The Skull Throne (4 page)

Abban sipped at his drink. “At times I may have questions.” His eyes flicked to the
hora
pouch at her waist. “Questions only your dice can answer.”

Inevera clutched the pouch protectively. “The
alagai hora
are not for the questions of men,
khaffit.
”

“Did not Ahmann pose questions to them daily?” Abban asked.

“Ahmann was the Deliverer …” Inevera caught herself, “… 
is
the Deliverer. The dice are not toys to fill your pockets with gold.”

Abban bowed. “I am aware of that, Damajah, and assure you I will not call upon you to throw them frivolously. But if you want my loyalty, that is my price.”

Inevera sat back, considering. “You said yourself magic always comes with a price. The dice, too, can speak truths we do not wish to hear.”

“What other truth has value?” Abban asked.

“One question,” Inevera said.

“Ten, at least,” Abban said.

Inevera shook her head. “Ten is more than a
Damaji
has in a year,
khaffit.
Two.”

“Two isn’t enough for what you ask of me, Damajah,” Abban said. “I could perhaps manage with half a dozen …”

“Four,” Inevera said. “But I will hold you to your word not to use this gift frivolously. Waste the wisdom of Everam with petty greed and rivalries, and every answer will cost you a finger.”

“Oh, Damajah,” Abban said, “my greed is never petty.”

“Is that all?” Inevera asked.

Abban shook his head. “No, Damajah, there is one more thing.”

Inevera brought the scowl back to her face. It was art, but easy enough. The
khaffit
could try even her temper. “This bargain is beginning to outgrow your worth, Abban. Spit it out and have done.”

Abban bowed. “My sons. I want them stripped of the black.”

There was commotion in the Krasian camp when Abban limped away from the audience. Inevera caught sight of Ashan striding toward her rapidly.

“What has happened?” Inevera asked.

Ashan bowed. “Your son, Damajah. Jayan has told the warriors his father has disappeared. The Sharum Ka acts as if it is foregone conclusion that he will sit the Skull Throne on our return.”

Inevera breathed, finding her center. This was expected, though she had hoped for more time.

“Bid the Sharum Ka to lead the search for his lost father personally, and leave a handful of warriors to maintain a camp. The rest of us must ride for Everam’s Bounty with all haste. Leave behind anything that may slow us.”

They pressed for home as fast as the animals would allow. Inevera sent
Sharum
to kill
alagai
as soon as the sun set and used their power-rich ichor to paint wards of stamina on the horses and camels to strengthen them enough to continue on in the night.

It was a risk, using
hora
magic so openly. The quick-minded might glean some of the mysteries the
dama’ting
had guarded for centuries, but it could not be helped. The dice advised she return as quickly as possible—and warned it might not be fast enough.

There were countless divergences over the coming days, a struggle that threatened to rend the fragile peace Ahmann had forged among the tribes and cast them back into chaos. How many feuds had been set aside on the Deliverer’s order, but still nursed in the hearts of families that had stolen wells and blooded one another for generations?

Despite her precautions, Jayan and the Spears of the Deliverer reached Everam’s Bounty before them. The fool boy must have given up the search early and ridden cross-country with his warriors, pushing their powerful mustang to their limits and beyond. Her trick with the ichor to strengthen the animals could be replicated by warriors who killed demons in the night, the wards on their spears and the steel-shod hooves of their mounts absorbing power even as they turned the
alagai’s
strength back on them.

“Mother!” Jayan cried in shock, turning to see Inevera, Ashan, Aleverak, and Asome storm into the throne room where he had gathered the remaining
Damaji
and his most trusted lieutenants.

Inevera’s group was followed by the twelve
Damaji’ting,
Qeva of the Kaji and Ahmann’s eleven wives from the other tribes. All were loyal to Inevera and her alone. Ashan was shadowed by his powerful lieutenants, Damas Halvan and Shevali, all three of whom had studied with the Deliverer in Sharik Hora. Ashan’s son Asukaji, speaking for the Kaji in his absence, waited with the other
Damaji.

Abban limped into the throne room as fast as his crutch would allow, practically unnoticed in the commotion. He slipped quietly into a dark alcove with his bodyguard to observe.

