The Desert Spear

opponents unharmed.
    Shevali waited for Ashan to recover before coming at him, the two attacking with a unity that would do any
dal’Sharum
unit proud.
    It mattered little. Jardir’s arms and thighs were a blur, their blocked blows a drumbeat as he followed the rhythm to its inevitable conclusion. On his fifth blow, Shevali left his throat exposed for an instant, and then, as it always was in the end, Jardir and Ashan faced off.
    Knowing Jardir’s speed, Ashan attempted to grapple, but the years had put meat on Jardir’s bones. At seventeen, he was taller than most men, and constant training had turned his wiry sinews into lean, packed muscle. No sooner had they closed than Ashan was pinned.
    Ashan laughed, his year of silence long past. “One day we will have you,
nie’Sharum
!”
    Jardir gave him a hand up. “You will never find that day.”
    “That is true,” Dama Khevat said. Jardir turned as the ring of boys and instructors broke and the cleric strode in, the
dama’ting
at his side. Jardir felt his face grow cold.
    The
dama’ting
carried black robes.

    The
dama’ting
led him to a private chamber and with her own hands unwrapped his bido, pulling it away. Jardir tried to embrace the feeling of her hands on his bare skin, but she was the only woman who had ever touched him so intimately, and for the first time in years, he could not find peace. His body responded to her touch, and he feared she might kill him for his disrespect.
    But the
dama’ting
made no mention of his arousal as she wrapped a black loincloth in place of his bido, then dressed him in the loose pantaloons, heavy sandals, and robe of a
dal’Sharum.
    After eight years in a bido, Jardir expected any clothing to feel odd, but he was unprepared for the weight of a
dal’Sharum’s
armored blacks. Plates and strips of fired clay were held tight in sewn pockets throughout the garb. The plates could absorb a great blow, Jardir knew, but they shattered on impact, and needed to be replaced after every hit.
    So distracted was he that he did not notice at first that the veil she tied about his throat was white. When he did, he gasped aloud.
    “Did you think your time among the
dama
meaningless, son of Hoshkamin?” the
dama’ting
asked. “You will rejoin your
dal’Sharum
brothers as their master, a
kai’Sharum.
”
    “I am but seventeen!” Jardir said.
    The
dama’ting
nodded. “The youngest
kai’Sharum
in centuries. Just as you were the youngest to bring down a wind demon, and the youngest to survive
alagai’sharak.
Who can say what else you may accomplish?”
    “You can,” Jardir said. “The dice told you.”
    The
dama’ting
shook her head. “I have seen the fate your spirit reaches for, but it is a path fraught with peril, and you may still fail to reach it.” She drew the white veil about his face. Her touch seemed almost a caress. “You have many tests before you. Bring your focus to the now. When you return to the Kaji pavilion today, one of the
Sharum
will challenge you. You must—”
    Jardir held up a hand, cutting her off. The
dama’ting
‘s eyes flared at his audacity.
    “With respect,” Jardir said, recalling the gruel lines of the Kaji’sharaj, “the world of
Sharum,
I understand. I will break the challenger publicly before any dare follow his example.”
    The
dama’ting
regarded him a moment, then shrugged, a smile in her eyes.

    Jardir strode with pride into the Kaji training grounds, followed by Dama Khevat and the
dama’ting.
The
dal’Sharum
paused in their training at the sight, and there were murmurs of recognition as they saw Jardir’s face. One of them barked a laugh.
    “Look! The rat returns!” Hasik cried, his
s
‘s still whistling after all these years. The big warrior planted his spear with a thump. “It only took him five years to change out of his bido!” Several other warriors laughed at that.
    Jardir smiled. It was natural for
Sharum
to test the mettle of a new
kai,
and it was
inevera
that it should be Hasik. The powerful warrior was still larger than Jardir, but he felt no fear as he strode forward.
    Hasik stared him down coldly, unafraid. “You may have a white veil loose about your throat, but you are still the son of piss,” he sneered, too low for the others to hear.
    “Ah, Hasik, my
ajin’pal
!” Jardir called loudly. “Do they still call you Whistler? I would be happy to remove a few more teeth and cure your affliction, if you wish.”
    All around,
Sharum
laughed. Jardir