Politics. Even here. I grind my teeth at the ugliness of it.

  But I will take no part in ugly politics. Not here, and not when I return home and it is my own power I need to maintain.

  I raise my eyes, first meeting the gazes of Aleveran, Maroch, and the other clerics, before sweeping them over the gathered mourners. “It is true,” I admit, to more gasping. “Alagai Ka took Iraven’s mind before it was over, and forced my brother to betray us. He was not alone in this. Many Sharum turned on one another when their mind wards failed in the heat of battle. Possession is a weapon of the mind demons, no different from a sand demon’s talons, or a flame demon’s fire.”

  I turn and look at my brother, at last. Like the others, he is peaceful in state, but in his handsome face I see only the pain he has caused me. And I swore to speak only truth.

  “I have no love for Iraven. My brother did more to destroy me than anyone alive, and not all of it was the demon king’s influence. He sent warriors in the night to take me from my home with no more thought than stealing a well. He sent Drillmaster Chikga to his death. He killed my sister.”

  My hands begin to sweat as they grip the blessed lectern, and for a fleeting moment I wonder if it can sense a lie of omission. For again I leave unspoken that although it was the demon’s will, Iraven was also the instrument Alagai Ka used to drive a knife into Chadan’s lung. It is truth, but a truth that would tear what remains of this city, and the Majah, apart.

  Instead, I continue to speak truth, though it hurts me to do so. “But so, too, did demons fall by the score upon the Majah son of Ahmann’s spear. And when Alagai Ka fled the field and my brother had his mind back, Iraven chose to die with honor, rather than risk carrying the demon’s taint back to his people in some dark corner of his mind. His last act was to martyr himself to protect Desert Spear and its people, and that is power the Holy City surely needs.”

  I deliberately raise my hands for all to see, then place them flat on the lectern, daring the holy relic to burn me if my words are untrue. “I saw this!”

  Stamping feet is not enough for Iraven’s personal guard, the Spears of the Desert. Drillmaster Zim raises an armored fist, punching it against the armor plate over his heart three times, echoed by hundreds of warriors. “I SAW THIS!”

  Maroch’s lips tighten. His objection was rehearsed, but he had not expected the Sharum to be ready for it with a rehearsed response of their own.

  I hate politics, but I am not a fool.

  I wait for more objections, but the clerics are no more fool than I. None wish to take the vanguard in alienating their warriors over Aleveran’s personal vendetta. When the silence stretches long, Aleveran raises his hands again, signaling the bells.

  “Everam, giver of life and light, accept the bones of Sharum Ka Iraven asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Majah to bless this great temple in your eternal name.”

  After Iraven is carried away, only my sister remains. If my brother’s acceptance was a trial, this feels more like walking into the abyss. No women warriors are interred in Sharik Hora, and old men fear little more than change.

  But I have walked into the abyss for love before, and I no longer fear these old men. If they will not accept my sister as she deserves, I will carry her body home myself, and see her interred in the Cathedral of the Deliverer in Hollow. In my heart it is what I wish to do, but I know this is where she would want to be.

  “Before you lies Micha vah Ahmann am’Jardir am’Kaji.” At last a bit of disdain slips into Aleveran’s voice, flat for his own grandson and his greatest rival. “What glory does the daughter of Ahmann bring, to earn a place among men in the Temple of Heroes’ Bones?”

  There are murmurs of assent from the dama. Elevating a woman is a direct challenge to their power. They will not give ground as easily as they did for Iraven, and my warriors did not know Micha as I do. They will not put themselves out for a woman’s honor, nor would I ask it of them. This isn’t their fight.

  I look at my sister, lying so peacefully, and feel my heart breaking all over. Micha made up so much of my world, I don’t know how I will function without her constant advice, love, and support.

  Micha was my sister, but I did not truly understand what sisterhood meant until it was too late. Micha kept a whole side of herself secret for most of my life. I blamed her for that lie, but it wasn’t fair of me. She gave up her own life, her limitless glory, her royal status, all to play nursemaid while guarding me from assassins’ blades. Without Micha, I would be dead many times over, yet I had the arrogance to judge her.

