The Desert Spear

he had not stopped it. No man could.
    Inevera,
he thought, and embraced the loss.
    He thought of the glory and elation at killing demons in the Maze, and accepted that it might be many years before he could feel such joy again. The dice had spoken.
    Inevera.
    He thought again of Hasik, but it was not
inevera.
There, he had failed. He had been a fool to drink couzi in the Maze. A fool to trust Hasik. A fool to lower his guard.
    The pain of his body and the passing of blood he had already embraced. Even the humiliation. He had seen other boys in
sharaj
mounted, and could embrace the feeling. What he could not embrace was the fact that even now Hasik strutted among the
dal’Sharum
thinking he had won, that Jardir was broken.
    Jardir scowled.
Perhaps I
am
broken,
he conceded silently,
but broken bones heal stronger, and I will have my day in the sun.
    Night came, signaled only by the extinguishing of the lamp in the hall, leaving his cell in utter blackness. Jardir didn’t mind the dark. No wards in the world could match those of Sharik Hora, and even without them, the spirits of warriors without number guarded the temple. Any
alagai
setting foot in this hallowed place would be burned away as if it had seen the sun.
    Jardir could not have slept even if he had wanted to, so he continued his
sharukin,
repeating the movements over and over until they were a part of him, as natural as breathing.
    When the door of his cell creaked open, Jardir was instantly aware. Recalling his first night in the Kaji’sharaj, he slipped silently to the side of the door in the darkness and assumed a fighting stance. If the
nie’dama
sought to give him a similar welcome, it would be to their regret.
    “If I wished you harm, I would not have sent you here for training,” said a familiar woman’s voice. A red light sprang to life, illuminating the
dama’ting
he had met the night before. She held a small flame demon skull, carved with wards that glowed fiercely in the darkness. The light found her already staring right into his eyes, as if she had known where he stood all along.
    “You didn’t send me here,” Jardir dared to say. “You told Dama Khevat to send me back to the Kaji’sharaj in shame!”
    “As I knew he would never do,” the
dama’ting
said, ignoring his accusatory tone. “Nor would he have made you
khaffit.
The only path left to him was to send you here.”
    “Without honor,” Jardir said, clenching his fists.
    “In safety!” the
dama’ting
hissed, raising the
alagai
skull. The wards flared brighter, and a gout of flame coughed from its maw. Jardir felt the flash of heat on his face and recoiled.
    “Do not presume to judge me,
nie’Sharum,
” the
dama’ting
said. “I will act as I think best, and you will do as you are bidden.”
    Jardir felt his back strike the wall, and realized he could retreat no farther. He nodded.
    “Learn everything you can in your time here,” she commanded as she left. “Sharak Ka is coming.”
    The words struck Jardir like a physical blow. Sharak Ka. The final battle was coming, and he would fight in it. All his worldly concerns vanished in that instant, as she closed the door and left him in darkness once more.

    The lamp in the hall flickered back to life after some time, and there was a light tap at the door. Jardir opened it to Khevat’s youngest son, Ashan. He was a slender boy, clad in a bido that extended upward to wrap over one shoulder, marking him as
nie’dama,
a cleric in training. He wore a white veil over his mouth, and Jardir knew that meant he was in his first year of training, when
nie’dama
were not allowed to speak.
    The boy nodded in greeting, then took in the wreckage of the cot in the corner. He winked and gave a slight bow, as if Jardir had somehow passed a secret test. Ashan jerked his head down the hall, then headed that way himself. Jardir took his meaning and followed.
    They came to a wide chamber with a floor of polished marble. Dozens of
dama
and
nie’dama,
perhaps every one in the tribe, stood there, feet planted, practicing the
sharukin.
The boy waved a hand for Jardir to follow, and the two took their places in the
nie
lines, joining in the slow dance, bodies flowing from pose to pose, the entire room breathing in unison.
    There were many forms Jardir was unfamiliar with, and the experience was quite unlike the brutal lessons to which he was accustomed, where Qeran and Kaval shouted curses at the boys, whipping any whose form was not perfect,