centre. ‘Yes, Dama’ting.’

‘Good,’ Qeva said. ‘Come with me.’ She strode from the chamber, and Inevera followed her through the hidden passages of the Undercity leading back to the Dama’ting Palace. Most of these tunnels were lit by glowing wards running in continuous lines along the top and bottom of the tunnel walls.

When they arrived at the dama’ting’s quarters, the eunuch Qeva had spoken to the day before admitted them, naked save for his golden shackles. Stoneless he might be, but his manhood hung heavy before her, and Inevera could not help but gaze at it.

‘Impressive, is he not?’ Qeva asked. ‘Khavel is a favourite of mine, a skilled lover and a loyal servant. But you must tear your gaze from him now, I’m afraid. You will see his prowess first-hand during your pillow dancing lessons.’

Pillow dancing lessons? Inevera felt a wave of anxiety at the sound of that, though there was at least a little curiosity bound up in it.

Qeva gave her no time to ponder. She produced a square box of fine white sand and a slender stick. There was a track along the top and bottom that allowed her to slide a pane from one side to the other, smoothing the sand into an unblemished flat. She handed the stick to Inevera. ‘You watched me paint five wards this morning. Draw them for me now.’

Inevera pursed her lips, but she took the stick, closing her eyes to visualize each ward before carefully drawing. As Qeva had, she drew an octagon, a ward at each of the points. Four were unique, and the fifth was repeated four times to connect them. She held the stick close to its end like a pen, forming the curved symbols with precise turns of her supple wrist. When she was finished, she looked up proudly.

Qeva studied her work for long minutes before grunting. ‘You were better at sharusahk. Only two of these hold any power at all, and little enough at that.’

Inevera’s face fell as the Bride slid the pane to clear her work and took the stick. ‘Let us begin with the siphon ward. These are the demon’s fangs,’ Qeva said, drawing two curved marks in the sand as Inevera leaned in, studying the markings closely. ‘They float next to or hide within every ward, drawing magic into the symbol. The shape of the ward is what guides that power into its final form.’ She continued to draw, holding the stick at its far end. ‘See how my wrist remains straight. I move the brush with my arm, not my hand. Wards are strongest when drawn in a single continuous line, and you cannot do that with your wrist alone.’

Quickly, Qeva drew the siphon, and Inevera saw just how poor her memory had been. Her cheeks coloured in shame, but Qeva seemed not to notice, clearing the sand and handing the stick back to her.

‘Again.’

Inevera complied, but holding the stick as Qeva had shown was awkward, and if anything, her warding was worse the second time.

Qeva’s eyes were expressionless as she cleared the sand again.

When Inevera at last returned to the Vault, her arm ached from holding the stick almost as much as her bladder, which was ready to burst. Her robes were still spattered with Sharum blood.

But these seemed distant things, physical discomforts easily ignored. With Melan and Asavi occupied, she was finally able to empty her water and use the baths.

There were scented oils and cakes of soap, tools for paring nails, and rough stones for smoothing skin. The other girls pointedly ignored her as she took a razor and finished the job they had begun the night before, shaving away the last ragged bits of hair from her head until it was completely smooth to the touch. It felt alien, like someone else’s skin.

But while her body relaxed, Inevera’s mind was in free fall. Everything she had ever known, ever believed, had been stripped from her or revealed as a lie. Nothing made sense any more. Nothing seemed to matter.

Inevera felt as if she had stepped outside herself at dinner. She was dimly aware of her body as she served the dama’ting, hopping at their need and vanishing just as quickly. Ironically, this seemed to be just what the women wanted, and she served better when giving the task no conscious thought. Not that she had thought to spare, still struggling to find a constant or truth to cling to. Even the Evejah she had been raised to, once believed to be the ultimate truth, was proving subjective now, the great deeds of Kaji and the laws the dama drew from them unravelling before her eyes. The Evejah’ting included the Damajah’s perspective on those world-shaping events, and it was often very different from the male account.

Which was true? Kaji’s account, or the first Inevera’s? Or were both full of lies and half-truths? Did the events of thirty-three hundred years ago even matter?

She ached for her mother’s arms, for the safety she felt when Soli roughed her thick black hair. But that hair was gone now, and Soli with it. Perhaps she would see him again, but more likely he would be killed in the Maze before she became dama’ting, if she ever did. She even felt a pang of regret for Kasaad and his drunken Sharum friends. Could she truly judge the actions of men forced into the Maze to needlessly face hordes of demons each night?

