CHAPTER 22

THE EDGE OF NIE’S ABYSS

334 AR

Briar’s tattoos had long since healed, but his palms still itched. It was a constant reminder the wards were still there beneath the dirty cloth.

As if he could forget.

He tried to resist the power they represented, keeping them wrapped and relying instead on his spear. But even through the shaft and the layers of cloth, magic still passed into his hands when he struck a demon. The wards drank it greedily, an addictive pleasure that had him seeking corie encounters he would otherwise have avoided.

And every time he thought of the tattoos, he was reminded of Stela Inn, and the night they spent in the Briarpatch. Stela Inn, naked and covered in demon ichor. Stela Inn, on hands and knees with Brother Franq behind her.

He shook his head. Need time. Time and distance. Won’t come lookin’ for me this far out.

Part of him wished she would. Hunt him down, make him hers again. Part of him would always be hers. Part of him wanted to.

Briar focused instead on his duty. When his family died, everyone gave up on him but Tender Heath of Bogton. After the Krasians came, Captain Dehlia of Sharum’s Lament made them both honorary members of her crew. Told him they were family.

It was time for his family to be free. The Krasians had never truly taken Lakton, and with Jayan’s forces destroyed, Docktown was greatly weakened. Captain Qeran and his privateers dominated the waters for now, but Briar knew the Laktonians had boats in reserve. If he could gather enough information, they might be able to retake Docktown.

And so Briar moved to gather as much information as possible before returning. He kept to the underbrush alongside the Messenger road south, slipping in and out of the hamlets along the way. He questioned contacts where he had them, and listened to the talk in the squares and inns.

Most of the villages on the road to Docktown were under Hollow control, with considerable traffic in goods, travelers, and Cutter patrols. Countess Paper was aggressively expanding her borders in response to raids by the Wolves of Everam.

The Wolves were a Sharum cavalry unit under a Krasian warlord named Jurim. They were always on the move, never staying longer than it took to sack a town. If they had a base, none could find it, and their numbers were likewise opaque. There might be as few as two hundred of them, or more than a thousand.

Even in Hollow territory, Briar saw Wolf scouts spying on the road. They were skilled woodsmen by now, but clumsy and loud by Briar’s standards. He could easily have snuck up and killed them, but couldn’t bring himself to spill blood when there was no immediate threat.

It was fear of the Wolves that kept the hamlets on the Krasian side of the border under Evejan law. The Laktonians now outnumbered their Krasian overseers, stripped bare after the Battle of Angiers. But those who tried to throw off the local dama without aid from the Hollow had been visited by the Wolves, reduced to ash and blood.

Traffic thinned in Krasian territory. Trade wagons were fewer, and the dama did not allow chin to travel between villages. By the time Briar reached the split at Northfork, the Messenger road was empty.

Briar headed east for a few days to learn what he could before reporting to Lakton. Krasian Messengers and patrols passed from time to time, but otherwise all was quiet. Hamlets east of Northfork were more firmly under Krasian control now that Prince Egar’s rebels had been crushed at the Battle of Docktown.

But firmly under the thumb of the Krasians as they were, there were few Sharum in the hamlets. If the Laktonians struck now, there would be no reinforcements.

He turned back, heading for Docktown. There were Sharum blacks in his pack he could use to slip into the town and explore. Then he would head north along the shoreline until he reached a certain hidden cove Captain Dehlia favored. If he moved a certain rock, she would be sure to notice and send a boat to pick him up.

But as he was about to cut cross-country, a lone traveler caught his attention.

“The sun will set soon,” Ashia told Kaji.

It was not the Sharum’ting way to speak aloud. For the last decade she had largely spoken in the intricate hand code of the mute eunuchs who served the dama’ting. She and her spear sisters were not meant to be seen or heard. Only felt.

But she was no longer simply a Sharum’ting. She was a mother, and a mother’s duty was to teach her child to speak.

“We’ll need to make camp,” she advised, wondering if there were hidden ears about. If they had just revealed too much of their plans. She saw a slight movement in the undergrowth. It could have been a deer, or a shadow, or nothing at all. Her veil flared and pulled tight as she sniffed the air.

“Cap!” Kaji echoed.

“That’s right, my heart!” The chatter, however unnatural it felt, only helped her disguise.

Sharum patrols are apt to force themselves on any woman caught traveling alone, the Damajah had said. Or a shapely young mother, even with her babe. But a shapeless old woman traveling with her grandson will be invisible.

And so Ashia had strewn rough dal’ting blacks over her armor to give her a shapeless figure. She hunched, adding the weight of years to her carriage. A thick black veil hid her face and hair. Makeup around the eyes added wrinkles to her smooth skin.

Her twin stabbing spears were unscrewed and sheathed in cloth, supports for the pack Kaji rode on her back. She could have them in her hands in seconds if needed, extending the warded spearheads contained in the hollow shafts with a flick of her wrist.

The mirror finish of her warded glass shield was hidden under a coating of paint shaded to look like battered bronze. The sort of shield almost every Krasian family had at least one of, left over from some Sharum relative who walked the lonely path. It hung from her saddle, not worth the effort of stealing.

Likewise, her mare had been carefully chosen to appear nondescript. Rags tied about her fetlocks hid the silvered wards cut into her hooves. Even the horse’s name, Rasa, meant “hidden strength.”

She seemed just another of the countless Krasian women in the wetlands, widowed by Prince Jayan’s foolishness. With nothing worth stealing and a child on her back, she was largely ignored by bandits and Sharum patrols alike.

