had the strength to fight even the weakest of the boys, but he strode to his usual place at the front of the line with a straight back. The others backed away, eyes respectfully down.
He was reaching out his bowl when Qeran caught his arm.
“No gruel for you today,” the drillmaster said. “Come with me.”
Jardir felt like a sand demon was trying to claw its way from his stomach, but he gave no complaint, handing his bowl to another boy and following the drillmaster across the camp.
Toward the Kaji pavilion.
Jardir’s face went cold. It could not be.
“No boy your age has entered the warrior’s pavilion in three hundred years,” Qeran said, as if reading his thoughts. “I think you are too young, and this may prove the end of you and a terrible waste for the Kaji, but the law is the law. When a boy nets his first demon on the wall, he is called to
alagai’sharak.
”
They entered the tent, and dozens of black-clad figures turned to eye him before returning to their food. Women served them, but not women like Jardir had seen before, covered from head to toe in thick black cloth. The veils of these women were gossamer and brightly colored, diaphanous clothes pulled tight against soft curves. Their arms and bellies were bare, save for jeweled adornments, and long slits in the sides of their pantaloons bared their smooth legs.
Jardir felt his face heat up at the sight, but no one else seemed to find it amiss. One warrior eyed the woman serving him for a moment, then dropped his kebab and grabbed her, slinging her over his shoulder. She laughed as he carried her to a curtained room filled with bright pillows.
“That will be your right, too, should you survive the coming night,” Qeran advised. “The Kaji need more warriors. It is the duty of men to provide them. If you acquit yourself well, you may earn yourself a wife to keep your home, but all
dal’Sharum
are expected to keep the
jiwah’Sharum
of their tribe with child.”
The sight of so many women in revealing clothes was overwhelming to Jardir, and he scanned their young faces, half expecting to see his sisters among them. He was speechless as the drillmaster led him to a pillow at the great table.
There was more food than he had ever seen in his life. Dates and raisins and rice and spiced lamb on skewers. Couscous and grape leaves wrapping steaming meats. His stomach churned, caught between hunger and lust.
“Eat well, and rest,” Qeran advised. “Tonight you will stand among men.” He slapped Jardir’s back and left the tent.
Jardir reached tentatively for a skewer of meat, but a hand quickly snatched it away. He looked to the offender, only to find Hasik staring back at him.
“You got lucky the other night, rat,” Hasik said. “Pray to Everam this day, for it will take more than luck to survive a night in the Maze.”
Jardir went with the other warriors to Sharik Hora to receive the blessings of the
Damaji
before the night’s battle. He had never been inside the temple of heroes’ bones before, and the sight dwarfed anything he might have imagined.
Everything inside Sharik Hora was built from the bleached and lacquered bones of
dal’Sharum
who had fallen in
alagai’sharak.
The twelve chairs of the
Damaji
on the great altar stood on calf bones and rested on warriors’ feet. The arms had once held spear and shield against demonkind. The seats were polished rib that had housed heroes’ hearts. The backs were made from spines that had stood tall in the night. The headrests were made from the skulls of men who sat at Everam’s side in Heaven. The twelve seats ringed the throne of the Andrah, built from the skulls of
kai’Sharum,
the captains of
alagai’sharak.
Hundreds of skulls and spines made each of the dozens of huge chandeliers. Bones made up hundreds of benches where worshippers prayed. The altar. The chalices. The walls. The great domed ceiling. Warriors beyond count had protected this temple with their flesh, and built it
He was reaching out his bowl when Qeran caught his arm.
“No gruel for you today,” the drillmaster said. “Come with me.”
Jardir felt like a sand demon was trying to claw its way from his stomach, but he gave no complaint, handing his bowl to another boy and following the drillmaster across the camp.
Toward the Kaji pavilion.
Jardir’s face went cold. It could not be.
“No boy your age has entered the warrior’s pavilion in three hundred years,” Qeran said, as if reading his thoughts. “I think you are too young, and this may prove the end of you and a terrible waste for the Kaji, but the law is the law. When a boy nets his first demon on the wall, he is called to
alagai’sharak.
”
They entered the tent, and dozens of black-clad figures turned to eye him before returning to their food. Women served them, but not women like Jardir had seen before, covered from head to toe in thick black cloth. The veils of these women were gossamer and brightly colored, diaphanous clothes pulled tight against soft curves. Their arms and bellies were bare, save for jeweled adornments, and long slits in the sides of their pantaloons bared their smooth legs.
Jardir felt his face heat up at the sight, but no one else seemed to find it amiss. One warrior eyed the woman serving him for a moment, then dropped his kebab and grabbed her, slinging her over his shoulder. She laughed as he carried her to a curtained room filled with bright pillows.
“That will be your right, too, should you survive the coming night,” Qeran advised. “The Kaji need more warriors. It is the duty of men to provide them. If you acquit yourself well, you may earn yourself a wife to keep your home, but all
dal’Sharum
are expected to keep the
jiwah’Sharum
of their tribe with child.”
The sight of so many women in revealing clothes was overwhelming to Jardir, and he scanned their young faces, half expecting to see his sisters among them. He was speechless as the drillmaster led him to a pillow at the great table.
There was more food than he had ever seen in his life. Dates and raisins and rice and spiced lamb on skewers. Couscous and grape leaves wrapping steaming meats. His stomach churned, caught between hunger and lust.
“Eat well, and rest,” Qeran advised. “Tonight you will stand among men.” He slapped Jardir’s back and left the tent.
Jardir reached tentatively for a skewer of meat, but a hand quickly snatched it away. He looked to the offender, only to find Hasik staring back at him.
“You got lucky the other night, rat,” Hasik said. “Pray to Everam this day, for it will take more than luck to survive a night in the Maze.”
Jardir went with the other warriors to Sharik Hora to receive the blessings of the
Damaji
before the night’s battle. He had never been inside the temple of heroes’ bones before, and the sight dwarfed anything he might have imagined.
Everything inside Sharik Hora was built from the bleached and lacquered bones of
dal’Sharum
who had fallen in
alagai’sharak.
The twelve chairs of the
Damaji
on the great altar stood on calf bones and rested on warriors’ feet. The arms had once held spear and shield against demonkind. The seats were polished rib that had housed heroes’ hearts. The backs were made from spines that had stood tall in the night. The headrests were made from the skulls of men who sat at Everam’s side in Heaven. The twelve seats ringed the throne of the Andrah, built from the skulls of
kai’Sharum,
the captains of
alagai’sharak.
Hundreds of skulls and spines made each of the dozens of huge chandeliers. Bones made up hundreds of benches where worshippers prayed. The altar. The chalices. The walls. The great domed ceiling. Warriors beyond count had protected this temple with their flesh, and built it
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