But for all her pain and turmoil, Inevera realized that even if she could wave a hand and take back the last two days, she wouldn’t. She had spent nine years in darkness, and now for the first time there was a flickering light.

Magic. They were teaching her hora magic.

Inevera thought back to her revulsion at the sight of the tiny demon bone Qeva had used to light the way to her foretelling. Could it only be a day ago? It seemed a lifetime. Now she wanted nothing more than to clutch a demon bone in her hand and cure men’s wounds with a wave.

She felt her heart thudding, and forced herself back into the rhythmic breathing of her centre. Soon she felt her body relaxing and was able to step outside it once more. The problems and questions continued to swirl around her, but they were more like blowing sand now, a nuisance that could be ignored.

She shuffled wordlessly along at the back of the nie’dama’ting food line, and managed to scrape a full bowl’s worth from the eunuchs this time. She ate in silence and was escorted back to the Vault with the other girls.

Find your centre! Melan had snapped at breakfast, just before the slap. Inevera almost wished she would do it again, just so she could remember what it was like to feel.

Was this what finding one’s centre meant? What it meant to be dama’ting? Did these women truly feel nothing as they looked into the future and made decisions that meant life or death for men and women alike – all the while living like Damaji in their great palaces, their every desire catered to?

When they were back in the Vault, the dama’ting left them to their nightly liberty until the wardlight faded. There was a heavy clicking of locks as she pulled the doors shut behind her. Inevera moved directly for her cot and the Evejah’ting that lay upon it.

She was barely aware that Melan was approaching her until she found herself flying through the air. She struck the ground hard, and a flash of pain brought her back to herself.

She looked up as she put her hands under her to rise. As in the baths, the other girls had formed a ring around her and Melan as the older girl approached.

She sighed. Not this, again.

‘I am to teach you sharusahk,’ Melan said. ‘I am denied the Chamber of Shadows until you learn!’

Inevera slowly gave ground as Melan advanced until her back came to the ring of girls, and one of them shoved her forward.

‘Scorpion!’ Melan cried, bending smoothly at the waist and wrapping her arms around Inevera’s hips as her foot came up behind her, kicking Inevera square in the face.

Inevera fell back, stunned, and took several moments to recover herself before she got back to her feet. Melan continued to hold the pose.

‘Scorpion,’ the girls around them chanted, each falling into the pose themselves. ‘Scorpion. Scorpion …’

Inevera kept her breathing steady, and was surprised to find she was not afraid. Melan obviously meant to give her a beating, but it seemed pointless to resist. She doubted the girl would do her any lasting harm, and there was little she could do to stop it in any event. Best to submit for now, and learn what she could.

Her centre was strong as she assumed the scorpion pose, steady despite her rapidly swelling face.

Melan seemed more angry than ever at this response, as if expecting Inevera to cry and beg. Inevera pitied her in that moment. Melan’s own mother, Kenevah’s heir, had cast the bones that called her. What was all this anger and jealousy supposed to prove?

‘Wilting flower!’ Melan cried, moving in fast and low, thrusting the stiffened fingers of her right hand into Inevera’s abdomen.

There was a blunt pain, and Inevera lost all feeling in her legs, collapsing to the floor.

‘It is not just knowing how to strike,’ Melan said. ‘One must also know where.’ Before Inevera could find the control of her limbs to rise, Melan pinned her on her back, knees pressed into her upper arms, keeping them helpless and without leverage.

Melan reached out, pressing the knuckles of her index fingers hard into Inevera’s temples.

The pain was intense, like lightning arcing through her brain. She saw flashes of light and struggled helplessly, her breathing forgotten.

It seemed an eternity before Melan eased back, getting to her feet. Inevera lay there, breathing slowly until she could find her centre again.

‘Wilting flower,’ the other girls began to chant, each flowing into the gesture as they did. ‘Wilting flower. Wilting flower …’

Inevera rose shakily to her feet and copied the move.

‘This is a tunnel asp,’ Qeva said to the girls, presenting a glass box for the nie’dama’ting to observe. Inside was a hollow bit of stone sitting on a sand floor, and within that hollow, a small coiled snake with dull grey scales. ‘There is no deadlier creature under the sun.’

Inevera and the other Betrothed leaned in for a better look. Months had passed, and the days had fallen into a rhythm of sorts, beginning as always with sharusahk and treating injured Sharum, followed by lessons, some shared with other girls her age, and others with Qeva alone.

‘It’s so tiny,’ she whispered.