The Damajah had used her earring to check their progress the first few nights, but Ashia had long since passed out of range. They would be in Everam’s Reservoir in just two more days.

Ashia found a secluded patch of dry land not far from the road as the sun set.

“Cap!” Kaji cried, as she got down from her horse.

“That’s right,” Ashia agreed. “This is our camp. What do we do first?”

“Hoss!” Kaji answered immediately. They practiced every evening.

“Yes,” Ashia said. “First I have to stake the horse.” She did not use a hammer, driving the peg into the ground with a precise thrust of her palm, like striking a blow against Ala itself.

“What do we do second?” Ashia asked.

“Suhkul!” Kaji shouted.

Ashia smiled as she spread her portable warded circle. Last night, he responded to the second question with “hoss.” The night before, nothing. Already, he understood her well enough, and every day brought a new word to his tiny lips.

She set his pack down and began laying stones for a fire.

“Cap!” he pointed at the sticks she gathered.

Ashia set them ablaze with her ruby ring, which contained a piece of flame demon horn. “Fire.”

“Fir,” Kaji agreed, and she felt a thrill run through her. Another new word. It was fitting, for today was a special day.

She unstrapped Kaji and lifted him from the pack to change his bido. Her eyes never left his as her practiced hands went about the task.

“It is your born day.” She lifted Kaji close. “Ala has made one journey around Everam’s sun since the night you were brought into this world.” She opened the front of her robes to free a breast.

There was a slight rustle in the trees. Ashia gave no outward sign, cooing as she brought her son in to suckle, but all her attention homed in on that spot. Eyes like a falcon’s could see no sign of anyone. Sharp ears strained, but there was no further sound.

It could have been anything. The sun had not set, so she knew it was no demon, but it could have been a small animal. A falling nut. A slight breeze.

But there was that scent again. The one she’d smelled on the road.

She waited, falling into her breath as she strained her senses, but there was nothing to indicate a threat.

“Your mother sees enemies everywhere,” she told Kaji at last. The boy was not listening, eyes closed as he nursed. Ashia took her own repast, one of the small dense honey cakes the Sharum’ting used to keep up their strength with minimal ingestion.

When he was done, she left him on a blanket in the hollow of her rounded shield. He stretched and fidgeted, free at last of the confining pack, but the wobbling shield kept him safely confined while she tended Rasa, removing the saddle and brushing her down.

By the time the horse was settled, the sky was darkening. Perhaps a quarter hour before the rising. She lifted Kaji from the shield and set him on his feet. He held on to her sleeve, but it was for balance, not strength. For the next several minutes, he stumbled gleefully through the camp, dragging his mother along.

“Hoss!” he shouted at Rasa.

“Yes, horse!” Ashia laughingly agreed.

“Fir!” he barked at the fire.

“Yes, fire!” Ashia gave his hand a squeeze.

“Cap!” he cried to the wards.

“Wards,” Ashia told him, tracing the symbols with a finger.

“Wads!” Kaji shouted.

Another rustle. Ashia kept her breathing steady, but she picked Kaji up and swung him through the air. The boy squealed with joy as she brought him back to the fire in the center of the circle.

She reached into her saddlebag for a carefully wrapped box. “I have something special for you, my son. A present, for your first born day.” Inside was a soft, yellow cake. “My Tikka made this when I was a girl, and I loved it more than anything. Now she has made one for you.”

She began to sing, a traditional song for a child’s born day. She and her spear sisters were all trained singers. Ashia seldom had call to use the skill, but never did she feel closer to Everam than when she sang to her son.

Again, the sound from the trees. The warded coins strung about her forehead let her see in Everam’s light now that the sun was setting, but even with them, there was no sign of any creature in the woods.

But it was there, and it was clever, timing its movements with the rise and fall of her song to mask the sound.

Whoever it was did not appear to wish them immediate harm. After a few moments, they began drifting away. A spy on the way to report to a superior?

The spy moved in time with not just her voice, but the crickets and birds, the cries of bats and the howl of wind. Sensitive to the night’s harmony, it was no mere animal. No simple demon. One of Asome’s elite Krevakh Watchers? A dama sorcerer?

Or was it one of the shapeless alagai? The kai. Ashia fought one of them, Asome at her side, what seemed a lifetime ago. The demon recovered quickly from even her strongest blows, doubling and redoubling its assaults, growing more and more limbs until she could not dodge or parry them all.

It had been her husband who killed it, in the end. Ashia could not say in truth that she would have been victorious alone. Such a demon had killed her master, Enkido.

As she sang, she slipped her warded glass spear shafts from the baby pack, screwing them together into a walking stick. When the song was done, she set the cake in front of Kaji. He stared at it.

“Cake,” Ashia said.

“Cay,” Kaji said.

“You eat it.” Ashia reached out and broke a piece off the cake. How long since she last tasted Tikka’s cake? Nearly a decade. “Like this.”

She popped the piece into her mouth. Soft, sticky, and sweet, it tasted like childhood. Like happiness and safety. She remembered her own private pillow chamber filled with silks and velvet and rich carpet, golden chalices and stained glass. Vapid conversations with the crowd of young women who seemed to exist only to flatter her. The life she lived before being wrenched into cramped subsistence beneath the Dama’ting Palace.

Kaji laughed, mimicking her as best he could. He used two hands, grabbing the spongy cake in gleeful fists, scattering far more than made it into his mouth. Ashia laughed again. She hated Kajivah for witlessly sending her and her cousins to Inevera, and hated her again when she was pulled away from them to marry Asome. But if all those moments were leading to this, the sound of Kaji’s laughter, then every moment of suffering was worth it.

