‘What word?’ Inevera murmured.

‘The Deliverer is just beginning court, Damajah,’ Asavi said. ‘You have missed only ceremony.’

Inevera nodded. It was a calculated move, excusing herself from the formalities of court, filled with long lists of deeds and tedious prayers. The Damajah was above such things, her time better spent in the Chamber of Shadows until her full power was restored. Prayer was pointless to one used to speaking to Everam directly.

Her eyes flicked to the hora pouches of her companions. Had their own dice informed them their Damajah was blind? Melan and Asavi had served her loyally for many years, but they were still Krasian. If they sensed weakness, they would exploit it, as she would in their place. For a moment Inevera considering confiscating their dice or those of a lesser Bride to regain her sight until she had completed her new set.

She shook her head. It was within her power, but the insult would be too great. She might as soon demand they cut off a hand and give it to her. She must trust that Everam would not inform them of her weakness unless she had lost His favour, and now that she and Ahmann had reconciled, there was no reason to think she had.

With a breath to return to centre, she strode through the doors.

As ever, the throne room was crowded. The twelve Damaji stood council to the Deliverer, clustered to the right of the dais. They were led by the heads of the two strongest tribes, Ahmann’s brother-in-law Ashan of the Kaji and ancient, one-armed Aleverak of the Majah. Each of the Damaji was attended in turn by the second sons of Ahmann’s dama’ting brides – save for Ashan, who was shadowed by both Inevera’s son Asome and her nephew Asukaji.

Ahmann had promised leadership of the Kaji to Ashan’s son, though that left Asome, the second eldest of Ahmann’s seventy-three children, heir to nothing.

But there was no animosity between the cousins. Quite the contrary, they were of an age, and had been pillow friends since they were boys in Sharik Hora.

Inevera didn’t care that they were lovers – but she had been furious when Asome arranged to marry his cousin Ashia, that she might bear him the son her brother could not. It had pained Inevera to give Amanvah away to a greenlander, but better that than risk Ahmann giving her to Asukaji in further incest simply to strengthen his already unbreakable ties to Ashan.

To the left of the dais were the twelve Damaji’ting, led by Qeva. Like the Damaji, these women were followed by their successors – Melan for the Kaji and Ahmann’s dama’ting wives from the other tribes. Both groups of women were extensions of Inevera’s will. While the Damaji argued loudly with one another in open court, the Damaji’ting stood silent.

Hasik was standing inside the doors, and he snapped his feet together at the sight of her, thumping the metal butt of his warded spear loudly on the marble floor. ‘The Damajah!’

Inevera did not spare a glance for her husband’s bodyguard. Hundreds of alagai had fallen to his spear, and he was her brother by marriage, married to Ahmann’s worthless sister Hanya. But Hasik was the one who had attacked and bitten her love that fateful night in the Maze. Ahmann had broken him to heel, but he was still little more than an animal. He knew better than to touch the Deliverer’s youngest sister with anything but the gentlest hand, but he had not grown out of taking pleasure in inflicting pain on others. Hasik had his uses, but he was not worthy of her gaze save when she wished to set him to a task.

Everyone looked up at the announcement, turning like a flock of birds to bow as she approached. The Damaji watched her like raptors, but she ignored them, meeting Ahmann’s eyes and never breaking the gaze as she crossed the room. She set her hips to swaying as if in the pillow dance, and in her vaporous robes it seemed as if she were caressing the entire room on her way to her husband.

She could feel the mix of desire and hatred radiating from the Damaji as she passed them on the way to the dais, and suppressed a smile. It was humiliating enough that a woman sat above them, but the lust she aroused was worse still. She knew that many of the Damaji had pillow wives chosen specifically because they looked like her, and took vigorous delight in dominating them. Inevera secretly encouraged the practice, knowing it only put them further under her spell.

‘Mother.’ Jayan bowed respectfully. Her firstborn waited at the base of the dais, clad in his warrior blacks and the white turban of Sharum Ka.

‘My son.’ Inevera smiled with her nod, wondering at his presence. Jayan had little patience for clerics and politics. He’d claimed one of the greenland manses as his palace and built a new Spear Throne, spending his days holding court with the Sharum. Whatever else she might say about him, Jayan had made a fine First Warrior.

Two steps down the dais to Ahmann’s left knelt the fat khaffit, Abban, dressed in fine colourful silk and ready as ever to whisper in her husband’s ear. His presence offended many, though after a few abject lessons, none dared protest it to the Deliverer’s face.

For her part, Inevera found Abban’s advice to have more sense than that of any other man in the room, but this only made her more cautious of him. Ahmann despised Abban at times, but he trusted him as well. Should it suit the crippled khaffit’s purpose, it would be simple for him to whisper poison instead of wise counsel. The dice had never been clear as to his motives, and she had reason to doubt him.

Inevera let the thought blow over her, bowing before its wind. She would deal with the khaffit in his time. She raised her eyes once more to Ahmann.

He had brought the Skull Throne with him from Krasia, and sat atop it on a seven-step dais, looking every bit the Shar’Dama Ka. He wore the Crown of Kaji as comfortably as another man might wear a worn and faded turban. He used the invincible Spear of Kaji like part of his arm, making even casual gestures with it, his every word a blessing and command.

But there was a new element now, the silken warded cloak given him by the greenland whore on their first meeting. Inevera felt her nostrils flare and breathed, becoming the palm.

The cloak was beautiful, Inevera could not deny. It was pure white, embroidered in silver thread with hundreds of wards that came to life in the night, causing alagai eyes to slide off the wearer like water on oiled cloth. The fabled Cloak of Kaji, sewn by the Damajah herself, had similar powers, but it had been lost to the ravages of time, found in tatters in the sarcophagus where they had found the Deliverer’s spear.

Ahmann caressed the silk with his free hand like a lover, and its place about his shoulders said much to the assembled men and women. By wearing Leesha’s cloak openly, Ahmann was saying that not only was she his intended, but she had a connection to the divine.

As I once did, Inevera thought bitterly. She might have been clad only in vaporous silk, but it was her missing dice that truly left her feeling naked.

Still, she smiled brightly as she presented herself before her husband, slipping into his lap brazenly and lifting her veil to kiss him as she squirmed for all to see. Ahmann was used to this display, but he had never been comfortable with it. She quickly slithered off him and over to the bed of pillows to the right of the throne. As she did, she caught sight of Abban’s stare. There was no lust in it, but there was respect.

Remember that, khaffit, she thought. You tried to follow me into Ahmann’s bed with your Northern whore, but she is gone. She arranged her hair, subtly turning the bottom of her earring to listen to the words Abban whispered to her husband.