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.