But even as she watched her son experience Tikka’s yellow cake for the first time, a part of Ashia was tracking the spy. They had drawn off, but not too far. She could smell them.

Ashia cleaned Kaji’s sticky hands and nestled him in a blanket inside her shield. Even if the outer wards should fail, the circle around the rim of the shield would keep him safe until she could get to him.

She lifted Kaji’s soiled bido. “You may be allowed to empty yourself in the circle, my son, but I am afraid I cannot.” She kissed him. “I will be back in a moment.”

She moved slowly, in case the predator still watched, pretending to need the walking stick to get to her feet. She shuffled slowly out of the firelight, slipping behind a tree.

The moment she was out of sight, Ashia dropped her heavy outer robe, clad now in feather-light black Sharum’ting silks, reinforced with plates of warded glass. She activated her hora of silence, making no sound as she scampered up the tree and into the boughs.

Kaji was speaking to himself as he often did, much of it indecipherable sounds. Ashia focused on them, moving as one with their rise and fall, as the predator had. She flitted from tree to tree like a hummingbird between flowers, and soon circled around the camp and into the trees, at last getting a look at the spy.

Briar lost a day, but while his information was useful, there was no one expecting him in Lakton. The road was not safe for an old Krasian woman and her child. The Sharum were his enemy—he had to believe that—but his home had not been invaded by women and children.

He was impressed by the woman, and a little suspicious. Her back was stooped, as if she did not have the strength to carry herself upright, but she rode the day through with a babe on her back, stopping only to feed and change him. When the day grew late, she showed no fear, calmly finding a spot out of sight of the road and making camp.

Krasian women were hard. They did the majority of work in their communities, ran businesses, constructed buildings, slaughtered livestock, and raised children.

What they did not do was fight. Not against other humans, and certainly not against demons. This one didn’t even have any weapons, only a battered shield, yet she faced the coming night with no sign of worry. Even Briar was filled with fear when the sun set. It was the reason he was still alive.

Who was this woman? Was the boy her son? Grandson? Or just another orphan, like Briar? Everam knew there were endless stories of broken families throughout the land. The Krasians sank or captured more than half the Laktonian fleet and kept their grip on the hamlets, but not without terrible losses. Were they headed to Docktown seeking his father?

Or perhaps the woman worked for an orphanage? A Messenger of sorts, ferrying children to whatever families would take them. Krasians always succored the children of Sharum who walked the lonely path, and they would need to replenish their warriors after the battles. What family would turn down a healthy Krasian son?

But from the moment she unstrapped the baby, he knew that was not it. Whoever she was, whatever she was, there was no mistaking a mother’s love for her child.

He watched, basking in the sound of the boy shouting words in Krasian, and the mother’s replies.

Relan insisted his children understand who they were and where they came from. He taught them to speak his language, sing his songs, dance his dances. He taught his sons sharusahk and sought to find good husbands for his daughters.

Briar heard his father’s language often of late, but always in anger. This woman spoke with laughter and joy, the way Briar Damaj remembered it best.

He understood then that anyone who could love so fully and speak with such joy could never be his enemy. They appeared to be headed for Docktown, and he resolved to see them safely there, even if it cost him time. He would keep watch as they slept, luring the cories away from them.

She sat with the child, and by the time Briar realized what was happening, she had bared her breast to feed him.

Briar felt his face heat, turning quickly to avert his gaze. Too late. The image burned in his mind’s eye. Even after several moments of steady breathing, it lingered. A young woman’s breast. The bulk that gave her an appearance of age was due to a second robe beneath her first, the armored blacks of a Sharum. A rarer sight than a woman carrying the family shield, but not unheard of. It explained some of her calm before the setting sun.

Briar heard her shuffling cloth when the baby was finished, and dared to look again in time to see the boy clutch at his mother’s robes and pull himself onto his feet. He hung tightly for balance, stumbling around the camp, pointing and shouting his words. Briar moved closer, not wanting to miss a moment of it.

But then the woman took her son back to the fire, and began to sing a song Briar had not heard in years. The born day song, praising Everam for giving life.

How many times had Briar’s family sung that song? There were seven in the Damaj house.

The woman’s voice was the most beautiful, transcendent thing Briar had heard short of the duet Halfgrip’s wives performed at his funeral. He lost himself in the sound, letting it wrap him like a warm blanket.

And for an instant he remembered the sounds of their voices. The choir of his brothers and sisters. The deep tone of his father. And his mother, as always, leading the song.

He choked, swallowing the sound and squeezing sudden drops from his eyes. He tried to grasp the memory again, to hear them one more time, but it was gone like a wisp of smoke. He felt sobs building in his chest, and knew he could not suppress them for long.

Holding his breath, Briar backed away as quickly as he could without being noticed. When he was far enough away, he put his back to a tree, slid down to the wet soil, and wept.

Ashia watched the spy, unsure.

He was certainly no dama, years too young, and clad in filthy rags. He carried a warrior’s spear and shield, but he looked like no Sharum Ashia had ever seen. His clothes were of Northern design, filthy with sap and soil to make him all but invisible in the underbrush, even to wardsight.

But now that she was close, Ashia could see his magic was strong, particularly focused in his hands. His face was so covered in dirt that his features were hard to make out. He could have been Krasian, or a dark-haired greenlander who spent too much time in the sun.

Who was he? What did he want? And why in Everam’s name was he weeping?

Capture him and find out.