  There was so much Micha could have taught me—so much I wanted to explore with her. Now she’s gone, and I have only her example to follow. Micha was a warrior without peer, but it was a woman’s sacrifice she made for her infant sister. If that is what it means to be a woman—putting the needs of others before your own glory—it is as worthy as any feat of arms.

  “My sister was born in Desert Spear,” I begin, not knowing what words will sway these men, but knowing I must try. “The daughter of one of Shar’Dama Ka’s lesser wives. Too common to take dama’ting white, too holy for dal’ting black, she was sent beneath this very temple with others of her kind, given to Drillmaster Enkido, to see if he could teach the spear to women.”

  There are murmurs in the audience at this, both the outrageous idea of women with spears, but also the name of their drillmaster. Micha’s glory may have been hidden to provide cover in Mother’s court, but Enkido’s name is known far and wide. Even here, among the tribe of his enemies.

  “Enkido was not gentle with his charges,” I say. “I have been through sharaj as nie’Sharum, but the trials my sister spoke of are greater by far, for Enkido knew a woman must be twice as accomplished to earn half the respect of a man. There were five of them, then—Ashia, Shanvah, Sikvah, Micha, and Jarvah. Everam’s spear sisters. Sharum blood of the Shar’Dama Ka. And all of them took glory to their name. Ashia took the white turban of Sharum’ting Ka, and killed the mind demon enslaving Sharum warriors and directing the assault on Everam’s Bounty. Shanvah followed Shar’Dama Ka into Nie’s abyss, and was martyred as they destroyed the alagai hive. Sikvah,” I nod to Arick, her son, “was also martyred in Sharak Ka, defending the walls of Everam’s Bounty against a demon horde. Jarvah is bodyguard to the Damajah herself. And Micha,” I hold a hand out toward my sister, “killed a mind demon in Angiers.”

  “Hearsay,” Aleveran scoffs. “Unworthy words from the Witness Pulpit.”

  “I beg the Damaji’s pardon,” I say loudly, “but it is not. These are documented historical facts.”

  Aleveran seems unimpressed. “Can you produce the documents and prove their veracity?”

  I scowl, for of course I cannot. I bow, instead. “Apologies, Damaji. I fear we did not have time to visit the archives when your Watchers came in the night to kidnap us from our home.”

  Aleveran’s face darkens at this, and I know I am playing a dangerous game. But I will not forsake my sister for an old man’s pride.

  I whisk a hand through the air like Grandmum used to, dismissing the thought like a bad smell in the air before placing my hands firmly on the sacred lectern for all to see. “But it does not matter. I saw my sister’s spear punch through a wood demon that would have taken the life of me. Its ichor splashed my face. And when the rest of the pack attacked my friends, it was Sharum’ting Micha who saved us. I saw this.”

  I don’t expect a response, but one comes anyway. “I saw this!” Selen’s shout seems to echo in the room, and eyes turn her way, scandalized at a woman bearing witness. If Selen feels the weight of their gazes, she does not wither. She is looking at me, and in her eyes is all the support I need to carry on.

  Aleveran whisks his hand, an imitation of my gesture. “The witness of a woman, for the deeds of another woman in the green lands, is not enough to earn a place in Sharik Hora.”

  Anger kindles in me. It seems Aleveran wants one last confrontation after all. One last flex of his power.

  “You are correct, of course.” I bow again. “Let us speak instead of her actions here, in Desert Spear, when she joined the Sharum on the path to the abyss beneath this very city, while the rest of you took shelter in the Holy City.”

  The dama do not like this, implying their honor is less than that of the Sharum, but none dare speak. I have the pulpit, and it is the gathered audience I need to convince, as much as the council.

  “Alagai Ka had removed the helms of the dal’Sharum,” I say. “Without their mind wards, they were little more than puppets at his command. But before he could infect their hearts, they were broken from his control by my sister’s spellsong. And while they recovered, she joined me in the attack against the Father of Evil. I saw this.”

  I turn my gaze to my spear brothers. The warriors may not know my sister, and none care to be reminded of Alagai Ka’s control, but they saw what they saw, and honor demands they support the witness. The stomp of feet is not as synchronous as refrains past, but it comes, with Darin, Selen, and Rojvah loudest of all. “I saw this!”

