The Killing Moon

by N. K. Jemisin

  “Liar.” Suddenly the Bromarte’s face was piggish, his small eyes glittering with hate. The change came so abruptly that Ehiru faltered to silence, startled. “You call it a blessing of your Goddess, but I know what it really is.” He leaned forward; his breath had gone foul. “It gives you pleasure.”

  Ehiru drew back from that breath, and the fouler words. Above their heads, the wispy clouds stopped drifting. “No Gatherer kills for pleasure.”

  “ ‘No Gatherer kills for pleasure.’ ” The Bromarte drawled the words, mocking. “And what of those who do, Gatherer?” The Bromarte grinned, his teeth gleaming momentarily sharp. “Are they Gatherers no longer? There’s another name for those, yes? Is that how you tell your lie?”

  Coldness passed through Ehiru; close on its heels came angry heat. “This is obscenity,” he snapped, “and I will hear no more of it.”

  “Gatherers comfort the dying, yes?”

  “Gatherers comfort those who believe in peace, and welcome Hananja’s blessing,” Ehiru snapped. “Gatherers can do little for unbelievers who mock Her comfort.” He got to his feet and scowled to himself in annoyance. The man’s nonsense had distracted him; the sand rippled and bubbled around them, heaving like the breath of a living thing. But before he could resume control of the dream and force the Bromarte’s mind to settle, a hand grasped his ankle. Startled, he looked down.

  “They’re using you,” said the Bromarte.

  Alarm stilled Ehiru’s mind. “What?”

  The Bromarte nodded. His eyes were gentler now, his expression almost kind. As pitying as Ehiru himself had been, a moment before. “You will know. Soon. They’ll use you to nothing, and there will be no one to comfort you in the end, Gatherer.” He laughed and the landscape heaved around them, laughing with him. “Such a shame, Nsha Ehiru. Such a shame!”

  Gooseflesh tightened Ehiru’s skin, though the skin was not real. The mind did what was necessary to protect the soul at such times, and Ehiru suddenly felt great need of protection—for the Bromarte knew his soulname, though he had not given it.

  He jerked away from the man’s grip and pulled out of his dream in the same reflexive rush. But to Ehiru’s horror, the clumsy exit tore free the tether that bound the Bromarte to his flesh. Too soon! He had not moved the Bromarte to a safer place within the realm of dreams. And now the soul fluttered along in his wake like flotsam, twisting and fragmenting no matter how he tried to push it back toward Ina-Karekh. He collected the spilled dreamblood out of desperation but shuddered as it came into him sluggishly, clotted with fear and malice. In the dark between worlds, the Bromarte’s last laugh faded into silence.

  Ehiru returned to himself with a gasp, and looked down. His gorge rose so powerfully that he stumbled away from the bed, leaning against the windowsill and sucking quick shallow breaths to keep from vomiting.

  “Holiest mistress of comfort and peace…” He whispered the prayer in Sua out of habit, closing his eyes and still seeing the Bromarte’s dead face: eyes wide and bulging, mouth open, teeth bared in a hideous rictus. What had he done? O Hananja, forgive me for profaning Your rite.

  He would leave no rose-signature behind this time. The final dream was never supposed to go so wrong—certainly not under the supervision of a Gatherer of his experience. He shuddered as he recalled the reek of the Bromarte’s breath, like that of something already rotted. Yet how much fouler had it been for the Bromarte, who had now been hurled through Ehiru’s carelessness into the nightmare hollows of Ina-Karekh for all eternity? And that only if enough of his soul had been left intact to return.

  Yet even as disgust gave way to grief, and even as Ehiru bowed beneath the weight of both, intuition sounded a faint warning in his mind.

  He looked up. Beyond the window rose the rooftops of the city, and beyond those the glowing curve of the Dreamer sank steadily toward the horizon. Waking Moon peeked round its larger curve. The city had grown still in the last moments of Moonlight; even the thieves and lovers slept. All except himself—

  —And a silhouette, hunched against the cistern on a nearby rooftop.

  Ehiru frowned and pushed himself upright.

