“You continue to surprise me, son of Hoshkamin,” Khevat said. “I did not believe you when you said you would win glory enough for you and your father both, but you seem determined to prove me wrong.”

Jardir shrugged. “I have only done as any warrior would do.”

Khevat chuckled. “The warriors I have known are not so modest. A kill wholly your own and five assists, at what? Thirteen?”

“Twelve,” Jardir said.

“Twelve,” Khevat repeated. “And you helped Moshkama die last night. Few nie’Sharum would have the heart for that.”

“It was his time,” Jardir said.

“Indeed,” Khevat said. “Moshkama had no sons. As his brother in death, it will fall to you to bleach his bones for Sharik Hora.”

Jardir bowed. “I am honored.”

“Your dama’ting came to me last night,” Khevat said.

Jardir looked up eagerly. “I am to lose my bido?”

Khevat shook his head. “You are too young, she says. Returning you to alagai’sharak without further training and time to grow will only cost the Kaji a warrior.”

“I am not afraid to die,” Jardir said, “if that is inevera.”

“Spoken like a true Sharum,” Khevat said, “but it is not that simple. You are denied the Maze by her decree until you are older.”

Jardir scowled. “So I must return to the Kaji’sharaj in shame after standing among men?”

The dama shook his head. “The law is clear on that. No boy who sees the Sharum pavilion is permitted to return to the sharaj.”

“But if I cannot go there, and I cannot stand with the men…,” Jardir began, and suddenly the depth of his predicament became clear.

“I…will become khaffit?” he asked, stark terror overcoming him for the first time in his life. His fear of the dama’ting was nothing compared to this. He felt the blood leave his face as he remembered the sight of Abban begging for his life.

I will die first, he thought. I will attack the first dal’Sharum I see, and give him no choice but to kill me. Better dead than khaffit.

“No,” the dama said, and Jardir felt his heart begin to beat again. “Perhaps such things do not matter to the dama’ting, since even the lowliest khaffit is above a woman, but I will see no warrior fall so low when his every challenge has been met. Since the time of Shar’Dama Ka, no boy who has shed alagai blood in the Maze has been refused the black. The dama’ting dishonors us all with her decree, and handmaiden of Everam or not, she is only a woman, and cannot understand what that would do to the hearts of all Sharum.”

“Then what will become of me?” Jardir asked.

“You will be taken into Sharik Hora,” Khevat said. “I have already spoken to Damaji Amadeveram. With his blessing, not even the dama’ting can deny you that.”

“I am to become a cleric?” Jardir asked. He tried to mask his displeasure, but his voice cracked, and he knew he had failed.

Khevat chuckled. “No, boy, your destiny is still the Maze, but you will train here with us until you are ready. Study hard, and you may make kai’Sharum while others your age still wear bidos.”

“This will be your cell,” Khevat said, leading Jardir to a chamber deep in the bowels of Sharik Hora. The room was a ten-by-ten square cut into the sandstone with a hard cot in one corner. There was a heavy wooden door, but it had no latch or bar. The only light came from a lamp in the corridor, filtering through the barred window in the door. Compared to the communal space and stone floor of the Kaji’sharaj, even this would have seemed luxury, if not for the shame that brought him here, and the pleasures of the Kaji pavilion that he was denied.

“You will fast here and excise the demons from your mind,” Khevat said. “Your training begins on the morrow.” He left, his footsteps receding in the hall until all was silent.

Jardir fell upon the cot, crossing his arms in front of him to support his head. But lying on his stomach made him think of Hasik, and rage and shame flared in him until it became unbearable. He leapt to his feet and grasped the cot, shouting as he smashed it against the wall. He threw it down, kicking the wood and tearing the cloth until he stood panting and hoarse amid a pile of splinters and thread.

Suddenly realizing what he had done, Jardir straightened, but there was no response to his commotion. He swept the wreckage into a corner and began a sharukin. The practiced series of sharusahk movements centered him as no prayer ever could.

The events of the last week swirled around him. Abban was khaffit now. Jardir felt shame at that, but he embraced the feeling, and saw the truth beneath. Abban had been khaffit all along, and Hannu Pash had shown it. Jardir had delayed Everam’s will, but he had not stopped it. No man could.

Inevera, he thought, and embraced the loss.

He thought of the glory and elation at killing demons in the Maze, and accepted that it might be many years before he could feel such joy again. The dice had spoken.

Inevera.

He thought again of Hasik, but it was not inevera. There, he had failed. He had been a fool to drink couzi in the Maze. A fool to trust Hasik. A fool to lower his guard.

The pain of his body and the passing of blood he had already embraced. Even the humiliation. He had seen other boys in sharaj mounted, and could embrace the feeling. What he could not embrace was the fact that even now Hasik strutted among the dal’Sharum thinking he had won, that Jardir was broken.

Jardir scowled. Perhaps I am broken, he conceded silently, but broken bones heal stronger, and I will have my day in the sun.

Night came, signaled only by the extinguishing of the lamp in the hall, leaving his cell in utter blackness. Jardir didn’t mind the dark. No wards in the world could match those of Sharik Hora, and even without them, the spirits of warriors without number guarded the temple. Any alagai setting foot in this hallowed place would be burned away as if it had seen the sun.

Jardir could not have slept even if he had wanted to, so he continued his sharukin, repeating the movements over and over until they were a part of him, as natural as breathing.

When the door of his cell creaked open, Jardir was instantly aware. Recalling his first night in the Kaji’sharaj, he slipped silently to the side of the door in the darkness and assumed a fighting stance. If the nie’dama sought to give him a similar welcome, it would be to their regret.

“If I wished you harm, I would not have sent you here for training,” said a familiar woman’s voice. A red light sprang to life, illuminating the dama’ting he had met the night before. She held a small flame demon skull, carved with wards that glowed fiercely in the darkness. The light found her already staring right into his eyes, as if she had known where he stood all along.

“You didn’t send me here,” Jardir dared to say. “You told Dama Khevat to send me back to the Kaji’sharaj in shame!”

“As I knew he would never do,” the dama’ting said, ignoring his accusatory tone. “Nor would he have made you khaffit. The only path left to him was to send you here.”

“Without honor,” Jardir said, clenching his fists.

“In safety!” the dama’ting hissed, raising the alagai skull. The wards flared brighter, and a gout of flame coughed from its maw. Jardir felt the flash of heat on his face and recoiled.