The Desert Spear

lifting the objects toward him. Jardir gasped and recoiled at the name. She held the polished bones of demons, cut into many-sided dice. Even without touching them, Jardir could feel the dull throb of their evil magic.
    “Back to cowardice?” the
dama’ting
asked mildly. “What is the purpose of wards, if not to turn
alagai
magic to our own ends?”
    Jardir steeled himself, leaning back in.
    “Hold out your arm,” she commanded, placing the felt bag in her lap and laying the dice on it. She reached into her robes, drawing forth a sharp curved blade etched with wards.
    Jardir held out his arm, willing it not to shake. The cut was quick, and the
dama’ting
squeezed the wound, smearing her hand with blood. She took up the
alagai hora
in both hands, shaking them.
    “Everam, giver of light and life, I beseech you, give this lowly servant knowledge of what is to come. Tell me of Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, last scion of the line of Jardir, the seventh son of Kaji.”
    As she shook the dice, their glow increased, flaring through her fingers until it seemed she held hot coals. She cast them down, scattering the bones on the ground before them.
    She put her hands on her knees and hunched forward, studying the glowing markings. Her eyes widened and she hissed. Suddenly oblivious to the dirt that marred her pure white robes, the
dama’ting
crawled about intently, reading the pattern as the pulsing glow of the wards slowly faded. “These bones must have been exposed to light,” she muttered, gathering them up.
    Again she cut him and made the incantation, shaking vigorously, and again the dice flared. She threw them down.
    “This cannot be!” she cried, snatching up the dice and throwing a third time. Even Jardir could tell that the pattern remained unchanged.
    “What is it?” he dared to ask. “What do you see?”
    The
dama’ting
looked up at him, and her eyes narrowed. “The future is not yours to know, boy,” she said. Jardir recoiled at the anger in her tone, unsure if it was due to his impertinence or what she had seen.
    Or both. What had the dice told her? His mind flashed back to the pottery he had allowed Abban to steal from Baha kad’Everam, and wondered if she could see that sin, as well.
    The
dama’ting
collected the bones and returned them to the pouch before rising. She tucked the pouch away and shook the dust from her robes.
    “Return to the Kaji pavilion and spend the remainder of the night in prayer,” she ordered, vanishing in the shadows so quickly Jardir wondered if she had truly been there at all.

    Qeran kicked him awake while the warriors still slept all around him. “Up, rat,” the drillmaster said. “The
dama
has called for you.”
    “Am I to lose my bido?” Jardir asked.
    “The men say you fought well in the night,” Qeran said, “but that’s not for me to decide. Only
dama
may give a
nie’Sharum
his blacks.”
    The drillmaster escorted him to the inner chambers of Sharik Hora. The cool stone floor felt hallowed under Jardir’s bare feet.
    “Drillmaster, may I ask a question?” Jardir said.
    “This may be the last you ask of me as your instructor,” Qeran said, “so make it good.”
    “When the
dama’ting
came for you, how many times did she throw the dice?”
    The drillmaster glanced at him. “Once. They only ever throw once. The dice never lie.”
    Jardir wanted to say more, but they turned a corner and Dama Khevat was waiting for him. Khevat was the harshest of Jardir’s instructors, the one who had called him the son of camel’s piss and thrown him into the waste pits for his insolence.
    The drillmaster put a hand on Jardir’s shoulder. “Mind your tongue if you would keep it, boy,” he muttered.
    “Everam be with you,” Khevat greeted them. The drillmaster bowed, and Jardir did the same. A nod from the
dama,
and Qeran turned on his heel and vanished.
    Khevat ushered Jardir into a small, windowless room filled with sheaves of paper and smelling of ink and lamp oil. It seemed a place more suited to a
khaffit
or a woman, but even here the bones of men filled the room. They formed the seat Jardir was directed to, and the desk Khevat sat behind. Even the sheaves of paper were held down by skulls.
    “You continue to surprise me, son of Hoshkamin,” Khevat said. “I did not believe you when you said you would win glory enough for you and your father both, but you seem determined to prove me wrong.”
    Jardir shrugged. “I have only done as any warrior would