Her soul was damaged beyond the ability of magic to repair, Yanassa had told her once, speaking of grief and loss—and mercy. Her brother Sharers had killed that woman, Yanassa’s great-aunt. And what Yanassa had not said, what she had perhaps not even known, was that those Sharers had likely also obliterated her soul rather than letting it travel to Ina-Karekh. A soul so corrupted could never find peace, not even with a woman’s innate magic, not even with a Gatherer’s help. It would only drift to the pain and darkness within the Goddess’s mind, like calling to like, there to suffer nightmares for all eternity. Kinder to end the soul than leave it like that.
Yanassa would probably have understood, if she’d known. We were glad for it.
So when the red threads ran out, Hanani closed her eyes and sent forth black instead.
But not to cause pain this time. “Stillness,” she whispered in the child’s ear. “Silence.”
In a muzzy voice, so weary that Hanani’s eyes stung with tears, the Wild Dreamer asked, “Sleep?”
“Sleep,” she replied. “Yes. You may sleep now. As much as you like.”
And the Wild Dreamer sagged against her with a deep, contented sigh. It was a simple matter for Hanani to weave dreambile into that sigh, spinning it into a longer one, drawing the child’s breath out of her until it stopped. Simple, too, to then unravel the soul itself.
The ugly world of blood and bones vanished. They floated, Hanani and Wanahomen, in the cleaner darkness of the realms between. Of the Wild Dreamer’s soul there was nothing. She had ceased to be.
“Prince,” Hanani said softly, into the darkness. “Go back to waking now. Tell my brothers, if they don’t already know, that the nightmare plague is done.”
After a moment’s pause—probably counting all his parts to make sure they were still there—Wanahomen exhaled. “Thank the Goddess for that.” A pause; in that bodiless space, she felt his sudden suspicion. “But surely you can tell them yourself.”
She sighed. “No, Prince. I can’t.”
Silence and shock—and sudden fear. He did not want her to die. He wanted her, but that was not surprising. As Yanassa had warned her, Wanahomen held too tight.
You shared your strength with me, Niim, when I needed it after Mni-inh’s death. But this you cannot share.
“My soul is corrupt too,” Hanani said. In the soft darkness her voice echoed, hollow. “Twice now I’ve killed with hands that were meant to heal, and even enjoyed another’s suffering. Again and again, I have broken my oaths. But I still love Hananja; I know my duty.”
His anger made the darkness ripple, trying to become some other place—but his will was too scattered and frantic to shape anything specific. He did not have a Gatherer’s control, just the power. “No, no, you will not do this, Hanani, I forbid—”
“You have no right to forbid me.” She cut him off, no longer caring about rudeness. She was tired, so tired. Everyone she loved was dead, and her dreams were gone. Perhaps she would not bother traveling to Ina-Karekh. Perhaps she would simply remain here and let her soul fade as the Wild Dreamer’s had done. “There’s nothing left for me in Gujaareh.”
“Then go back to Merik-ren-aferu,” he blurted. “Stay with the Banbarra. I’ll tell them you died.”
“Don’t be foolish, Prince. Will you corrupt yourself for my sake? And destroy everything you’ve worked for?” He lapsed into silent consternation, and she shook her head. “A Servant of Hananja does not fear death. And I—”
She faltered, then. Everything inside her hurt. Damn him for making this harder for her. Did he think of no one but himself? She would miss him. She did not want to, but she would—and that was just one more hurt, one more burden, on top of so many others that she had already crumpled beneath.
“I want to die,” Hanani said at last. “Please.”
That should have settled it. If he had been a proper man, a civilized man, it would have. No Gujaareen would disrespect another’s wish for peace.
But Wanahomen was half barbarian and half mad—and a prince used to getting his way, and a warrior used to making his way, and atop all that a Gatherer. So he came at her, and when she resisted in surprise he spoke her soulname. Not to harm her, though he could have—as she could have harmed him, knowing his name in return. He simply held her, and pressed close so that she could know his hopes, his will, as clearly as her own.
“I won’t let you,” he breathed.
“I told you, you have no—”
“I am Her Avatar, nightmares damn you, that gives me some right! And if you do this, you will do to me what Mni-inh’s loss has done to you.”
“That’s selfish.”
“Yes! It is! But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong!”
Enmeshed with Wanahomen, she felt the thread of his fear. Out of habit she followed it and found its root in his soul, just behind his heart, where removing it would leave a gaping and perhaps fatal wound. Losing her would make this wound in him.
So surprised was Hanani by this that she listened to him, instead of rejecting him entirely. She felt him sense this, and knew when he decided on a new tactic, pressing his advantage.
“Let the Gatherers decide,” Wanahomen said quickly.
“What?”
Hands that she could not see held her close and tight. “How can you presume to judge yourself corrupt? You’re only a Sharer, Hanani, and an apprentice at that. Go back to waking and present yourself to them. Tell them the truth.” A flicker of fear from him, swiftly suppressed. “They will see, as I do, that your choices had no corrupt intent.”
It made surprising sense. Some part of her wanted to listen, or perhaps she was just so tired that it was easier to let him win, for now.
“Very well,” she said at last. But before he could exult, she added, “But I will present myself to the Gatherers, Prince. And I’ll abide by their judgment, whatever that might be.”
His fear faded only a little, because he knew as well as she did that she had committed great crimes. Gatherers were not known for their leniency, and Hananja’s Law had little room for nuance.
“So be it,” he said at last. She was surprised to feel solemn resignation in him. “You’re a Sharer of Hananja; I’ve known what that means since I met you. I shall abide by whatever you choose.”
Then he took them back to the waking realm, to face all its threat and promise.