Ashia tightened her grip on her staff, keeping the blades retracted. With her other hand, she drew a few inches of silk cord from the spindle on her belt. There was a point where the lines of power converged in the back of the neck. Leaning forward, head between his knees, the spy had bared it for her. A precise strike would stun him long enough for her to loop the cord around his wrists and ankles. She would be back in the camp with her prisoner before Kaji began to miss her.

She leapt, silent as a diving wind demon, but somehow the spy noticed her. He rolled forward at the last moment and her staff struck only the wet soil where he sat.

The enemy will not wait for you to hit them, Enkido’s fingers taught.

Ashia used the energy from her landing to roll after him, managing to throw a loop of cord around his ankle. She pulled, but he caught his balance mid-trip, twisting to kick her in the face with his free leg.

Ashia was knocked back, losing her grip on the cord long enough for him to slip free. The spy might have pressed the advantage, but instead he turned and ran.

Ashia moved immediately to pursue. The spy cut left, then ran two steps up the trunk of a tree and leapt to the right, grabbing a branch and pulling himself up.

Ashia wasn’t fooled by the move, gaining inches on him as she ran up the trunk of the second tree, as light on the branches as he. For an instant, there was a gap in the foliage and she threw, staff striking him between the shoulder blades as he reached for another branch. His arm fell short, hand spasming, and he fell from the branches.

Ashia dropped straight down, dispersing the energy in a tumble as she pulled more cord from her belt.

But the spy landed in a roll as well, turning to face her as she rushed in. He threw a push-kick she easily slipped, trying to catch the foot in a loop of cord. He was too fast, grabbing the silk and pulling her in as he threw a punch.

Ashia parried with minimal contact and moved in to grapple, but the spy’s skin was gummy with sap. He wrestled free before she could get a firm grip.

They both got to their feet, and he came at her in a straightforward attack. His kicks and punches were perfectly executed, but they were basic. Sharukin taught to children and chi’Sharum.

But what he lacked in skill, he made up for in speed and adaptability. He caught one of her return punches in a twist of her own cord, then dove between her legs. Ashia threw herself forward into a flip to reverse the hold and use it against him, but he let go and used the distraction to sprint away.

Again she raced after him, drawing farther and farther from her camp. Kaji began to cry, and Ashia grew worried. It was full dark, and the sounds might draw alagai to him.

But this man was too dangerous to let escape. She put on a burst of speed, snatching a stone from the muck and throwing to strike the convergence at the back of his knee. The leg collapsed on his next step, and he tumbled, trying to keep balance, as Ashia closed the gap.

This time she did not hesitate. Having taken his measure, she struck again and again, kicks and punches, knees and elbows. If she could not bind him without harm, she would force him to submit.

The spy was quick and strong, blocking or dodging the first blows of the flurry, but soon one slipped by, and then two more. He reeled, off balance. His limbs, numbed by her blows, betrayed him.

He tried to say something, but she struck him in the throat, and he choked on the words. It was not time for talk. She caught his arm and began to twist it into a submission hold.

Still coughing, the spy turned to her and spat stinking juice in her face. It stung her eyes and she pulled back, giving him space to heel-kick her away from him.

By the time her vision cleared, Kaji’s cries filled the night, and the spy was gone. She sniffed at the sticky juice on her fingers. Like the spy himself, they reeked of the herb dama’ting used to treat demon wounds.

You must seek the khaffit, the Damajah said. And find my lost cousin. You will know him by his scent.

But what did it mean? Could this vagabond be the Damajah’s lost cousin? It seemed unlikely. And if so, what then? Did he have information she needed? Was he a friend? A foe?

Could she afford to find out, with Kaji to protect?

She recovered her staff on the way back to camp. A bog demon had been drawn by Kaji’s cries. It shambled around the circle, testing the wards.

The wards sewn into Ashia’s robes made her all but invisible to the demon. She slipped behind it, extending one of her spearpoints and impaling it in the back. The demon shrieked and thrashed, but Ashia hung on as magic pumped into her, crackling around the wards painted on her nails. It made her feel strong. Fast. In moments she had broken camp and set Kaji back in his pack on her shoulders. She removed the rags around Rasa’s fetlocks, revealing the wards carved into her hooves. These she painted with alagai ichor until they shined brightly in her wardsight.

Then she mounted and kicked the horse hard, galloping into the night. There were occasional corelings on the road, and she purposely ran a few down, activating the wards on Rasa’s hooves and boosting the animal’s strength and stamina. She drew upon her hora jewelry for the same. Kaji, soothed by the steady hoofbeats, fell fast asleep.

She reached Everam’s Reservoir an hour before dawn, pausing to replace her disguise. She thought she caught his scent again, but after sniffing about, she became convinced she imagined it. No warrior on foot—or even a normal mount—could have kept pace with Rasa.

At sunrise Ashia broke camp. This close to Everam’s Reservoir, the road was active with Sharum returning from patrol and vendors preparing for the coming day. She was just another old dal’ting woman with a child—invisible.

But the spy would stand out, if he tried to follow. She would either lose him or draw him from hiding.

Briar ran as fast as he could, zigzagging through the trees, over and under obstacles and through water, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and that terrifying woman.

Stela Inn had frightened him, but at least she spoke, and he understood her motivations. This woman moved like a kai’Sharum Watcher. Was she Sharum’ting? Traveling with a baby? It didn’t fit.

Whatever she was, he was no match for her in a fair fight. She was too fast, too skilled.

Before he felt protective, determined to guard innocent travelers on their path. Now he was curious. Was the woman a spy? The child a ruse to draw attention from her mission? Greenlanders were known to sympathize with Krasian women, often seeking to free them from bonds they did not wish to be free of.

