“Your Thesan is much improved,” the Par’chin noted.

Jardir grunted. “Your chin tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a khaffit to practice it while you are away.” He scowled at Abban’s back. “Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.”

“I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,” the Par’chin said.

“Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift,” Jardir said. He had tried many times to find a bride for the Par’chin, to tie him to Krasia and keep him close, as Inevera commanded.

One day, you will have to kill him, Inevera’s voice echoed in his head, but he did not wish to believe it. If Jardir could find him a wife, the greenlander would cease to be a chin and be reborn as dal’Sharum. Perhaps that “death” would fulfill the prophecy.

“I doubt the dama would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless chin,” the Par’chin said.

Jardir waved his hand. “Nonsense,” he said. “We have shed blood together in the Maze, my brother. If I take you into my tribe, not even the Andrah himself would dare protest!”

“I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,” the Par’chin said.

Jardir scowled. As close as they were, the greenlander continued to baffle him. Among his people, a warrior’s lusts were as great off the battlefield as on. He had seen no evidence that the Par’chin preferred the company of men, but he seemed more interested in battle than the spoils that rightly came to those who lived to see the dawn.

“Well don’t wait too long, or men will think you push’ting,” he said, using the word for “false woman.” It was not a sin before Everam to lie with another man, but push’ting shunned women entirely, denying their tribe future generations—something his people could ill afford.

“How long have you been in the city, my friend?” Jardir asked.

“Only a few hours,” the Par’chin said. “I just delivered my messages to the palace.”

“And already you come to offer your spear!” Jardir cried loudly for all to hear. “By Everam, the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!” The men laughed.

“Walk with me,” Jardir said, putting his arm around the Par’chin as he mentally reviewed the night’s battle plan, seeking a place of honor for his brave friend.

“The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,” he said. “You could fill in there.”

“Push Guard, I would prefer,” the Par’chin replied.

Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. “Always the most dangerous duty for you,” he chided. “If you are killed, who will carry our letters?”

“Not so dangerous, this night,” the Par’chin said. He produced a rolled cloth, uncovering a spear.

But not just any spear. Its length was of a bright, silvery metal, and wards etched along the head and haft glittered in the sunlight. Jardir’s trained eye ran along its length, and he felt his heart thump loudly in his chest. Many of the wards were unfamiliar, but he could sense their power.

The Par’chin stood proudly, waiting for him to react. Jardir swallowed his wonder and blinked the covetous gleam from his eyes, hoping his friend had not seen it.

“A kingly weapon,” he agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on the Par’chin’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.”

“I did not make it,” the Par’chin said. “I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”

Jardir’s thumping heart came to a stop. Could it be true? He forced himself to laugh.

“The birthplace of the Deliverer?” he asked. “The Spear of Kaji is a myth, Par’chin, and the lost city has been reclaimed by the sands.”

The Par’chin shook his head. “I’ve been there. I can take you there.”

Jardir hesitated. The Par’chin was no liar, and there was no jest in his voice. He meant his words. For a moment, an image flashed in his mind: he and the Par’chin out on the sands together, uncovering the combat wards of old. It was only with great effort he recalled his responsibilities and shook the image away.

“I am Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, Par’chin,” he replied. “I cannot just pack a camel and ride off into the sand looking for a city that exists only in ancient texts.”

“I think I will convince you when night falls,” the Par’chin said.

Jardir bent his mouth into a smile. “Promise me that you will not try anything foolish. Painted spear or no, you are not the Deliverer. It would be sad to bury you.”

“Tonight is the night,” Inevera said. “Long have I foreseen this. Kill him and take the spear. At dawn, you will declare yourself Shar’Dama Ka, and a month from now you will rule all Krasia.”

“No,” Jardir said.

For a moment, Inevera did not hear him. “…and the Sharach will declare for you immediately,” she was saying, “but the Kaji and Majah will take a hard line against…Eh?” She turned back to him, her eyebrow disappearing into her headwrap.

“The prophecy…” she began.

“The prophecy be damned,” Jardir said. “I will not murder my friend, no matter what the demon bones tell you. I will not rob him. I am the Sharum Ka, not a thief in the night.”

She slapped him, the retort echoing off the stone walls. “A fool is what you are!” she snapped. “Now is the moment of divergence, when what might be becomes what will. By dawn, one of you will be declared Deliverer. It is up to you to decide if it will be the Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, or a grave-robbing chin from the North.”

“I tire of your prophecies and divergences,” Jardir said, “you and all the dama’ting! All just guesses meant to manipulate men to your will. But I will not betray my friend for you, no matter what you pretend to see in those warded lumps of alagai shit!”

Inevera shrieked and raised her hand to strike him again, but Jardir caught her wrist and lifted it high. She struggled for a moment, but she might as well have struggled with a stone wall.

“Do not force me to hurt you,” Jardir warned.

Inevera’s eyes narrowed, and she twisted suddenly, driving the stiffened index and middle fingers of her free hand into his shoulder. Immediately the arm holding her wrist went numb, and she twisted out of his grasp, slipping back a step and straightening her robes.

“You keep thinking the dama’ting defenseless, my husband,” she said as he goggled at her, “though you of all people should know better.”

Jardir looked down at his arm in horror. It hung limply, refusing his commands to move.

Inevera moved over to him, taking his numb hand in hers, and pressing her free hand to his shoulder. She twisted his arm and pressed hard, and suddenly the numbness was replaced with a sharp tingle of pins.

“You are no thief,” she agreed, her voice calm once more, “if you are only reclaiming what is already yours by right.”

“Mine?” Jardir asked, staring at his hand as its fingers began to flex once more.

“Who is the thief?” Inevera asked. “The chin who robs the grave of Kaji, or you, his blood kin, who takes back what was stolen?”

“We do not know it is the Spear of Kaji he holds,” Jardir said.

Inevera crossed her arms. “You know. You knew the moment you laid eyes on it, just as you’ve known all along that this day would come. I never hid this fate from you.”

Jardir said nothing.

Inevera touched his arm gently. “If you prefer, I can put a potion in his tea. His passing will be quick.”

“No!” Jardir shouted, tearing his arm away. “Always the path of least honor with you! The Par’chin is no khaffit, to be put down like a dog! He deserves a warrior’s death.”

“Then give him one,” Inevera urged. “Now, before alagai’sharak begins and the power of the spear is known.”

Jardir shook his head. “If it is to be done, I will do it in the Maze.”

But as he walked away from her, he was not sure it was to be done at all. How could he stand tall as Shar’Dama Ka if it was atop the body of a friend?