The Skull Throne by Peter V. Brett Page B

work that her legs would soon be full of pins and needles as well.
    He’s teaching, she realized. The very lines on his body are the sacred text.
    She looked up at Enkido, and his face as he massaged her injury seemed almost one of kindness. She reached out, tentatively touching the convergence point on Enkido’s back. “I see it now. I understand, and will tell the others … master.”
    Enkido bent toward her. For a moment she thought she was imagining it. But no. He held it too long.
    Enkido bowed to her, as a teacher to a pupil, before scooping her up in his arms and carrying her, gentle as a babe, to the warm mass where her cousins slept. He laid her there, and brushed gentle fingertips over her eyelids, closing them for her.
    Ashia did not resist, putting her arms protectively about her cousins and falling into a deep sleep.
    They woke with a start. Enkido might be mute, but he could still bring thunder from the polished ram’s horn at his lips. It felt like the very walls were shaking. The girls shrieked and covered their ears, but the noise did not cease until they were on their feet. Ashia had no idea what time it was, but they must have slept for hours. She felt refreshed, if still sore.
    The eunuch replaced the horn on the wall and handed them each a towel, silently leading the way from his training room to the bath. They walked in a line, but Ashia stole glances back at her cousins. Shanvah’s face was frozen, thoughts far away. Sikvah walked with a limp, drawing sharp breaths as they went down a series of steps.
    As before, Enkido waited outside as they entered the dressing chamber. They could hear the trickle of the fountains while they unwove their bidos, but it was otherwise quiet. Indeed, they found the bath empty.
    Shanvah and Sikvah looked about nervously, dwarfed by the great chamber. Ashia clapped her hands, drawing their attention. “Nie’Damaji’ting Melan said we were to have an hour a day in the bath. Let us not waste it.” She waded out into the water, leading them to the largest, most central fountain. There were benches of smooth stone at the base where bathers could lie, immersing themselves in the hot flow.
    Sikvah groaned as she lay in the steaming water. “There, sister,” Ashia said, coming to her side to inspect the bruise on her thigh, gently massaging as Enkido had done. “The bruise is not great. Let the hot water soak the pain, and it will heal quickly.”
    “There will be others,” Shanvah said, her voice flat and lifeless. “He will never stop.” Sikvah shuddered, her skin pimpling even in the warm air.
    “He will,” Ashia said, “when we solve the riddle.”
    “Riddle?” Shanvah asked.
    Ashia pointed to the bruise on her shoulder. Shanvah had a matching one, As did Sikvah. “There is a mark just like this on the master’s flesh. When struck, the arm dies for a time.”
    Sikvah began to cry again.
    “But what does it mean?” Shanvah asked.
    “A dama’ting mystery,” Ashia said. “Melan said we were to learn sharusahk. The Riddle of Enkido is a part of it, I’m sure.”
    “Then why give us a teacher who cannot speak?” Sikvah demanded. “One who … who …” She sobbed again.
    Ashia squeezed her thigh reassuringly. “Fear not, cousin. Perhaps this is simply the way. Our brothers all came back from sharaj with sharusahk bruises. Why should we be different?”
    “Because we’re not boys!” Shanvah shouted.
    Just then, the doors opened and the three girls froze. A group of Betrothed entered, led by Amanvah.
    “Perhaps not,” Ashia said, drawing the other girls’ eyes back to her. “But we are blood of the Deliverer, and there is nothing common boys can endure that we cannot.”
    “You’re using our fountain,” Amanvah called as she and the others strode over. She pointed to a small fountain at the far end of the pool. “Black bidos wash over there.”
    The other nie’dama’ting laughed at that, squawking like trained birds. Amanvah was