‘Do not be fooled by its size,’ Qeva said. ‘Tunnel asp venom makes scorpion stings feel like sweet kisses. A single bite can kill a Sharum in minutes. The tunnel asp strikes quickly, then retreats to wait for its prey to die. It can afford to wait. Other animals will not feed on those it poisons, lest the venom kill them in turn.’ As she spoke, she took the lid off the box, rolling one of her silk sleeves up to the elbow. In one hand she held a small sand mouse by the tail. It squeaked and squirmed desperately, sensing the danger. She dropped it into the asp’s box, just in front of the hollow stone.

Instantly, the snake uncoiled, snapping at the mouse, but fast as it was, Qeva was faster. Her hand was a blur as she caught the snake behind its head and lifted it from the case. It thrashed at first, but Qeva’s grip was firm, and she cooed at it, stroking its head until it calmed.

‘We can force the asp to reveal its fangs by applying pressure to the base of its skull.’ She pressed with her thumb, and two curved fangs, previously flat against the roof of its mouth, extended. There was a tiny glass bottle on the table, its mouth covered with a thin membrane. Qeva pressed the fangs through this.

‘The poison sacs are on either side of its head, here and here.’ She pointed. ‘Squeezing will empty them into our vial.’ She did so, and a few drops fell into the glass. Qeva then dropped the snake back into the glass box, where it immediately coiled and stared at the mouse, head bobbing slowly from side to side. The mouse stared back, frozen in place save for its nose, which followed the dance of the snake’s head precisely. At last, the snake struck, biting but once before retreating into its stone hollow, leaving the mouse to thrash in the sand. In moments it stiffened and lay still.

‘Even milked of its poison, the bare residue on its fangs was more than enough to kill,’ Qeva said as the snake slithered from the hollow to claim its prize, its jaw unhitching to swallow the mouse whole. ‘The asp will feed, and sleep, and by this time tomorrow, its poison sacs will be full again.’ She held up the tiny bottle, which held perhaps three teardrops’ worth of venom. ‘This is enough to kill everyone in this room. Who can tell me how the antidote is prepared?’

Several girls raised their hands, but none faster than Inevera.

Inevera and the other girls knelt in a ring around the pile of pillows, their backs straight and their eyes attentive. In addition to the nie’dama’ting, there were several dal’ting girls in black headwraps, sent to study in the dama’ting palace before going to the great harem.

Qeva stripped off her white robe, even her hood and veil. Beneath, she wore diaphanous leggings that flowed like lavender smoke about her calves and thighs, ending in anklets tinkling with golden bells above her bare feet, the toenails painted to match the lavender cloth. Her top, too, was transparent, loose around her firm breasts, leaving her smooth midriff bare save for a golden chain that secured her black velvet hora pouch and a small vial. Dozens of golden bracelets jingled at her wrists. Her sex was uncovered, shaved smooth like the rest of her save for her eyebrows and thick black hair, which fell in lustrous ringlets, bound in gold. Only her face remained covered, her silk veil an opaque purple that accented the diaphanous lavender. Her body shone from scented oil.

In the back of the room, a trio of aging eunuchs began to play a steady rhythm on zurna, tombak, and kanun. Qeva beckoned, and Khavel approached. The muscular eunuch was clad, as usual, in nothing save his golden shackles and a silken loincloth that hung like a flag from his great, stiffened member. Like many of the girls, Inevera felt her eyes drawn to it like metal to a lodestone. She shifted uncomfortably.

The dama’ting laughed. ‘As you can see, already Khavel is prepared for his duty. But a man should always be tantalized to the point of madness before being allowed to sheathe his spear.’ She took Khavel’s arm and pivoted, using the eunuch’s own weight to throw him onto the pillows.

Then she began to dance. Her hips swayed in time to the music, even as she beat a complementary rhythm on the tiny brass cymbals attached to her thumbs and forefingers. The golden bells on her ankles and the bracelets on her wrists added to the spell as she gyrated around the bed of pillows, her feet as quick and sure as they were at sharusahk. Indeed, many of the movements she made were the same as those practised each morning in the hours before sunrise.

Khavel stared at her, mesmerized like the mouse before the tunnel asp. His loincloth was taut, seemingly about to tear, and his great muscles were no different, tense and defined, veins pulsing with the pounding of his blood.

It went on until Inevera began to feel dizzy. The room was hot, filled with sweet incense smoke, and she began to sway to the music and the dama’ting’s endless rhythm. The other girls were no less affected, all watching intently as the Bride stalked her hapless prey.

