The Desert Spear

open, only her hands and eyes visible. She gestured to a table inside, and Abban hurried to place Jardir there, beside a girl who was clad all in white like a
dama’ting.
But her face, young and beautiful, was uncovered.
    Dama’ting
did not speak to
nie’Sharum.
    Abban bowed deeply when Jardir was in place. The
dama’ting
nodded toward the flaps, and he practically fell over himself in his haste to exit. It was said the
dama’ting
could see the future, and knew a man’s death just by looking at him.
    The woman glided over to Jardir, a blur of white to his pain-clouded eyes. He could not tell if she was young or old, beautiful or ugly, stern or kind. She seemed above such petty things, her devotion to Everam transcending all mortal concern.
    The girl lifted a small stick wrapped many times in white cloth and placed it in Jardir’s mouth, gently pushing his jaw closed. Jardir understood, and bit down.
    “
Dal’Sharum
embrace their pain,” the girl whispered as the
dama’ting
moved to a table to gather instruments.
    There was a sharp sting as the
dama’ting
cleansed the wound, and a flare of agony as she wrenched his arm to set the bone. Jardir bit hard into the stick, and tried to do as the girl said, opening himself to the pain, though he did not fully understand. For a moment the pain seemed more than he could endure, but then, as if he were passing through a doorway, it became a distant thing, a suffering he was aware of but not part of. His jaw unclenched, and the stick fell away unneeded.
    As Jardir relaxed into the pain, he turned to watch the
dama’ting.
She worked with calm efficiency, murmuring prayers to Everam as she stitched muscle and skin. She ground herbs into a paste she slathered on the wound, wrapping it in clean cloth soaked in a thick white mixture.
    With surprising strength, she lifted him from the table and set him on a hard cot. She put a flask to his lips and Jardir drank, immediately feeling warm and woozy.
    The
dama’ting
turned away, but the girl lingered a moment. “Bones become stronger after being broken,” she whispered, giving comfort as Jardir drifted off to sleep.

    He woke to find the girl sitting beside his cot. She pressed a damp cloth to his forehead. It was the coolness that had woken him. His eyes danced over her uncovered face. He had once thought his mother beautiful, but it was nothing compared with this girl.
    “The young warrior awakens,” she said, smiling at him.
    “You speak,” Jardir said through parched lips. His arm seemed encased in white stone; the
dama’ting
‘s wrappings had hardened while he slept.
    “Am I a beast, that I should not?” the girl asked.
    “To me, I mean,” Jardir said. “I am only
nie’Sharum.
”
And not yet worthy of you by half,
he added silently.
    The girl nodded. “And I am
nie’dama’ting.
I will earn my veil soon, but I do not wear it yet, and thus may speak to whomever I wish.”
    She set the cloth aside, lifting a steaming bowl of porridge to his lips. “I expect they are starving you in the Kaji’sharaj. Eat. It will help the
dama’ting
‘s spells to heal you.”
    Jardir swallowed the hot food quickly. “What is your name?” he asked when done.
    The girl smiled as she wiped his mouth with a soft cloth. “Bold, for a boy barely old enough for his bido.”
    “I’m sorry,” Jardir said.
    She laughed. “Boldness is no cause for sorrow. Everam has no love for the timid. My name is Inevera.”
    “As Everam wills,” Jardir translated. It was a common saying in Krasia. Inevera nodded.
    “Ahmann,” Jardir introduced himself, “son of Hoshkamin.”
    The girl nodded as if this were grave news, but there was amusement in her eyes.

    “He is strong and may return to training,” the
dama’ting
told Qeran the next day, “but he must eat regularly, and if further harm comes to the arm before I remove the wrappings, I will hold you to account.”
    The drillmaster bowed. “It will be as the
dama’ting
commands.” Jardir was given his bowl and allowed to go to the front of the line. None of the other boys, even Hasik, dared question this, but Jardir could feel their looks of resentment at his back. He would have preferred fighting for his meals, even with his arm in a cast, rather than weather those stares, but the
dama’ting
had given an order. If he did not eat willingly, the drillmasters would not hesitate to force the gruel down his throat.
    “Will you be all right?” Abban asked as they ate in