  The figure straightened as he did, mirroring his movement. Ehiru could make out no details aside from shape: male, naked or nearly so, tall and yet oddly stooped in posture. Indeterminate features and caste, indeterminate intent.

  No. That much, at least, was discernible. Ehiru could glean little else from the figure’s stillness, but malevolence whispered clearly in the wind between them.

  The tableau lasted only a moment. Then the figure turned, climbed the cistern’s rope to its roof, and leaped onto an adjoining building and out of sight. The night became still once more. But not peaceful.

  Gualoh, echoed the Bromarte’s voice in Ehiru’s memory. Not an insult, he realized, staring at where the figure had been. A warning.

  Demon.

  FIRST INTERLUDE

  Did you know that writing stories down kills them?

  Of course it does. Words aren’t meant to be stiff, unchanging things. My family were talekeepers once, though now they make funerary urns and jars. Many, many generations ago, before pictorals and numeratics and hieratics, words were kept where they belong, in mouths. The people who made sure those words passed on were my ancestors. Written words did not kill my lineage’s purpose, though gone are the crowds—and the riches—we once commanded. We retell the stories regardless, because we know: stone is not eternal. Words can be.

  So. At the beginning of time—

  Yes, yes, I must begin with that greater story. I tell this in the Sua way, first the greater stories, then the lesser, because that is how it must be done. That was our bargain, yes? I will speak, and pass my tales on to you since I have no sons or daughters to keep them for me. When I finish speaking, you may summon my brethren, and I will go gladly to Hananja. So.

  At the beginning of time the Sun was a swaggering oaf. He strutted about the heavens proclaiming his greatness day and night, heedless of the hardships he caused to the world below: rivers dying, deserts born, mountaintops burned ugly and bare. He shone himself brightly so that the two Moon Sisters would admire him and grant him their favor.

  Waking Moon was a small and homely thing who rarely strayed far from her sister’s shadow, fearful of being alone. She permitted the Sun her pleasures and he continued swaggering about, more certain than ever of his greatness.

  But Dreaming Moon was full and beautiful. She loved the dark places and the cool nights, and sometimes she would gaze down into the ocean to paint her face with four bands of color: red for blood, white for seed, yellow for ichor, and black for bile. She felt no pressing need for a lover, and she found Sun’s behavior offensive, so she scorned his attempts to court her.

  Sun grew mad with longing for her, and even Waking Moon could not distract him from his lust. He sought solace in smaller, younger Stars, who would sometimes bend themselves to him, but at last his desire became too great even for that. He fell to the earth and masturbated, and when his climax came the earth tore and the heavens split and a great white spear of his seed flew forth and struck Dreaming Moon. Where the earth opened, plants and beasts emerged and began to spread across the land. Where the Dreamer was struck, gods came forth and began to spread across the heavens.

  In a fury at this great insult, Dreaming Moon declared that if Sun could not control himself, she would control him. So she demanded that he bring her gifts to make amends and food to feed the children he had so carelessly spawned. She confined him to the day, where he could swagger as much as he wished and no longer annoy her with his foolishness. She forbade him ever to lie upon the earth again, lest his lustful inclinations lead to more chaos. Meekly he submitted to these restrictions, for she was powerful with magic and he desired her still, and if this was the only way she would have him, then so it must be.

  Now they live apart as husband and wife, she in the night and he in the day. Always he longs for her, and the days shorten and leng
then as he strains to rise earlier, set later, all for a chance to glimpse her. With time she has grown fond of him, for he has been humble and well-behaved since their marriage. Every so often, she rises early so he can gaze upon her. Once in a great while she lets him catch up to her, and he darkens his face to please her, and they join in careful lovemaking. And sometimes in the night when he cannot see her, she misses his foolish antics and pines for him, and darkens her own face. She is always bright again when he returns.

  2

  Give Hananja peace and She shall dream peace and so return peace upon the dreamer. Give Her fear or suffering and She shall dream these, and return the same. Thus is peace made law. That which threatens peace is corruption. War is the greatest of evils.

  (Law)

  There was magic in Gujaareh.