Finally, Qeva struck, moving to the pillows and tugging Khavel’s loincloth away to reveal his proud spear. She ran a finger along its length, and the tongueless eunuch moaned. Taking the vial from her waist chain, she dribbled oil into her palm and rubbed her hands together until both had a coating of the slick substance.

‘There are seven strokes laid down by the Damajah, as she told of the nights she lay with Kaji,’ the dama’ting said, reaching for Khavel’s member. ‘Watch closely as I demonstrate each one.’

Khavel soon threw his head back, moaning again, but the Bride squeezed tightly at the base of his mushroom-like tip, cooing softly as she waited for him to calm again. ‘Though Khavel is stoneless – the men you will lie with will not be. In their loins lie the future generations of Krasia, and the Evejah’ting commands that none of their seed be spilled or swallowed.’

Several more times, the dama’ting’s ministrations brought poor Khavel to the brink, but each time, she applied pressure and patience until he regained control.

‘Seven strokes,’ the dama’ting said, as she moved to mount the eunuch, ‘but there are seventy and seven ways to lie with a man. This is the first, Jiwah Superior. It is not enough to simply move up and down his spear. You must … twist.’ She demonstrated, using many of the same gyrations of her dance, now practically applied.

‘When you control a man’s loins in the pillows, you control him,’ the dama’ting said, ‘and you can ensure your own pleasure besides. Most men barely know where to put it, and will simply hump like a dog if given their liberty.’

As she stretched for morning sharusahk, Inevera’s muscles ached from countless hours spent practising the pillow dance. There were tiny calluses on her fingertips where the brass cymbals were held, and her feet were red with blisters. She would smooth them with pumice in the bath later.

But though she was stiff and sore, Inevera felt strong. Stronger than she had ever felt, even when hauling great stacks of baskets through the bazaar. She was ready to assume the sharukin, but Qeva did not remove her robe. Instead she beckoned the girls to form a ring around her, and summoned a muscular eunuch. It was not Khavel this time, but one named Enkido.

Like the other eunuchs, Enkido spoke with his hands in an intricate language of gestures that Inevera and the other nie’dama’ting learned as part of their studies. The dama’ting could give their servants complex commands with quick gestures, and receive equally detailed answers on the rare occasions when one was required.

But the similarity ended there. Unlike the other eunuchs, Enkido was always clad in black robes, though he still wore the gold shackles of servitude. His veil was red, meaning he had been a Sharum drillmaster before coming to the Dama’ting Palace, an expert in sharusahk and a master of the Maze. It was said that he had killed many alagai, fathered many sons, and taught many warriors before falling under a dama’ting’s spell and willingly allowing his stones and tongue to be cut from him.

Inevera heard he continued to wear the black to hide the terrible scars he incurred as a Sharum, but when the dama’ting clapped her hands, he pulled off the robe and she gasped aloud, as did several of the younger girls.

He did have scars, but they were long healed – more badges of honour than unsightly blemishes. It was not that which made the girls gasp, but the tattoos on his shaved, muscular skin. All over his body, there were lines and small circles, the black markings running up his limbs and all over his torso, onto his neck and shaved head.

Qeva dropped her robe as well and they stood nude, facing each other, though as always she kept her veil in place. She motioned, and Enkido attacked, moving with sudden, frightening speed. He outweighed the woman twice over, but it did not seem to slow him as they grappled and he put her quickly into a submission hold, lifting her feet from the ground so she could find no leverage.

But the dama’ting seemed unconcerned. She shifted slightly, then drove two stiffened fingers into one of the tattooed points on his chest. Immediately one of his arms slackened, and she pulled it away like the arm of a toddler, twisting from his grasp and flipping him onto his back.

‘All of Everam’s creatures are guided by lines of power and points of convergence, where their muscles, tendons, bones, and energy meet,’ the dama’ting said. ‘These are places of great strength, but also vulnerability. Touch the right place, and even the most powerful will lose their strength.’

She beckoned and again the warrior attacked, this time refusing to grapple, striking with lightning-fast kicks and quick, snapping punches like the strikes of a tunnel asp.

But the dama’ting bent like a palm in a windstorm, flowing this way and that, his blows never striking home. Finally, she reached out almost gently while he was mid-kick, pressing one of the points marked on his supporting leg. It collapsed under him, and while Enkido managed to control his fall and quickly come upright, his leg was now slack and would not support him. He stood balanced on the other, hands up protectively as he waited on the dama’ting’s command.