It was good that she had pushed her entourage. Jayan had clearly expected more time to rally the
Damaji
to his favor. He had barely been in the Bounty a few hours, and had not yet had the audacity to climb the seven steps to sit the Skull Throne.

It would not have been claim enough if he had, with the Deliverer’s inner council and the most powerful
Damaji
absent, but he would have been far more difficult to unseat without open violence. Inevera loved her son for all his faults, but she would not have hesitated to kill him if he’d dared such a blatant grab at power. Ahmann had curtained off the great windows of the throne room that he might use his crownsight and give Inevera access to her
hora
magic in the day. The electrum-coated forearm of a mind demon hung from her belt, warm with pent energy.

“Thank you for gathering the
Damaji
for me, my son,” Inevera said, striding right past his gaping face to ascend the steps and take her customary place on the bed of pillows beside the Skull Throne. Even from a few feet away, the great chair throbbed—perhaps the most powerful magic item in existence. Below, the holy men and women assembled as they had for centuries, the
Damaji
to the right of the throne, and the
Damaji’ting
to the left. She breathed a bit of relief that they had arrived in time, though she knew the coming struggle was far from over.

“Honored
Damaji,
” she said, drawing a touch of power from a piece of warded jewelry to carry her voice through the room like the word of Everam. “No doubt my son has informed you that my divine husband, Shar’Dama Ka and Everam’s Deliverer, has disappeared.”

There was a buzz of conversation at the confirmation of Jayan’s tale. Ashan and Aleverak were nodding, though they were not foolish enough to give any detail until they learned what exactly Jayan had said.

“I have cast the
alagai hora,
” Inevera said after a moment, her enhanced voice cutting through the chatter without being raised. She held up the dice and called upon them to glow brightly with power. “The dice have informed me the Deliverer pursues a demon to the very edge of Nie’s abyss. He will return, and his coming shall herald the beginning of Sharak Ka.”

Another rash of conversation broke out at this, and Inevera gave it just a moment to build before pressing on. “Per Ahmann’s own instructions, his brother-in-law Ashan will sit the Skull Throne in his absence, as Andrah. Asukaji will become
Damaji
of the Kaji. Upon the Shar’Dama Ka’s return, Ashan will greet him from the base of the dais, but retain his title. A new throne will be built for him.”

There was a collective gasp, but only one voice cried out in shock.

“What?!” Jayan shouted. Even without Ahmann’s talent for reading auras, the anger radiating from him was unmistakable.

Inevera glanced to Asome, standing quietly beside Ashan, and saw simmering rage at the injustice in his aura as well, though her second son was wise enough not to show it. Asome had ever been groomed for the role of Andrah, and had chafed since his brother took the Spear Throne, seeking the white turban more than once.

“This is ridiculous,” Jayan shouted. “I am the eldest son. The throne should fall to me!” Several of
Damaji
murmured their agreement, though the strongest wisely kept silent. Aleverak’s dislike of the boy was well known, and Damaji Enkaji of the Mehnding, the third most powerful tribe, was known to never publicly take sides.

“The Skull Throne is not some bauble, my son, to be passed without a thought,” Inevera said. “It is the hope and salvation of our people, and you are but nineteen, and have yet to prove worthy of it. If you do not hold your tongue, I despair you never will.”

“How are we to know it was the Deliverer’s wish that his own son be passed over?” Damaji Ichach of the Khanjin tribe demanded. Ichach was ever a thorn in the council’s ass, but there were nods from many of the other
Damaji,
including Aleverak.

“A fair question,” the aged cleric said, turning to address those gathered, though his words were no doubt meant for Inevera. With Ashan’s claim for the throne announced, he had relinquished control of the council of
Damaji,
and none dared challenge venerable Aleverak as he assumed the role. “The Shar’Dama Ka did not speak them openly, nor even in private that we know of.”

“He spoke them to me,” Ashan said, stepping forward. “On the first night of Waning, as the
Damaji
filed from the throne room, my brother bade me take the throne, if he should fall against Alagai Ka. I swore by Everam’s name, lest the Deliverer punish me in the afterlife.”

“Lies!” Jayan said. “My father would never say such a thing, and you have no proof. You betray his memory for your own ambition.”