  So the Protectors had warned all Kisua. Yet Sunandi’s master Kinja Seh Kalabsha had required her to study Gujaareen magic as part of her apprenticeship, though it made the elders shake their heads and the sonha nobles sigh. Kinja had been adamant, however. Magic was mother’s milk to the people of Gujaareh. They were steeped in its necessity, proud of its benefits, dismissive of its consequences. It was impossible to understand Gujaareh without understanding the source of its power.

  And so Sunandi had learned. Gujaareen magic centered around the powers of healing, which the Hetawa—the governing temple of the Hananjan faith—controlled. But though the Hananjan priests served as gatekeepers for the magic, they were not its source. The people of Gujaareh made the magic, in the wild bursts of imagination and emotion called dreams; the Hananjans simply harvested that wildness and refined it into a purer, usable form. And so Gujaareen citizens brought their nightmares and nonsense dreams to the temples, where the priests called Sharers used them to shrink tumors or speed the healing of wounds. Sometimes a different kind of healing was needed, perhaps to regrow a severed limb or end a disease passed down through the lineage. Then Hananja’s whores would go forth—no, Sunandi chided herself. Dangerous even to think with the usual Kisuati scorn while within Gujaareh’s borders. Hananja’s Sisters, they were called, though a handful were males in female garb; more Gujaareen strangeness. In solemn rites the Sisters would coax forth the most carnal dreams from Her supplicants, and those too would be given to the Sharers for the good of all.

  And for those citizens of Gujaareh who were too old, or too sick, or too selfish to bring their offerings to the Hetawa… there were the priests called Gatherers.

  Oh yes, there was magic in Gujaareh. Great, reeking heaps of it.

  “You’re afraid,” observed the Prince.

  Sunandi blinked out of her reverie to find him smiling at her, unapologetic. It was the Gujaareen way to speak of such things—desires that should remain private, concealed anxieties. He knew it was not the Kisuati way.

  “You hide it well,” he continued, “but it shows. Mostly in your silence. You’ve been so forceful up until now that the change is striking. Or is it that you find me a poor conversationalist?”

  If only Kinja had not died, Sunandi thought behind the mask of her answering smile. He had understood the peculiarities and contradictions of Gujaareh better than anyone else in Kisua. In this land flowers bloomed at night and the river created lush farmlands in the heart of a desert. Here politics was half religion and half riddle, for under Hananja’s Law even a hint of corruption was punishable by death. And here Sunandi had discovered that even Kinja could make mistakes, for though he had taught her the language and the magic and the customs, he had not been a woman. He had never been forced to contend with the most elegant, most dangerous charms of Gujaareh’s Sunset Prince.

  “I’m forceful when force is needed,” Sunandi replied. She waved a hand: a touch of unconcern, a hint of coquetry. “Trade discussions with the zhinha most definitely require it. I was under the impression, however, that this meeting between us was…” She pretended to grope for the word in Gujaareen although she suspected that he, unlike most of his countrymen, would not be so easily lulled by her accent and feigned ignorance. “How do you say it? Less official. More… intimate.”

  “Oh, it is.” His gaze followed her every movement; the smile had not left his face.

  She inclined her head. “Then here I may be more myself. If you read fear in my silence, I assure you that it has nothing to do with you.” She smiled to soften the snub. His eyes flared with a mingling of amusement and interest, as they always seemed to do when she parried his verbal feints. Small wonder he found her so alluring; to Sunandi’s mind, Gujaareen women were painfully demure.

  The Prince abruptly rose from his couch and sauntered over to the terrace railing. For a moment Sunandi set aside subtlety to drink her fill of the sight unobserved—though there was hardly any need to conceal her interest. The Prince’s movements were studied, the epitome of grace; he knew full well she was watching. The black ropes of his hair had been threaded with cylinders of gold and strings of minute pearls, and this mane surrounded a face that was fine-planed and flawless, apart from the misfortune of his coloring. Ageless, like his lean warrior’s body. Here in his private quarters he’d shunned the more elaborate collars and adornments of his office for a simple loinskirt and feathered waistcloak. The plumes of the cloak whispered as they swept the floor’s tiles behind him.