  Again, Aleveran denies me. “Sharik Hora is for warriors, not singers. By your own admission, your sister fell to Iraven’s blade, not alagai talons.”

  “Iraven,” I say, “was under the direct control of Alagai Ka. He was sent to intercept her because the demon king feared her spear.”

  “Speculation,” Aleveran sneers. “She was not killed by the alagai.”

  I want to shout at him the truth. That his beloved grandson Chadan fell to Iraven, too. His fatal wound came long before the demon king opened his skull.

  But I will not rob others of their honor to satiate the Damaji. “Who then is responsible, when a warrior is ordered to kill, and does?”

  The Damaji has no quick answer to that, and I give him no time to find one.

  “Warriors die in the Maze every night, many without ever coming into contact with alagai talons. Crushed by rocks. Burned by fire. Knocked from the walltops. Blooded in battle, these men still died in alagai’sharak and are interred here.”

  “A technicality,” Aleveran sidesteps. “You ask that we change three thousand years of tradition, interring a woman in Sharik Hora for the first time, on a technicality.”

  It takes all my strength to keep from baring my teeth at the words. I am considered a man by the Majah, but when I look at the all-male council of dama nodding their heads, it fills me with disgust. Hearsay. The green lands. A singer not a fighter. A blade instead of a talon. Excuse after excuse, deployed to deny a woman the glory they accord to men with little more than a formality.

  “The Sharum’ting did not exist until after the exodus from Desert Spear,” I remind the Damaji. “They were created when the Shar’Dama Ka’s forces needed every spear. Everam’s spear sisters remained to fight in Sharak Ka, even when others did not.”

  If I was walking a dangerous path before, I am balanced on a wire above the abyss now. Under Aleveran, the Majah abandoned my father’s armies at the height of Sharak Ka to return to Desert Spear, to the eternal shame of many. No Majah wishes to be reminded of that dishonor.

  If I thought this might break Aleveran’s resolve, I am wrong, for in his eyes I can see it redouble.

  “Sharum’ting bones grace the temples of New Krasia,” I say, “and in Hollow.”

  “Let our Northern brothers sully their temples with their liberal ways,” Aleveran sneers. “Giving women the spear was one of many ways Ahmann Jardir strayed into heresy. We have reversed that mistake here, and Sharik Hora will remain pure.”

  “Demonshit!” Selen snaps, and my heart leaps. She’s right of course. Without women with spears, the city would be under the demon’s control. Still, she could be killed for such an outburst. My eyes flick to her and I see Rojvah has convinced her to be silent, but it is not quick enough.

  “Tsst!” Damaji’ting Chavis hisses at Selen. So focused on Aleveran and his dama councilors, I had forgotten the mean old woman was on the altar.

  Chavis takes a single step toward Aleveran and bows, but she does not kneel. Her power is not so great as Aleveran’s, but he would be hard-pressed to hold on to his own without her support.

  Aleveran knows it. It is practically unheard of for a woman, even the Damaji’ting, to speak in Sharik Hora. But Aleveran is wise enough to understand she does not do it lightly. “Speak your wisdom, Damaji’ting, for all to hear.”

  Chavis nods. “The Damaji is mistaken when he says there are no women interred in Sharik Hora.”

  Aleveran blinks. I don’t know what he was expecting the ancient priestess to say, but clearly this is not it.

  “The dama’ting have interred their own in the crypts below the temple for centuries,” Chavis notes. “As have the dama, though few have fought in alagai’sharak.”

  Lines of tension appear on the Damaji’s face. The words are a challenge, but not one Aleveran can easily refute, so he does not try. “Let the dama’ting take her then.”

  Chavis shakes her head. “Micha vah Ahmann was not dama’ting. She is Sharum. I witnessed them fighting, when the Sharum’ting made their debut. I watched a group of them, the daughter of Ahmann among them, take on a pack of field alagai. She is blooded in ichor. I saw this.”

  The challenge in the words is unmistakable, and suddenly the assembled council of dama’ting, little more than wall tapestries a moment ago, seem to loom outsize in the room.