Given the chance, such a warrior as this could infiltrate the resistance and assassinate leaders.

When he was certain he’d lost her, he cut diagonally back to the Messenger road, trying to get ahead of her. Before long, she came thundering up the road, the hooves of her simple mare glowing brightly with ward magic.

Whoever she was, whatever, he needed to know. To warn his people before she could cause any harm.

He waited for her to pass, then set off after.

As expected, the Sharum in Everam’s Reservoir ignored Ashia. Any woman who was not bearing food or sexually available was beneath their notice. She walked unmolested all the way to the piers.

Women and children far outnumbered the men in Everam’s Reservoir. Jayan’s warriors were entrenched so long that many sent for their wives and children to settle in homes doled out by the prince as spoils to his warriors.

Most of those men rode off with Jayan, never to return. Asome, not wanting to draw eyes to his brother’s former stronghold, had been slow to send reinforcements. The result was a shadow of a town, missing some essential part of what made a community thrive.

Ashia’s cousin Sharu, the Deliverer’s fourth son, had been left in command of Everam’s Reservoir. She could see his banner flying over the town hall. They had been close as children, but Ashia passed the building by. Sharu was one of the only men east of Everam’s Bounty who might recognize her, and Asome had always dominated his younger brothers. Sharu would betray her without a thought.

She could see that her cousin’s forces were spread thin. There were not even enough warriors to protect the town hall, should it come under concentrated attack.

The only places that seemed fully alive were the docks. A steady stream of chin and dal’ting poured on and off the ships, hauling supplies, checking manifests, cataloging spoils, selling food and drink. The Krasian fleet was so large only a portion of its vessels could dock at a given time.

Seek the three sisters, Inevera advised after consulting her dice. As with many of the Damajah’s foretellings, it did not make sense at the time, but now a quick scan of the docks was all she needed.

A lone pier, large enough for half a dozen vessels, was dedicated to Tan Spear, the flagship of Everam’s Reservoir, and its two escorts: Tan Shield and Tan Armor.

The names were a reminder that while Sharu technically ruled in Everam’s Reservoir, his strength came from the kha’Sharum privateers under the command of Drillmaster Qeran. Scorpions and slings lined their decks, lashed in neat rows. Each of the vessels—superior to any in the fleet—flew the camel crutch flag of Abban the khaffit. It was said the Battle of Everam’s Reservoir would have been lost without them.

The crew members all wore loose tan pants, though many were shirtless as they labored. Ashia knew it was sinful, but she let her eyes drift over their bodies. She had only lain with her husband twice. Was that the only contact she would ever have with a man, apart from fighting?

On the decks, those on duty worked efficient maintenance, while those off practiced sharusahk and spearwork. Ashia could not deny the warriors were skilled. Drillmaster Qeran was a legend, having trained the Deliverer, himself. Even her master Enkido spoke of Qeran with respect.

There were any number of ways Ashia might have snuck onto Tan Spear unnoticed, but there was no reason to risk swimming or climbing with Kaji when the boy provided the perfect cover. She walked right up to the kha’Sharum guard at the gangplank. He looked at her—through her. This was not one of the lax dal’Sharum that filled the city. He searched with his eyes, assessing potential contraband or threat.

Ashia’s disguise satisfied him. Kaji lent a weight to it that no clothing or makeup possibly could. Eliminating the possibility of threat, the warrior’s interest waned and his guard dropped.

“I am Hannali vah Qeran, eldest daughter of your master,” Ashia lied. “My father will want to meet his latest grandson.”

The Sharum’s brows raised slightly. He signaled a runner, who quickly returned with permission to come aboard. The Damajah’s foretelling revealed Qeran’s affection for Hannali.

It was obvious to Captain Qeran the moment she stepped into his cabin that she was not his favored daughter, but he said nothing, waving two fingers to dismiss her escort.

Ashia watched as the former drillmaster bounced to his feet, walking on one muscular leg and one curved sheet of metal. A wooden limb would have cost him balance, but Qeran was fully in control, using the spring of the artificial limb to propel himself around.

There were few Sharum Ashia felt could threaten her in sharusahk. Knowing he had lost his limb, Ashia did not expect to add Qeran to the list, but the captain surprised her. He would be fast, harder to unbalance, and the tense steel leg made possible moves other warriors could never attempt.

Qeran, too, gave her an appraising glance. “You’re wearing armor under your robe. If you’re an assassin, I thank you for the respite from my endless paperwork. Set the child aside and let us have done.”

The words were casual, but she could see in his eyes the threat was real. Having sent his guard away, Qeran was fully prepared to fight and kill an assassin, alone in his cramped cabin.

“I am no assassin,” Ashia said. “I am Sharum’ting Ka Ashia vah Ashan am’Jardir am’Kaji. I am here on business from the Damajah.”

Hold nothing back with Qeran, the Damajah said after consulting her dice, but still Ashia tensed, ready to fight and kill should he threaten to expose her. Her eyes flicked around the room, looking for ways to use the close walls, low ceiling, and numerous support beams to her advantage.

Qeran shifted, ready for an attack, but he crossed his arms. “I knew Ashia as a child, but I have not seen her face since she was taken into the Dama’ting Palace a decade ago.”

He thrust his chin at her pack. “You mean to say that is Kaji asu Asome am’Jardir am’Kaji? Heir to the Skull Throne?”

Ashia kept her breathing even. “Yes.”

“Prove it,” Qeran said.

“What proof would satisfy you?” Ashia asked.