  He stopped beside a raised plinth bearing a platter, gazed at it for a moment as if to assure himself of the suitability of its contents, then brought the platter over to her. He knelt with careless ease before the bench she’d chosen and offered the platter to her with his head bowed, humble as any lowcaste servant.

  On the platter lay a profusion of delicacies for the taking: crisp vegetables flecked with hekeh-seed and sea salt, balls of grain held together with honey and aromatic oil, medallions of fresh fish tied into bundles around wine-soaked raisins. And more, each arranged in neat rows of four—forty in all. An auspicious number by Gujaareen reckoning.

  Sunandi smiled at that implicit hopeful message. After a moment’s consideration she selected a wafer of sugar-stalk around which some sort of river crustacean had been baked. He waited while she took her time chewing, savoring the salt-sweet flavor; that was the proper way to show appreciation in both Gujaareen and Kisuati custom. Then she inclined her head in acceptance of the offering. He set the platter on his knee and began feeding her more with his fingers, showing no sign of eagerness or haste.

  “Kisuati speak often of Gujaareen courting-customs,” Sunandi said while he selected another morsel. “My people find it amusing that men here use food to lure women into pleasure. In our land it is the opposite.”

  “The food is only a symbol,” the Prince replied. His voice was low and smooth, and he spoke softly as if to soothe a wild animal. “It is the act of offering that—hopefully—tempts a woman. Some offer jewels; the shunha and zhinha favor such things as a mark of status. Lowcastes offer poetry or song.” He shrugged. “I feared that jewels, given our relative positions, might be misconstrued as a bribe. And poetry is such a subjective thing. Offerings can offend, after all.” He gave her something redolent of nutmeg, and wonderful. “Delicacies, however, tempt the appetites.”

  She licked her lips, amused. “Whose appetites, I wonder?”

  “The woman’s, of course. Men need little incentive to take pleasure.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. Sunandi resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his foolishness. “And we Gujaareen revere our women.”

  “As much as you revere your goddess?” The statement edged along their notion of blasphemy, but the Prince only laughed.

  “Women are goddesses,” he replied. She opened her mouth and he placed the next item on her tongue, where it melted in an exquisite mix of flavors. She closed her eyes and caught her breath, inadvertently overwhelmed, and saw when she opened them again that his grin had widened. “They birth and shape the dreamers of the world. What better courtship can a man offer than worship?”

  “Until you’ve had your pleasure. Then your goddesses return to
making babies and keeping house.”

  “Just so. Honorable men continue to make offerings to them, though the offerings are nightly pleasure and helpful tools rather than frivolities.” His eyes snapped with humor as if he sensed how much his words irritated her. “So you must forgive my courtiers and counselors if they are uneasy at having to deal with you as Kisua’s Voice. In their eyes you should be secure in some man’s kitchen, receiving the adulation that is your just due.”

  She laughed, not as gently as he. “Would they be displeased to find me here with you now?”

  “Doubtful. A man and a woman associating for pleasure makes far more sense to them than a man and a woman associating for business.”

  When Sunandi politely turned away the next morsel, he set aside the platter and took her hands, pulling her to stand. She rose with him, curious to see how far he meant to go. “In fact,” said the Prince, “they will actually be pleased that I have seduced the Voice of Kisua. No doubt they’ll expect you to become more acquiescent after a day and a night spent offering dreams of ecstasy to Hananja.” He shrugged one shoulder. “They do not understand outland women.”

  A day and a night. Mnedza’s Hands, he had a high opinion of himself.

  “I see,” she said, keeping her face serene. The Prince made no move to pull her against him, did nothing more than hold her hands and gaze into her eyes. She met his eyes without wavering, wondering what a Gujaareen woman would do in such a situation. He had strange eyes: a clear, pale brown, like polished amber from the tall forests across the sea. His skin was of a nearly matching shade—not unattractive, but certainly improper for a nobleman. Amazing that these Gujaareen had allowed even their royal lineage to be diluted by northerners.