All eyes turned to Jayan, whose face betrayed his shock. After a moment, he put one hand and one knee on the ground, perhaps for the first time in his life. “I will serve the council of Damaji, of course.”

Jardir nodded. “See to it the lesser tribes continue to subjugate the chin while I am gone,” he said to Asukaji and Aleverak. “I need fresh warriors for Sharak Ka, not bickering tribes stealing one another’s wells.” The two men bowed.

Inevera rose from her bed of pillows, her face serene behind the diaphanous veil.

“I would speak to my husband in private,” she said.

Ashan bowed. “Of course, Damajah.” He ushered the others quickly out of the room, all save Asome, who stood fast behind.

“Something troubles you, my son?” Jardir asked when the others were gone.

Asome bowed. “If Jayan is to be Sharum Ka while you are gone, then by rights I should be Andrah.”

Inevera laughed. Asome’s eyes narrowed, but he knew better than to cross her.

“That would put you above your elder brother, my son,” Jardir said. “Something no father does lightly. And Sharum Ka are appointed. Andrah is a title that must be earned.”

Asome shrugged. “Summon the Damaji. I will kill them all, if that is what is required.”

Jardir looked into his son’s eyes, seeing ambition, but also a fierce pride that might indeed carry the boy, barely past his eighteenth born day, through eleven death challenges, even if it meant killing one of his own brothers or Asukaji, who was his closest friend and rumored to be his lover. Asome’s white robe might forbid him to touch a weapon, but he was deadlier than Jayan by far, and even Aleverak would do well to step carefully around him.

Jardir felt a swell of pride in the boy. Already he thought his second son might well prove a better successor than Jayan, but not until he was seasoned, and firstborn Jayan would never allow his brother to surpass him while he still drew breath.

“Krasia needs no Andrah while I live,” Jardir said instead. “And Jayan will only wear the white turban while I am gone. You will assist Asukaji in maintaining control of the Kaji.”

Asome opened his mouth again, but Inevera cut him off.

“Enough,” she said. “The matter is closed. Leave us.”

Asome scowled, but he bowed and left.

“He will be a great leader one day, if he lives long enough,” Jardir said when the door closed behind his son.

“I often think the same of you, husband,” Inevera said, turning to face him. The words stung, but Jardir said nothing, knowing it was pointless until his wife had said her piece.

“Aleverak and Ashan were right,” Inevera said. “There is no need for you to lead the expedition personally.”

“Is it not the duty of the Shar’Dama Ka to gather armies to Sharak Ka?” Jardir asked. “By all accounts, these chin fight the Holy War. I must investigate.”

“You could at least have waited until I had a chance to throw the dice,” Inevera said.

Jardir scowled. “There’s no need to throw the dice every time I leave the palace.”

“Perhaps there is,” Inevera said. “Sharak Ka is no game. We must command every advantage, if we are to succeed.”

“If Everam wills me to succeed, that is all the advantage I need,” Jardir said. “And if He does not…”

Inevera lifted her felt pouch of alagai hora. “Pray, indulge me.”

Jardir sighed, but he nodded and they retreated to a chamber off the throne room that Inevera had claimed as her own. As always, the room was filled with bright pillows and cloying incense. Jardir felt his pulse quicken, his body conditioned to associate the smell with Inevera’s sex. The Jiwah Ka was more than happy to share him when she was sated, but she was almost a man in her hunger, and the side chamber was used frequently for that purpose, often while the Damaji and Jardir’s councilors waited in the throne room without.

Inevera moved to pull the curtains, and he watched her body through the translucent veils that were all she ever wore anymore. Even at more than forty years of age—she never said for certain—she was the most beautiful of his wives by far, her curves still round and firm, her skin smooth. He was tempted to take her right there, but Inevera was single-minded when the dice were concerned, and he knew she would only rebuff him until they were thrown.

They knelt on the silk pillows, allowing a broad space for the dice to fall. As always, Inevera needed his blood for the spell, releasing it with a quick slash of her warded knife. She licked the blade clean and returned it to her belt sheath, pressing her palm to the wound, and then emptying the dice into it. They glowed fiercely in the dark as she shook her hands and threw.

The demon bones scattered on the floor, and Inevera scanned them quickly. Jardir had learned that the pattern of the fall was as important as the symbols that showed, but his understanding of the dice ended there. He had seen his wives argue many times over the meaning of a throw, though none ever dared question Inevera’s interpretations.

The Damajah hissed angrily at the pattern before her, looking up sharply at Jardir.

“You cannot go,” she said.

Jardir scowled, moving to the window and grabbing the curtain angrily. “Cannot?” he demanded, pulling the heavy drapes aside and flooding the room with bright sunlight. Inevera barely got her dice back in the pouch in time.

“I am Shar’Dama Ka,” he said. “There is nothing I cannot do.”

There was a flash of rage on Inevera’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “The dice promise disaster if you go,” she warned.

“I tire of following your dice,” Jardir said. “Especially since they always seem to tell you more than you deem me worthy to know. I will go.”

“Then I am going with you,” Inevera said.

Jardir shook his head. “You will do no such thing. You will stay here and keep your sons from killing one another until I return.”

He strode up to her and took her shoulder in a firm grip. “I would have one last taste of my wife, though, before the trek north.”

Inevera twisted, seeming only to tap his arm, but his grip lost strength for an instant, and she stepped away. “If you go alone, you can wait,” she said, a cruel smile on her face. “More reason to come back alive.”

Jardir scowled, but he knew better than to try to force the issue, Shar’Dama Ka and husband or no.

Wonda opened the door to Leesha’s cottage, letting Rojer and Gared in. Once the girl heard the Painted Man had commanded Gared to guard Rojer, she had insisted on doing the same for Leesha, sleeping at the cottage every night. Leesha had begun assigning her chores to try to dissuade the girl’s smothering, but Wonda did the work gladly, and Leesha had to admit she had grown accustomed to her looming presence.

“The Cutters finished felling trees to clear space for the next greatward,” Rojer said as they sat at her table and took tea. “It’s a mile square, just like you asked.”

“That’s good,” Leesha said. “We can start laying stones to mark the edges of the ward immediately.”

“Land’s thick with woodies,” Gared said. “Hundreds of ’em. The cuttin’ drew ’em like flies to a dungpile. Oughta gather the town and wipe ’em out ’fore we build.”

Leesha looked at Gared closely. The giant Cutter was always recommending battle, as the notched and dented gauntlets at his belt showed. But Leesha was never certain if it was for love of carnage and the jolt of magic that he acted, or for the good of the town.

“He’s right” Rojer added when Leesha remained silent. “The demons will be pushed to its edges when the ward activates, making them thicker still, ready to kill anyone who stumbles off the forbidding. We should just annihilate them in the open rather than try to hunt them through the trees later.”

“S’what the Painted Man’d do,” Gared said.

“The Painted Man would do half the killing himself,” Leesha said, “but he’s not here.”