Ashan’s eyes darkened at that. He had known the boy since birth, but never before had Jayan dared speak to him so disrespectfully. “Say that again, boy, and I will kill you, blood of the Deliverer or no. I argued in your favor when Ahmann made his request, but I see now he was right. The dais of the Spear Throne has but four steps, and you have yet to adjust to the view. The dais of the Skull Throne has seven, and will dizzy you.”

Jayan gave a growl and lowered his spear, charging for Ashan with murder in his heart. The
Damaji
watched with cool detachment, ready to react when Jayan closed in.

Inevera cursed under her breath. Regardless of who won the fight, they would both lose, and her people with them.

“Enough!” she boomed. She raised her
hora
wand and manipulated its wards with nimble fingers, calling upon a blast of magic that leapt forth, shattering the marble floor between the men.

Both Jayan and Ashan were knocked from their feet by the shock wave, along with several of the
Damaji.
As the dust settled, there was an awed silence, save for the sound of debris falling back to the floor.

Inevera rose to her feet, straightening her robes with a deliberate snap. All eyes were upon her now. The
Damaji’ting,
schooled in the secrets of
hora
magic, retained their serenity, though the display was one none of them could match. A scorched crater now stood in the center of the thick marble floor, big enough to swallow a man.

The men stared wide-eyed and openmouthed. Only Ahmann himself had ever displayed such might, and no doubt they had thought they could quickly erode Inevera’s power with him gone.

They would be rethinking that assessment now. Only Asome kept his composure, having witnessed his mother’s power on the wall at Waning. He, too, watched her, eyes cold, aura unreadable.

“I am Inevera,” she said, her enhanced voice echoing throughout the room. The name was pregnant with meaning, literally translating as “Everam’s will.” “Bride of Everam and
Jiwah Ka
to Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji. I am the Damajah, something you seem to have forgotten in my husband’s absence. I, too, witnessed Ahmann’s command to Damaji Ashan.”

She raised her
hora
wand high, again manipulating the wards etched in the electrum, this time to produce a harmless flare of light. “If there are any here who would challenge my command that Ashan take the throne, let them step forward. The rest will be forgiven your insolence if you touch your foreheads to the floor.”

All around the room, men dropped to their knees, wisely pressing their foreheads to the floor. No doubt they were still scheming, grating at the indignity of kneeling before a woman, but none, even Jayan, were fool enough to challenge her after such a display.

None save ancient Aleverak. As the others fell to the floor, the ancient
Damaji
strode to the center of the room, his back straight. Inevera sighed inwardly, though she gave no outward sign. She had no wish to kill the
Damaji,
but Ahmann should have killed him years ago. Perhaps it was time to correct that mistake and end the threat to Belina’s eldest son, Maji.

The submission of the other tribes had been total. Only Aleverak had fought Ahmann and lived to tell the tale. The old man had earned so much honor in the battle that Ahmann had foolishly granted him a concession denied the others.

Upon the hour of his death, Aleverak’s heir had the right to challenge Ahmann’s Majah son to single combat for control of the Majah tribe.

Ahmann no doubt thought Maji would grow into a great warrior and win out, but the boy was only fifteen. Any of Aleverak’s sons could kill him with ease.

Aleverak bowed so deeply his beard came within an inch of the floor. Such grace for a man in his eighties was impressive. It was said he had been Ahmann’s greatest challenge as he battled to the steps of the Skull Throne. Ahmann had torn the
Damaji’s
arm off, but it had done nothing to strike fear into his heart. It was not surprising her blast of magic similarly failed to deter him.

“Holy Damajah,” Aleverak began, “please accept my apologies for doubting your words, and those of Damaji Ashan, who has led the Kaji people, and the council of
Damaji,
with honor and distinction.” He glanced to Ashan, still standing at the base of the dais, who nodded.

“But no Andrah has been appointed since the position was first created,” Aleverak went on. “It runs counter to all our sacred texts and traditions. Those who wish to wear the jeweled turban must face the challenges of the other
Damaji,
all of whom have a claim to the throne. I knew well the son of Hoshkamin, and I do not believe he would have forgotten this.”