“But we will not cede the night like those to the north!” the Andrah cried when the noise died down. “We are Krasian! Blood of Shar’Dama Ka himself! And we will fight till the Deliverer returns, or the spear falls from the hands of the last nie’Sharum and Krasia is buried in the sand!”

The warriors hooted at that, thrusting spears in the air.

“And thus, I have chosen a new Sharum Ka to lead alagai’sharak,” the Andrah said. “When he was nie’Sharum, he was made Nie Ka and stood on the walls at twelve, the youngest in a hundred years! He was not there six months before he netted a wind demon that had killed his Watcher and knocked his drillmaster prone. For this, he was brought to the Kaji pavilion, the youngest to come since the Return. He fought so well on his first night of alagai’sharak that he was sent to Sharik Hora, studying five years with the dama to first don his blacks as kai’Sharum, the youngest such since the time of the Deliverer himself!”

There was a murmur at this among the Kaji, who knew Jardir’s accomplishments well. The Andrah paused a moment to let the sense of excitement travel, then continued. “Two nights ago, he led his warriors in a daring rescue of the Sharach, who stood on the brink of destruction, killing alagai with his bare hands while his men still readied their spears!”

The murmuring grew to a buzz. There was not a man, woman, or child in all Krasia who had not heard that tale by now.

“Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, stand before the Skull Throne!” the Andrah commanded, and the warriors cheered and banged spear and shield as Jardir appeared, dressed in his Sharum blacks, his head bare.

Inevera walked silently at his side as he went to the Skull Throne and prostrated himself, kneeling quickly to lay the Andrah’s Evejah under his forehead as he pressed it to the rug. The holy book was inked with dal’Sharum blood on vellum made from kai’Sharum skin, bound in leather from a Sharum Ka. It would sear his skull if he should utter a lie while touching it.

“Do you serve Everam in all things?” the Andrah asked.

“I do, Holiness,” Jardir swore.

“Will you be His strong arm in the night, giving all honor to the thrones of Sharik Hora?”

“I will, Holiness.”

“Are you prepared to hold the reins of alagai’sharak until the Shar’Dama Ka comes again, or you be dead?” the Andrah asked.

“I am, Holiness.”

“Then rise,” the Andrah said, lifting the white turban of the Sharum Ka high for all to see. “The night awaits its Sharum Ka.”

Jardir rose, and the Andrah turned to Inevera. He handed her the turban, and she placed it on Jardir’s head.

The Sharum roared and stamped their feet, but Jardir barely noticed. Why did the Andrah not put the turban on his head himself, as was the custom? Why give the honor to Inevera?

“Stop basking in your glory and speak your words,” Inevera whispered, breaking him from his musing. Jardir started, then turned to face the assembled Sharum—nearly six thousand spears. It had been ten thousand not long ago, but the previous Sharum Ka had wasted lives. Jardir promised himself he would not do the same.

“My brothers in the night,” Jardir said. “This is a glorious time to be Sharum! Alone, the tribes of Krasia make the alagai quail with fear, but when we stand together, there is nothing we cannot do!”

The warriors roared, and Jardir waited until it died. “But when I look out at you, I see division!” he cried. “The Majah sit across the aisle from the Kaji! The Jama avoid the Khanjin! There is not one tribe who does not see enemies in this room! We are supposed to be brothers in the night, but who among you has volunteered to stand with the Sharach, whose numbers have been decimated?”

There was silence now, the warriors unsure how to respond. They knew the truth of his words, but tribal hatreds ran deep and were not easily let go even if one wished it—and few did.

“The Sharum Ka is said to be of no tribe,” Jardir continued, “but to me, that is worse! What loyalty might a tribeless man have? The Evejah tells us that the only true 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.