Instead, she turned back to the girls. ‘Trained in Sharik Hora, Enkido was the greatest sharusahk master the Kaji Sharum had known in a hundred years. No man of any tribe could stand against him, and alagai quailed at the sight of him. More than one dama’ting sought his seed to bless their daughters, and through them he learned of our art. But though he begged time and again, he was forbidden to learn it. The Damajah teaches that no man can be trusted with the secrets of flesh. At last, the Damaji’ting took pity on him, and told him that only by yielding his tongue and his freedom would he be allowed to glimpse our secrets. He broke his spear over his knee right there, using the point to cut out his tongue and sever his own manhood, root and stones. Bleeding to death, he laid them at the Damaji’ting’s feet. No longer a man, he was healed and blessed with the right to aid in your training. You will accord him every honour.’

As one, Inevera and the other girls bowed to Enkido. Though he was only a eunuch, he looked at them all with the stern eye of a drillmaster assessing his nie’Sharum, and when he spoke with his hands, the girls quickly obeyed.

Inevera kept her hand on the Evejah’ting but did not open it, eyes closed as she recited the holy verse:

‘And from the sacred metal did the Damajah forge the three holy treasures of Kaji.

First, the cloak,

Sacred metal hammered into supple thread,

Sewn into the finest white silk with wards of unsight.

Months she laboured,

At Everam’s will,

Until the eyes of the alagai slid from Kaji in his raiment,

As easily as her fingers coated in kanis oil,

Slid along his skin.

Second, the spear,

Sacred metal pounded thin as vellum,

Etched with wards,

Rolled seventy-seven times about a shaft of hora.

The blade she made of the same sheet,

Folded and fused with hora dust

Seven times seventy times

In the fires of Nie’s abyss.

A year she laboured,

At Everam’s will,

Until the edge she ground with diamond dust,

Could cut the skin of Nie Herself.

Last, the crown,

Sacred metal warded on both sides,

Masking the many powers she blessed upon it.

Fused to a circlet cut from the skull of a demon prince.

The nine points princeling horns,

Each set with a gem to focus its unique power.

Ten years she laboured,

At Everam’s will,

Until the demon lord himself could not touch the thoughts of Kaji,

Nor approach if the Shar’Dama Ka did not will it.

With these treasures, Kaji became the most feared of all warriors,

And the cowardly princes of Nie

Fled the field whenever he drew the folds of his cloak.’

Qeva nodded as Inevera finished, gesturing to the workbench the nie’dama’ting had gathered around, where bowls of metal filings were arranged, ready to be melted down. ‘Precious metals conduct magic better than base ones. Silver is better than copper, gold better than silver. But the transfer is never perfect. There is always loss.’

She looked at Inevera. ‘What is more precious than gold?’

Inevera hesitated, though she knew better than to look to the other girls around the workbench for aid. At last she shook her head. ‘Apologies, Dama’ting. I do not know.’

Qeva chuckled. ‘You might truly be your namesake reborn if you did. The Damajah, blessings be upon her, gave us many secrets in her holy verses. But in her wisdom, she kept others still in her mind lest they be stolen by her rivals. Now many are lost to the millennia. The wards of unsight, the powers of the spear and crown, and the sacred metal.’

She took up a bowl. ‘And so we begin our lessons with copper …’

Weeks passed, and Inevera found herself standing before a silvered glass, drawing wards around her eyes in soft pencil. She had practised the sigils a thousand times, as they were in the Evejah’ting, and inverted, as she must draw them in the mirror for full potency.

Some of the older girls, Melan and Asavi among them, had progressed beyond pencil, wearing delicate circlets of warded coins across their brows, but Inevera’s first circlet was still a clinking collection of unfinished coins and gold wire in a pouch at her waist.

Qeva inspected her closely when she was finished drawing, holding her chin in a firm grasp and roughly turning her head this way and that. She said nothing, giving only a slight huff of satisfaction, but that breath meant more to Inevera than the most glowing compliment. If there had been the slightest flaw, the dama’ting would have announced it derisively to all and made her wash her face and draw anew.

Inevera felt a chill as the dama’ting touched a finger to a small bowl of black liquid. It looked like ink, but she would have known from the stench alone that it was the rendered ichor of demons.

It was warm when Qeva touched the barest smudge to her forehead, but it did not burn as Inevera feared. The spot tingled like static, and she could feel the magic crawling across her skin, drawn to the pencilled wards, dancing along their delicate lines.

