Soli was gone. She would never again see his easy smile or handsome face, never again be comforted by his words, or feel the safety of his presence. In an instant, all those futures had vanished. She wondered if the dama’ting had seen it in the dice at the end of his Hannu Pash.

And Kasaad? Had she done the world any favours by sparing him, or would he be an even greater drain to the Desert Spear? Was Cashiv right? Had she failed to avenge her brother as he deserved?

Time passed, and the afternoon bell was rung. The Chamber of Shadows beckoned, but still Inevera did not rise. Since her admission, she had never missed a session, but there was no law forcing her attendance. If she wished to take a lifetime to carve her dice, it was within her rights.

At last, the Vault door opened and Qeva entered, standing by the door. ‘Enough, girl, you’ve had your tears. There isn’t water enough to spare in the Desert Spear for you to gush all day. Find your centre. Kenevah has summoned you.’

Inevera drew a deep breath, then another, subtly wiping her eyes on the cuff of her sleeve. When she rose, she had regained her composure, though her insides still felt torn to shreds.

Kenevah was waiting in her office when Inevera arrived. The teakettle was steaming, and at a signal Inevera poured for them both and took a seat across from the Damaji’ting.

‘You never told me your brother was one of Baden’s men,’ the old woman noted.

Inevera nodded numbly. ‘I feared you would keep me from him each year if you knew.’ The confession was tantamount to admitting lying to the Damaji’ting, but Inevera found she lacked the strength to care.

Kenevah grunted. ‘Likely I would have. And perhaps he would be alive today if you had.’ Inevera looked up at her, and she shrugged. ‘Or perhaps not. The dice can let us glean much of the future, but on the past they are silent.’

‘The past is gone,’ Inevera said, quoting the Damajah, ‘it is pointless to chase it.’

‘Then why have you spent the day weeping?’ Kenevah asked.

‘My pain is a mighty wind, Damaji’ting,’ Inevera said. ‘Even the palm must bow before the wind, straightening only when it passes.’

Kenevah lifted her veil just enough to blow steam from the surface of her tea. ‘Sharum do not bend.’

Inevera looked up at that. ‘Eh?’

‘They do not bend, they do not weep,’ Kenevah said. ‘These are luxuries Sharum cannot afford in the Maze, when life and death are a hair’s breadth apart. Where we bend before the wind, Sharum embrace their pain and ignore it. To the untrained, the effect seems much the same, but it is not. And as a great wind can break even the most supple tree, there are pains too great for Sharum to hold. When this happens, they hurl themselves into its cause in hopes they might die an honourable death with no submission on their lips.’

‘Cashiv wanted such a death,’ Inevera said. ‘He and my brother were lovers.’

Kenevah sipped her tea. ‘Other Sharum lock their loved ones away in the Undercity at night when they go into the Maze. Push’ting stand side by side with them. They fight more wisely because of this, but also feel the loss more keenly when one of them is taken.’ She looked at Inevera. ‘But you denied him this death. And your father, too, though the Evejah demanded it.’

‘The Evejah gave me a choice,’ Inevera said, ‘and why should Cashiv be given a release from suffering over Soli’s death when I am not?’

Kenevah nodded. ‘We have become too free with death in Krasia. A frequent but unwelcome visitor has become like an old friend, greeted with open arms. Three centuries ago there were millions of us, filling this great city and all the lands beyond. We fought among ourselves even then, but a few lives lost over stolen wells was nothing when we were as numerous as grains of sand in the desert. Now we are scarce as raindrops, and every life matters.’

‘The alagai—’ Inevera began.

Kenevah whisked a hand dismissively. ‘The alagai may be taking most of the lives, but it is our own foolishness that keeps feeding them.’

‘Alagai’sharak,’ Inevera said.

‘Millennia of tribal feuding are not forgotten at sunset, no matter what the Andrah and Sharum Ka say,’ Kenevah said. ‘They are corrupt, putting the Kaji first in all things and doing what they can to cull their rivals. The Sharum Ka is old and remains in his palace at night, leaving no true leadership in the Maze, but still we funnel our strongest men into that meat grinder night after night, losing warriors faster than they are born. The dama’ting do all we can to keep every fertile womb in Krasia full with child, but there are simply not enough wombs to keep pace with men determined to rush to extinction.’

‘But what can be done?’ Inevera asked.

Kenevah sighed. ‘I do not know if there is anything to be done. Our power has its limits. It may be that you will one day inherit my veil, only to preside over the end of our people.’

Inevera shook her head. ‘I do not accept that. Everam is testing us. He will not let our people fall.’

‘He has been letting it happen for three centuries,’ Kenevah said. ‘Everam favours the strong, but also the cunning. Perhaps He has lost patience suffering fools.’

She continued to work with calm precision, but Inevera felt the tension grow as she drew closer and closer to finishing her dice. Another week, two at the most, and she would test for the veil. At fourteen. The youngest in centuries.

Unbidden, her mind flashed to Melan as her dice burned in the sunlight. The sound of her screams. The smell of burning flesh and the putrid smoke that stung her eyes. Even now, after many cuttings and more than one suspected hora healing by Asavi, Melan’s hand was like a sand demon’s paw, misshapen and scarred.

Would that be her fate? Inevera’s instincts told her no, but there were no absolutes, even in Kenevah’s foretellings.

She woke from a nightmare, her heart pounding. It was still dark in the Vault, but Inevera guessed morning was not far off, and knew there would be no further sleep for her. She slipped quietly from her cot and padded to make her ablutions and take fresh bido silk from the pile, wrapping it as quickly as a man might don his robes. She was ready when the wardlights activated, and quickly had the younger girls dressed and ready for sharusahk.

Casualties were low in the pavilion that day, and she was about to head back to the palace when a pair of boys still in their bidos arrived. One was surprisingly fat – she knew the drillmasters all but starved the nie’Sharum – and supported another boy, shorter and skinnier by far, little more than stringy muscle and bone. He could not have been more than ten years old, his arm broken so badly the bone jutted white from his torn flesh and blood streamed down the limp appendage. His face was pale and sweaty, but he did not cry, and walked on his own feet to the table where Qeva was to set the arm. As soon as Qeva nodded, the fat one bowed and vanished.

Inevera had helped treat broken bones many times, and knew the herbs and implements to bring the dama’ting. For the boy she brought a stick wrapped in a thick layer of cloth for him to bite upon. He looked at her with eyes glazed from pain, and her heart went out to him.

She set the stick in his mouth. ‘Dal’Sharum embrace their pain.’

The boy nodded, though the confusion was clear upon his face. He bit hard as Qeva set the arm, but then, after a moment, his body went limp and his jaw slackened, the stick falling away. Inevera thought he must have passed out – perfectly understandable – but his eyes were open, calmly watching as the dama’ting fitted his broken bones together and treated the wound. It was impressive. Inevera had seen full Sharum turn away from the stitching of their flesh. When she was done, Qeva gave him a potion to dull him to sleep and keep him from moving while Inevera prepared the plaster.