Qeran smiled. “I don’t know Ashia’s face, but I did know Enkido. He was my ajin’pal.”

Ashia blinked. Her master had been such a part of the Dama’ting Palace that she seldom gave thought to his life before. Wives and children he left to serve Damaji’ting Kenevah and learn the secrets of dama’ting sharusahk. Sharum trained in his years as a drillmaster.

And brothers. The bond of ajin’pal was as strong as blood.

“The great drillmaster took one nie’Sharum each year as his ajin’pal,” Qeran said. “Drillmaster Kaval was the year before mine, a bond that made us brothers as well. I am told Kaval and Enkido died together on alagai talons, their glory boundless, while I trained khaffit back in Everam’s Bounty.”

His voice did not waver, but Ashia could hear the sorrow in Qeran’s words. The pain. He would have gladly died at his brothers’ side.

He locked eyes with her. “That is why you must fight me, Princess. If you have been trained by Enkido, I will know, and help you in any way I can. If you have not…” His eyes flicked to Kaji. “You have my word that after I kill you I will raise the boy as if he were my own.”

Ashia felt a chill at the words, but she did not hesitate, removing the pack with Kaji and laying it on a bench as far out of the way as possible in the tiny cabin. She stripped off her thick dal’ting robe, standing in her silk Sharum’ting blacks, plated with warded glass. She drew a white silk scarf from her sleeve and wrapped it over the black scarf and veil of her dal’ting disguise.

She bowed. “You honor me, Drillmaster.”

Qeran bowed in return. “It is I who am honored, if you are indeed the Sharum’ting Ka.” He shifted his foot slightly, adding just a bit of tension to the curved blade of metal supporting the other limb. His hands came out in a sharusahk readiness position Enkido had drilled countless times into Ashia and her spear sisters. She flowed to mirror him.

Hold nothing back with Qeran.

“Begin,” Qeran said, and she was moving, but not in the direction he expected. Ashia quickstepped from a stool onto the wall, spinning into a kick to take the drillmaster in the face.

But Qeran was quick to react, slipping the kick and catching her armpit as she sailed past. He twisted, using her own momentum to add force as he punched her in the chest.

It was as if her breastplate had been struck with a maul. She slammed down into the deck, losing her wind, but she kept balance, sweeping a leg at his ankle.

Qeran hopped back out of range of the sweep, using the sudden bounce on his metal leg to spring at her as she kicked her feet up to throw herself upright.

This time Ashia met him head-on, matching the drillmaster blow for blow. He might not have been privy to the full secrets of dama’ting sharusahk, but Qeran knew what Ashia was doing when she tried to drive fingers, knuckles, and even toes into convergence points on his body. Most he was able to slip or block, always with a powerful series of blows to flow in after. Ashia worked hard to honor her master’s teachings, picking them off and countering, searching for an opening.

Once, he let a blow slip past his defenses and Ashia thought she had him, but when her stiffened fingers struck the hidden plate beneath his robe, Ashia knew she had been played. Like hers, Qeran’s robes were lined with warded glass. She breathed away the pain, thanking Everam the fingers were not broken.

Unable to dominate the battlefield enough to strike at the convergences, Ashia shifted her focus to targets more difficult to defend against, and it became a slow attrition. She landed a punch, but it cost her a knee to the stomach. She kicked out his good knee and barely avoided his metal leg taking her head off.

Little by little, they worked out the pattern of armor plates in each other’s robes, aiming blows for the weakened areas.

Ashia landed a kick to Qeran’s ribs. The drillmaster was quick and caught the leg. Ashia twisted to slip his grip, but it cost her, giving Qeran an opening to strike her in the back.

But instead, the drillmaster shoved her away. Ashia did not question her fortune, rolling with the throw to come back to her feet out of range. There were bookshelves built into the bulkhead, and Ashia ran up them, readying to strike from above.

“Enough, Princess.” Qeran’s guard was down, his stance unthreatening. Ashia dropped lightly back to the floor. Both were breathing hard.

The drillmaster knelt, putting his hands on the floor. “What are the Damajah’s commands? Is there any word of reinforcements?”

“There are none to send,” Ashia said. “Everam’s Bounty is in chaos. The Majah have left the Deliverer’s army. They march with their slaves and spoils back to the Desert Spear.”

Qeran spat on the deck. “Majah dogs.”

“They have just cause for grievance,” Ashia said. “My cousins used hora stones to give advantage when they murdered the Damaji, but even with the assistance—”

“Young Maji was no match for ancient Aleverak,” Qeran finished. “An outcome that should surprise none.”

“The Majah had a pact with the Deliverer,” Ashia said.

“I know,” Qeran said. “I watched your father fight Aleverak for the Skull Throne while you were still in tan, Princess.”

“You do not think the Majah have a right to their anger?” Ashia asked.

Qeran shrugged. “Murder is the dama way. They call us savages, but Sharum advance in rank when our superiors die on alagai talons, not when we kill them. But that is no excuse for Aleveran to steal supply and warriors from the Deliverer’s army when Sharak Ka has begun, slinking back like cowards to hide behind the walls of the Desert Spear.”

Hold nothing back.

“Asome tried to murder me, too, Drillmaster,” Ashia said. “His own wife. The mother of his son. When Asome moved for the throne, Asukaji threw a garrote around my neck. As he did, Dama’ting Melan and Asavi joined forces in an attempt to kill the Damajah.”

“Who could no more be killed by lesser fools than Aleverak.” Ashia’s words seemed to shake the drillmaster for the first time in their encounter. “Perhaps it is best, then, that Prince Asome’s eyes are turned away from Everam’s Reservoir. Has the Damajah sent you and Kaji to succor here?”

