The thought grated on Inevera, and for a moment she lost her centre. Had she been insincere in her prayers? What was more important to her, saving her people, or taking the mantle of her namesake?

She inhaled slowly, feeling her breath, her life’s force, and letting it lead her back to her centre. With no hubris, she knew of no woman more worthy than herself to guide the Deliverer. Should she find such a woman, she would step aside. If not, she would marry him no matter the cost, even if it meant divorcing her husband, or marrying her own son.

– The Deliverer must have every advantage—

She heard cries ahead, the sound of violence, and forced herself to slow. She would not be in time to make a difference. When the dice spoke clear, they marked a fixed point, like a large stone jutting from time’s river. She was to find the boy alone and weeping. In effect, it had already happened, and it was pointless to resist such wind.

A Sharum appeared, laughing as he retied his pantaloons. His night veil hung loose about his neck, and there was blood on his lips. He stopped short, paling at the sight of her. Inevera said nothing, making note of his face as she raised an eyebrow and tilted her head back the way she had come. The warrior bowed and quickly shuffled past her, then turned and ran as fast as he could.

Inevera resumed her approach, hearing the boy’s sobbing. She kept her breath a steady rhythm, walking at her normal, steady glide. Turning the last corner she saw the boy shuddering on the ground. His bido was around his knees, and his shoulder bled where the Sharum had obviously bitten him when his lust reached its climax. There were other bruises and abrasions, but if they came from this assault or alagai’sharak, she could not say.

He noticed her approach and looked up, tears glittering on his face in the starlight. And as foretold, she knew him.

The nie’Sharum she had met years ago, the night she finished her dice. Ahmann Jardir, who had embraced his pain and watched wordlessly as the dama’ting set his broken arm. Ahmann Jardir, who at twelve had somehow killed his first alagai and survived a night in the Maze. It seemed to be a glimpse of Everam’s holy plan.

She wondered for a moment if he would recognize her as well, but she was veiled now, and he had been dull with pain when they last met. The boy remained frozen for a moment, then remembered himself, quickly pulling up his bido as if it could cover the shame written clearly on his face.

Her heart pounded once, a heavy throb going out to this brave boy who had suffered such humiliation when he should be triumphant. She wanted to go to him and fold him in her arms, but the dice had been clear.

– Make him a man—

She hardened herself and clicked her tongue like the crack of a whip.

‘On your feet, boy!’ she snapped. ‘You stand your ground against alagai, but weep like a woman over this? Everam needs dal’Sharum, not khaffit!’

A look of anguish crossed the boy’s face for an instant, but he embraced it, getting to his feet and palming away his tears.

‘That’s better,’ Inevera said, ‘if late. I would hate to have come all the way out here to foretell the life of a coward.’

The boy snarled, and Inevera smiled inwardly. There was steel in him, if unforged. ‘How did you find me?’

Inevera psshed, dismissing the question with a wave. ‘I knew to find you here years ago.’

He stared at her, unbelieving, but his belief meant nothing to her. ‘Come here, boy, that I may have a better look at you.’

She grabbed his face, turning it this way and that to catch the moonlight. ‘Young and strong. But so are all who get this far. You’re younger than most, but that’s seldom a good thing.’

‘Are you here to foretell my death?’ Ahmann asked.

‘Bold, too,’ she muttered, and again suppressed a smile. ‘There may be hope for you yet. Kneel, boy.’

He did, and she spread a white prayer cloth in the dust of the Maze, kneeling with him.

‘What do I care for your death?’ she asked. ‘I am here to foretell your life. Death is between you and Everam.’

She opened her hora pouch, emptying the precious dice into her hand, throbbing with power. Dawn was approaching quickly. If she were to read him, it must be now.

Ahmann’s eyes widened at the sight, and she lifted the objects towards him. ‘The alagai hora.’

He recoiled. Inevera could not blame him for it, remembering her own reaction the first time she had seen demon bone, but if there was weakness in him, it must be crushed.

‘Back to cowardice?’ she asked mildly. ‘What is the purpose of wards, if not to turn alagai magic to our own ends?’

Ahmann swallowed and leaned back in.

He finds his centre quickly, she thought, and there was a strange pride in it. Had she not first taught him to embrace pain?

‘Hold out your arm,’ she commanded, drawing her curved knife, the jewelled hilt of silver with etched wards on the steel blade.

Ahmann’s arm did not shake as she cut and squeezed the wound, smearing her hand with blood. She took up the alagai hora in both hands, shaking them.

‘Everam, giver of light and life, I beseech you, give this lowly servant knowledge of what is to come. Tell me of Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, last scion of the line of Jardir, the seventh son of Kaji.’

She could feel the dice flaring with power as she shook. ‘Is he the Deliverer reborn?’ she murmured, too low for the boy to hear.

And she threw.

Inevera lost all sense of centre as she leaned in, staring hungrily at the dice as they settled into a pattern in the dust of the Maze. The first symbols made her blood run cold.

– The Deliverer is not born. He is made.—

She hissed, crawling in the dust, mindless of how it clung to her pure white robes as she studied the rest of the pattern.

– This one may be, but if he takes the veil or knows a woman before his time, he will die and his path to Shar’Dama Ka will be lost.—

Made, not born? The boy before her might be the Deliverer? Impossible.

‘These bones must have been exposed to light,’ she muttered, gathering them up and cutting the boy again for a second throw, more vigorous than the first.

But despite the move, the dice fell in precisely the same pattern.

‘This cannot be!’ she cried, snatching up the dice and throwing a third time, putting a spin on the hora as she did.

But still, the pattern remained the same.

‘What is it?’ Ahmann dared to ask. ‘What do you see?’

Inevera looked up at him, and her eyes narrowed. ‘The future is not yours to know, boy.’ He drew back at that, and she returned the bones to her pouch before rising and shaking the dust from her robes. All the while she breathed, reaching for her centre though her heart was pounding in her chest.

She looked at the boy. He was only twelve, uncomprehending of the enormity of the burden that hovered around him in the endless possibilities of the future.

‘Return to the Kaji pavilion and spend the remainder of the night in prayer,’ she ordered, and left without so much as a backward glance.

Inevera walked slowly back out of the Maze. Dama Khevat, Damaji Amadeveram’s liaison to the Kaji Sharum, would be waiting for her. Likely the whole tribe was holding their breath, as they did whenever it was time to read a potential Sharum at the end of his Hannu Pash. But the tribe did not concern her. It was Khevat. The dama was shrewd and powerful, from a family with ties all the way back to the first Deliverer’s advisors. He was in full favour of his Damaji, the Sharum Ka, and the Andrah himself. Even a dama’ting was wise to step carefully about one such as Dama Khevat.