  Rights given are not so easily taken away, Mother used to say, and it seems—as with so many things—she was correct. The Sharum’ting brought honor to the women of the tribe, and it seems that is not something they will yield without a fight.

  A stomp of feet from the women’s side of the chamber booms all the way to the domed ceiling high above, and a lump forms in my throat. Not Selen, this time. It was the dama’ting, and their dal’ting bodyguards, women who answered my father’s call to spears, only to have them taken away by Aleveran when they returned to old Krasia.

  “The dama’ting accept Micha vah Ahmann into Sharik Hora.” Chavis keeps her eyes on Aleveran, daring him to deny her. “And she will not be the last.”

  The words hang ominous in the air, a clear intention of the Majah dama’ting to resume training women to take the spear.

  All made possible by my sister. I manage not to weep when Aleveran raises his hands and the bells ring for Micha, but there are tears streaming down my cheeks, and I make no effort to hide them.

  “Everam, giver of life and light, accept the bones of Micha vah Ahmann am’Jardir am’Kaji to bless this great temple in your eternal name.” Aleveran’s voice is flat, but I can imagine the anger beneath. This is not a man accustomed to being thwarted, and that makes the victory all the sweeter.

  When Olive disappeared, me and Selen ran away from Hollow to hunt her down. We were on the road for months, and it wasn’t easy going. Both in a mood most of the time—worried, damp, tired, and hungry. But it was just the two of us, and we knew when to huddle up and talk, and when to give each other space.

  Even after Arick and Rojvah joined us, it wasn’t so bad. Everyone had their own problems to worry over, and the endless banter the twins were famous for in the palace died out in the waste.

  But now the Majah are preparing a proper caravan to take us home, with Sharum guards and dal’ting workers, draft animals, and merchant carts. The caravan grounds are a cacophony of sounds and smells that threatens to overwhelm my senses. Casks of spice, grain, and dried meat, feed for the animals and the stink of their piss and droppings, merchants shouting at their workers, oil and leather and braying camels, people scurrying to and fro, breaking wind and breathing out their last few meals.

  It makes my head pound and my stomach churn, and we ent even left yet. Don’t know how I’m gonna last weeks on the road with all this stink and racket. Gonna have to keep my distance during the day. Ride out ahead, or drift back a mile or two behind. Ent like I could lose track of a rippin’ parade like this.

  Noise is worth it to get gone from this place. Da wrote about Desert Spear in his journals, and I always dreamed of visiting, but now that I have, I’d just as soon be back in the Brook. Been nothing but pain and heartache since I left.

  Olive is making the rounds with the caravan guards and merchants, saying things that sound like requests, but ent, like Speaker Selia does back in Tibbet’s Brook. She expects obedience, and gets it on the quick.

  Selen is sticking close to her, like she’s afraid Olive will disappear again if she looks away for a minute. That ent unusual. Olive and Selen always ran at a pace. I’m faster, but somehow I was always the one trailing behind.

  Even so, something’s off. After months of being constant companions, it feels like Selen’s avoiding me, and it’s like an ache under my skin.

  They’ve given Rojvah a white canvas tent to wait out the heat and dust as the caravan readies, and she said I could hide there when I needed. Selen smelled annoyed when she said it, but right now it’s the closest thing to respite I’ve got.

  Last thing I want is to make things with Selen worse. Know she dun’t shine on me the way I do her, but it ent like I can just stop. I’ll take friends over nothing at all, and call it a bargain. Still, I’m careful she doesn’t see me as I make my way to Rojvah’s tent.

  Folk call me a sneak. Not to my face—mostly—but when you can hear an ant sigh, you tend to catch what folk say when they think no one’s listenin’. They think I got somethin’ to hide, or that I’m spying on them at the swimming hole. Rabbit rustles a bush on someone’s property at night, the next afternoon they’re spinning an ale story about how they saw Darin Bales stalking the yard like a demon.

  Truer is, I’m more scared of them than they ever were of me. Don’t sneak to get the jump on anyone. Do it to keep my distance, so I don’t have to process all the touches, tastes, sights, smells, and sounds of everyone I meet.