The Desert Spear

loyalty is that of blood. And so,” he swept a hand back toward the Andrah and the
Damaji
on their thrones, “I have beseeched our leaders to join my blood to all of you.
    “With the Andrah’s blessing,” Jardir said, “the
Damaji
have each agreed to wed me to one fertile daughter of their tribe, to bear me a
Sharum
son to whom I will be forever loyal.”
    There was a shocked silence, then the room erupted in a roar of approval from every tribe save the Kaji. Clearly, they had believed Jardir would retain his loyalty to their tribe, as all previous Sharum Ka had done, no matter what the Evejah said.
    Let them sulk,
Jardir thought.
I will win them back in the Maze.
    “And so,” he intoned, quieting the temple once more, “once my
Jiwah Ka
selects my brides, the
Damaji
will perform the wedding rites.”
    But then Inevera stepped forward unrehearsed, surprising Jardir no less than the
Sharum
or assembled leaders. Did she mean to speak? Any woman,
dama’ting
or no, speaking in Sharik Hora was unheard of.
    But it seemed everything Inevera did was unheard of.
    “There need be no delay,” she said loudly. “Let the brides of the Sharum Ka step forth!”
    Jardir’s jaw dropped. She had chosen his brides already? Impossible!
    But eleven women strode out onto the great altar of Sharik Hora, kneeling before the flabbergasted
Damaji
of their tribes. Jardir saw them, and his heart sank.
    They were all
dama’ting.

    The palace of the Sharum Ka was smaller than the Kaji palace, but where that housed dozens of
kai’Sharum, dama,
and their families, this palace was Jardir’s alone. He remembered his years spent sleeping on a filthy cloth on the crowded stone floor of the Kaji’sharaj, and gazed in wonder at the splendor of it all. Everywhere he stepped was plush carpet, velvet, and silk. He dined off porcelain plates so delicate he feared to touch them, and drank from golden goblets studded with gems. And the fountains! There was nothing in Krasia more valuable than water, yet even his mother’s bedroom tinkled with fresh flowing water.
    He threw Qasha down onto a pile of pillows, delighting in the sway of her soft breasts, clearly visible through her diaphanous top. Her legs were clad in the same gossamer material, leaving her sex bare, shaved and perfumed. Lust filled him as he fell on her, and he mused that being wed to twelve
dama’ting
was not the chore he had feared.
    Qasha of the Sharach was by far Jardir’s favorite of his new wives. Almost as beautiful as Inevera, she was far more obedient, dropping her robes at a moment’s notice. Her belly was still flat, but already, six weeks wed, she carried a son—the first that would come from his new brides. He knew he should be taking another now, filling the palace with swollen bellies to tie him to the tribes, but Qasha’s condition only aroused Jardir’s lust for her further. Inevera didn’t seem to care. Far less strict with her
dama’ting Jiwah Sen,
she let Jardir bed them as he pleased. He liked to keep Qasha close by, for she served him as a proper wife should.
    Laughing, Qasha pushed him onto his back, mounting him wantonly.
    “Everam’s bones, woman!” Jardir cried, gasping as she lowered herself down upon him.
    “Should I seem demure when I am in the pillows with the Sharum Ka?” Qasha asked, rising up and slapping down hard. “Just last night, the Andrah himself spoke of the glory you’ve won in the Maze since ascending. It is an honor to sheathe your spear.” She leaned in close, moving rhythmically.
    “A woman may bear two children in the same womb,” Qasha whispered between perfumed kisses. “Perhaps you can plant yet another son within me.” Jardir started to reply, but she giggled and muffled his words by giving him a full breast to suckle. For long minutes, they sweated and struggled in the only battle to rival
alagai’sharak.
    When they were finished, Qasha rolled off him, raising her legs to hold his seed.
    “You were in the palace last night when I left at dusk,” Jardir said after a moment.
    Qasha looked at him, and for an instant fear washed over her lovely face before being replaced with the cold
dama’ting
mask he had come to expect from his wives whenever he spoke of things other than lovemaking and children.
    “I was,” she agreed.
    “Then when did you see the Andrah?” Jardir asked. “Women with child, even
dama’ting,
are forbidden to leave the palace at night.”
    “I misspoke,” Qasha said. “It was