And then her eyes came alive, and Inevera gasped for the wonder of it, her centre lost. The dim wardlight of the room was washed out by light from every corner, drifting across the floor and seeped in the walls, shining in the spirits of Qeva and the other girls. It was Everam’s light, the line of energy they reached for and drew upon each morning in sharusahk, the fire in their centre that gave life and power to all living things. It was the immortal soul.

And she could see it, as clearly as the sun.

‘Praise be to Everam in all his glory.’ Inevera fell to her knees, shaking as she wept for the joy and beauty of it.

‘Place your hands on the floor,’ Qeva said. ‘Let the tears fall free, lest they run through the pencil and rob you of the sight.’

Inevera immediately fell forward, terrified of losing this precious gift. Her tears spattered the stone floor, sending tiny whorls through the magic drifting up through the ala. She expected derision from Melan and the other girls, but there was only silence. Doubtless they had all been as overwhelmed as she when they first saw Everam’s light.

When her convulsions eased, Qeva dropped a silk kerchief to the floor and Inevera carefully dabbed her eyes. The other girls stared silently at her as she rose.

Qeva pointed to a stone pedestal, its smooth surface carved with dozens of wards, some covered in smooth stones. Inevera had seen the dama’ting use the pedestal to control light and temperature in the chamber, but the pattern was far too complex for her to comprehend.

But now, her eyes awash in Everam’s light, she could see the power as it moved through the net. The pattern that had been a mystery a moment before was clear now, a child’s puzzle easily solved.

‘Dim the lights,’ Qeva commanded. ‘We will not need them for this lesson.’

Inevera immediately complied, shifting the polished stones to other positions, and removing others entirely, setting them in a small basin.

Immediately the wardlight dimmed, but Inevera’s vision only sharpened, an unneeded glare removed, allowing her to see even more clearly in Everam’s light.

‘The wardsight will be invaluable to you as you learn our craft,’ Qeva said. ‘It is forbidden only in the deep cells of the Chamber of Shadows where you carve your dice.’

Months passed, and Inevera’s studies consumed her. She woke to sharusahk, assisted dama’ting in the healing, and attended regular classes in history, warding, potions, jewellery making, singing, dance, and seduction. The other girls continued to shun her, especially once they saw her carving wooden dice years ahead of many who had been born to the white.

And every night, Melan beat her, calling it sharusahk practice. Even after half a year, Qeva was not sufficiently pleased with Inevera’s sharusahk, and Melan was still denied the Chamber of Shadows.

Each night Inevera slept alone with nothing save her Evejah’ting clutched to her breast as the other girls whispered to one another in the darkness, or shared beds and caresses. Even her dreams were haunted by the shapes of the seven dice that had ruled her life since the day of Hannu Pash. She would have wept, but for fear that Melan and Asavi, always together in the bed next to her, would take pleasure in the sound of her sobbing.

Inevera stood proudly as Kenevah inspected the large bowls. There in the sand Inevera had drawn the most complex circles she had ever attempted. Each was made of forty-nine wards, all linked to work in unison. Between the bowls lay her practice box, a single ward drawn at its centre.

The wards were crisp and clear in the fine yellow sand, but Inevera’s warding had never truly been tested, and she had no way of knowing if they would hold power.

Qeva stood beside her mother, regarding the wards but saying nothing. She didn’t have to. That she had thought Inevera worthy to test for hora after less than two years spoke volumes. Next to Qeva stood Melan, her face serene as her eyes cut at Inevera.

At last Kenevah nodded. ‘Draw the curtains.’ Inevera did as she was bade, and the Damaji’ting drew a large demon bone from the thick velvet of her hora pouch. Inevera wondered how much Sharum blood had been spilled to collect that bone.

Inevera made a cradle of her hands, and Kenevah placed the priceless bit of alagai hora in them. It was the first time she had ever touched demon bone, and though the Evejah’ting had told her what to expect, it was still an alien feeling, tingling with power and pulling at her blood as a lodestone might pull iron.

Carefully, reverently, she laid the bone atop the ward centred between the two bowls, and the wards began to glow softly, brightening as they drew power from the bone. They flared with a golden light even as the sand darkened in colour. The circles began to swirl. At first was a slow churn Inevera thought she was imagining, but it grew faster, like whirlpools in a cookpot after vigorous stirring, flowing into one another in a figure of eight.

The demon bone disappeared into the centre of that vortex, and there was a bright flash of light before the bowls went black. Colours danced before Inevera’s eyes in the darkness, leaving her dizzy and disorientated.

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