Ashia shook her head. “I am seeking the khaffit.”

Qeran did not need to ask who Ashia meant. “I cannot help you there, Princess. I have held hope that my master is alive, but there has been no word since the Battle of Angiers. The son of Chabin is resourceful. If there was a way to get word to me, he would have done it by now.”

“Perhaps he has,” Ashia said. “Everam informed the Damajah that Abban is alive, in the hands of the Eunuch.”

“Hasik.” Qeran balled a fist. “I should have broken that mad dog’s skull while he was still a pup in sharaj.”

“Tell me about his defenses,” Ashia said.

“He will be difficult to dislodge,” Qeran said. “The Eunuch Monastery is built on a high outcropping over the water, with sheer cliff on three sides and a Laktonian blockade out on the water. Only by the main road can any sizable force approach. It is narrow, with bridges the defenders can collapse, and ambush points where they can attack invaders from cover.”

“Does he control the land around this stronghold?” Ashia asked.

Qeran shrugged. “He has scouts throughout the wetlands, but when not out on raids, his men only patrol a perimeter half a day’s ride out, returning at sunset.”

“They are not active at night?” Ashia asked.

Qeran spat. “The Eunuchs have abandoned alagai’sharak. Demons cluster thick in their lands, and the fools do nothing.”

He sighed. “A lot of good warriors will be lost to rescue one khaffit.”

“You will not be rescuing him,” Ashia said.

Qeran’s eyes went cold. “Do not mistake my demeanor, Princess. You are not in command here. The Deliverer himself named Abban my master, and I have an oath to protect him. While I breathe, I must put the safe return of Abban asu Chabin am’Haman am’Kaji above my own life, above all things short of Sharak Ka. Neither you nor the Damajah is going to stop me.”

There was a threat to the words, and Ashia tensed slightly, ready to react should he renew their battle. “You noted yourself that an assault on the monastery would cost the Deliverer’s army countless warriors. The Damajah has foreseen this as well, and sent me as an alternative. I will infiltrate Hasik’s stronghold and find a way to secure the khaffit’s release.”

Qeran looked doubtful. “Your sharusahk is gifted, girl, but I see through the theatricality. You cannot walk through walls any more than my own Watchers, especially with a babe on your back.”

“The Damajah has gifted me with magics,” Ashia said. “No Watcher can be as silent as I can be. As invisible. As strong. As fast. Kaji can scream his loudest, and those inches away will only hear it if I will it so. Sheer walls are as broad steps to my hands and feet.”

“Even so,” Qeran said. “By all accounts, Hasik has over a thousand men—tortured, mutilated, and sadistic. You would take your son, the heir to the Skull Throne, into such a place?”

“We must walk the edge of the abyss together, if Sharak Ka is to be won,” Ashia said. “The Damajah has foreseen it. The alagai are readying to mount a new offensive. We need no more red blood spilled.”

“Red blood will spill in any event,” Qeran said, “without reinforcements from Everam’s Bounty.”

“Your guard is light,” Ashia agreed. “But the foe will come from the lake, will they not? Your ships have command of the water.”

“For now,” Qeran said. “We smashed their fleet, and my privateers have harried their attempts to resupply. They are half starved, but still have more boats in reserve. They know Prince Jayan’s army was shattered, know we are vulnerable. They will attack. Soon.”

“How are their spies getting through, if you patrol the lakeshore?” Ashia asked.

Qeran laughed. “There are hundreds of miles of shoreline, Princess! This is not some oasis you can see across on a clear day. In the deep, there is no sign of land in any direction.”

Ashia shuddered at the thought of so much water. How could something so sacred as water make her feel such fear?

“And the Laktonians have a turncoat spy,” Qeran said.

“Tell me about him.” Ashia could already guess what he would say.

“Barely more than a boy,” Qeran said. “Small for a warrior, but not so much as to draw attention. Moved like a desert hare, impossibly fast.”

“But not faster than you.” Ashia nodded at Qeran’s metal leg.

“It was a near thing,” Qeran said. “He moved into a fierce attack when I drew close. Basic sharukin, but his speed and strength made him formidable, nonetheless. Lack of formal training makes him…unpredictable.”

“He didn’t defeat you.” Ashia felt a tinge of doubt.

“In a manner of speaking.” Qeran did not look pleased to admit it. “He wasn’t fighting to win, only to distract long enough to resume running. He dove into demon-infested water and swam to a Laktonian vessel.”

“Did you notice anything else, when you were in close?”

“He stank,” Qeran said. “Like the poultices dama’ting place on alagai wounds. His skin was light, and his features muted. There was a Sharum deserter living in one of the hamlets north of here. Relan am’Damaj am’Kaji. He died with his family in a fire more than a decade ago, but there is rumor that one son survived.”

Damaj. The name sent a tingle down Ashia’s spine. The Damajah’s family name.

He is the lost cousin.

Qeran went to his desk and took a sheet of paper from atop a pile, handing it to Ashia. The poster offered a hundred thousand draki for the living spy, and ten thousand for just his head. Below was stamped an artist’s approximation of his face, a fair likeness to the boy she’d met on the road.

“All the more reason not to deplete your men further.” Ashia folded the paper and put it in her robe. “How far north is this monastery?”

“Nearly a week’s ride, through difficult terrain,” Qeran said. “The road is watched, and the wetlands are thick with muck that can break a warrior’s ankle as easily as their mount’s. The bogs have their own alagai. Their spit is not as impressive as a flame demon’s, but it burns and paralyzes. Many of our wetland spies, even trained Watchers, do not return.”

“I will manage,” Ashia said. “Can you provide me with a map?”

“I can do better,” Qeran said. “My flagships are too visible, but after nightfall I can secrete you aboard a smaller, more inconspicuous vessel and sail you under cover of darkness out of the harbor. They can set you ashore just outside Hasik’s patrol range.”

“Thank you, Drillmaster, that is most helpful,” Ashia said.

“Have you ever been on a boat before?” Qeran asked.

“On the oasis in the Desert Spear.” Ashia’s eyes flicked down. “Once.”

“Your Hannu Pash celebration,” Qeran nodded. “I was there. Until last year, it was my only time on a boat as well.”

He leaned in. “This lake is nothing like the oasis. The water comes in waves that keep boats in constant motion. I have seen it churn the stomachs of Sharum and dama alike, leaving great men emptying their stomachs over the rail.”

“My master taught me to endure worse,” Ashia said.

Qeran nodded. “Perhaps. You will be given the captain’s quarters. Only he will know of your presence, and nothing of your identity. A spy, I will tell him. He will not question it. Keep to your cabin and the crew will not even know you are there. We cannot risk an encounter with the blockade ships, so they will put you ashore some distance south of the monastery.”

“That will allow me to scout the area,” Ashia said, “and build safe warrens to hide from alagai and pursuit.”

“Pursuit?” Qeran quirked his lips. “I thought you could walk up walls, silent as a shadow.”

“On the way in, perhaps,” Ashia said. “On the way out, I will be hauling a fat, crippled khaffit with me.”

Qeran chuckled. “A weight I know well.”

An hour before dawn, Briar watched the strange woman pause outside Docktown to reapply her disguise.

It was curious. Briar thought it a ploy to fool greenlanders, but it seemed it was for her own people as well.

He veered from the road to get ahead of her, finding one of the numerous streams this close to the water. He stripped off his clothes, folding them into a tight bundle and stowing it in a compartment of his satchel. He rolled away the filthy wraps on his hands, staring at the wards on his palms. Impact. Pressure. Spear and shield to the Wardskins.

Was that his tribe now? Or was it Elissa and Ragen? Lakton? The Hollow? His father’s people? Pulled in so many directions, Briar was losing sense of who he was.

But for now, he could put all that aside. For now, there was a mystery.

He waded into a cold pool, breathing in the discomfort until his body acclimated. He used a bar of soap, scrubbing off sticky hogroot sap and the dirt that clung to it. When he was finished, he drew a clean set of dal’Sharum blacks from his satchel and changed.

He smelled of hogroot, even now. He ate so much of it the scent was on his breath, in his sweat, even his saliva. But the clean robes were thick enough to mask it.

A bazaar had been built on the edge of Docktown, and Briar knew it well. He was perusing the bread carts as she came down the road, a simple Sharum among many, finding a morning meal.

The spy blended as easily as he, just an older woman carting a child on her morning shopping. She chatted amiably with the dal’ting vendors, casual questions and leading statements that quickly informed her about the town and the Laktonian resistance.

Briar shook his head. He had never been good at that part of scouting. He preferred to lurk unseen and listen.

She moved unhurried from the bazaar to the town proper, flitting seemingly at random from shop to vendor, but it was obvious to Briar she was headed for the docks, and it was easy to get ahead of her.

Briar knew the docks as well as his Briarpatch, but there was something different, this time. Posters with a drawing of his face hung at the entrance to every pier, offering unfathomable wealth to whomever should catch him.

It was a kind of glory, seeing his face everywhere. Captain Dehlia papered the walls of her cabin on Sharum’s Lament with waxed copies of her wanted posters. She squealed with delight whenever one of her raids netted a fresh one with the bounty raised.

Their hatred is like meat to me, Briar, she said of it. Let them lament they cannot catch me.

But Briar took no pleasure in being hated. Making a difference for his mother’s people meant betraying his father’s. He might have relatives in this very town, and it did not fill him with pride that they would know of him only as a traitor.

Still, he pulled down one of the signs and stowed it in his robe as he followed the woman toward the far pier. She was heading for Tan Spear. Captain Qeran’s ship.

Briar swallowed his first real sense of fear since entering the town. Captain Qeran terrified Briar, on the lake and off. If a more dangerous man existed, Briar did not know of him.

Rather than answer questions, this added more. Was the woman an elite spy sent from Krasia to serve Captain Qeran? She would be underestimated by the greenlanders, as well. Given time, she could get close enough to kill almost anyone.

But those very same skills might be used in a more immediate way, to eliminate Qeran and open a path for new leadership.

Briar slipped under an abandoned pier and stripped off his clothes, stowing his spear, shield, and satchel out of sight before slipping into the water. He swam with smooth, efficient strokes, passing right under the noses of the guards patrolling the beach and flagship pier. Even Sharum sailors couldn’t swim. Most of them avoided even looking at the waves for too long.

The spy was still waiting for permission to come aboard when Briar climbed the anchor rope in the shadow of the great vessel. Captain Dehlia had taught Briar all the common boat designs, and how best to take advantage of their weaknesses.

He was just able to squeeze through the tiny rope port into the unattended winch room. From there he made his way to the cabin below the captain’s. A sailor, likely just off duty, slept soundly in a hammock, rocked slowly by the waves. He did not wake as Briar climbed a beam to press his ear to a certain spot in the ceiling.

There was a scrape of metal against the deck. “You’re wearing armor under your robe,” Qeran said above.