45
The Battle of Blood
Tiaanet walked alone through the city with the hunter’s knife in her hand. The streets, peopled only by lingering smoke and capering shadows, echoed faintly with the sound of her sandaled feet. Several times she heard other footsteps or voices on adjoining streets, but none came near. The city was still angry, but not at her, so she was left in peace.
She had left Tantufi’s body behind in the little room for the templefolk to find. They would see the child’s scarred, neglected flesh and show kindness, perhaps even hiring mourners to weep the tears that no one else would. Perhaps they would use their magic to somehow see how her final hours had gone; Tiaanet had heard they could do that. Then they might see that Tantufi had cried out for her mother once, from the depths of sleep. They might see that Tiaanet had lifted Tantufi in her arms upon finding her face wet with tears; they would see Tantufi nestle herself closer, burying her face in her mother’s breast and uttering a sigh of deep contentment. And they might experience the terrible, magnificent moment when some inexplicable force had rippled through Tantufi, and through Tantufi into Tiaanet. That force had touched the old, deep scars within Tiaanet and softened them a little, perhaps whittling away one or two of the oldest and thickest. But when the moment passed there was a fresh, raw wound to replace them, for Tantufi was dead in Tiaanet’s arms.
She turned a corner, entering the highcaste district.
The Kisuati soldiers had been gone from the Hetawa by the time she left. It would have been easy for Tiaanet to remain where she was and wait for the Servants of Hananja to find her; she had no more reason to
fear them with Tantufi gone. But instead, as Dreaming Moon began the latter half of her nightly trek across the sky, Tiaanet left the Hetawa by way of the empty House of Children. Her path had meandered since then, mostly to avoid areas of fire and noise, but she had known all along where she meant to go.
Their city house was dark when she arrived. She had been prepared to use the key hidden in the guest area—most Gujaareen did not lock their doors, but Sanfi had always demanded it—but the main door came open at her try. She pushed it shut and stood listening in the entryway for a moment. There were furtive sounds from the back corridors, and down one hallway she could see a faint light. A single lantern, probably, its wick kept low by someone who hoped to avoid the notice of neighbors.
Tiaanet walked toward the light.
Her fear had returned. That had been the unfortunate side effect of the power that killed Tantufi—or perhaps it had been ’Tufi’s doing, somehow. The child’s muddled notion of a gift. And perhaps someday Tiaanet would be grateful for the return of the emotions she had lost so long ago, but not now. Not with her heart pounding in her ears, and ugly memories behind her eyes.
But was that not fitting? She stood in the doorway of the study, watching in silence as her father sorted through reedleaf papers and muttered to himself. Down all the years of their father’s torments, Tiaanet had retreated into emotionlessness, but Tantufi had had no such refuge. If Tiaanet had retained her self-loathing, she might have overcome the inertia that kept her obedient to her father’s will. Would not a good mother have somehow found the key that Sanfi used to keep her child chained? Would not a good mother have hired her own assassins?
Would not a good mother have killed Tantufi herself, if there was no other way to escape so much suffering?
Tiaanet made certain the knife was out of sight behind the door frame. “Father,” she said.
Sanfi started badly, dropping a scroll with a loud clatter and almost knocking over the lantern. When he saw her, however, the fear in his face was replaced by delight. “Tiaanet! Goddess-eyes-upon-me! What—How—Did you escape from the soldiers? I went to Yanya-iyan, I pleaded with the Protectors, but they would not hear me—”
Tiaanet looked around as she came into the room. Three of the flower troughs had been shifted aside or knocked over, exposing compartments she had not known were there. One of the compartments was open; within it she could see a small empty chest. An open satchel—she could see in it money, jewels, and scrolls bearing a property seal-knot—sat on the floor beside Sanfi. So did a familiar key on a long twine cord.
“Tantufi is dead,” she said, turning her eyes from this key to his face.
A flash of elation crossed his face before he cleared his throat and pretended discomfort. “Yes, well, your sister’s health was—”
“Daughter, Father. There’s no one else here; we need not lie to each other.” Angling her body just so, she stepped around a wooden stool, closer to him. “My daughter, and yours.”
He scowled, as he always did when reminded of his perversions. “What of your mother?”
“Still at the Hetawa. They’ll heal her, I imagine, as much as she can be healed.” She watched his frown deepen at that, watched him calculate the chance that a rational Insurret would tell the priests of her husband’s many, many crimes.
“We must leave the city,” he said finally, turning to pick up the fallen scrolls. “I have acquaintances in the upriver towns, and in Kisua, who can assist us. There may be a way to salvage our plans, if—”
Tiaanet thrust the Kisuati hunter’s knife into his back. She used both hands and an overhand swing, although the knife was sharp, because she needed to be sure of getting through his ribs.
He spun to face her, looking more puzzled than anything else. “Tiaanet?” He reached back and fumbled for the knife, then brought his hand forward, his eyes widening at the sight of his own blood. “What—You—”
She had missed the heart. Quickly, before he could recover himself, she shoved him backward with both hands. He stumbled backward, tripped over the open satchel, and fell clumsily among the chests and scrolls. While he struggled to rise, she picked up one of the metal flower troughs. It was too heavy for her to raise high, but she could carry it over to him, which she did.
“Tiaanet!” His confusion had given way to fear. He kicked back from her in a panic, forgetting all his efforts to be discreet. “Tiaanet!”
She dropped the trough. He put up an arm at the last instant, which caused it to land across his throat and chest rather than his head. He made a thick, inarticulate bubbling sound, probably as the knife was pushed deeper into his lung or some other organ, but he was still struggling to get free, albeit feebly now. Tiaanet watched for a moment, considering, and then moved to sit on the trough.
The lantern ran out of oil in the time that it took her father to die. The Dreamer’s light through the high window was a sufficient substitute, but Tiaanet found that she did not enjoy watching. She did it anyhow, because otherwise she would never be certain that he was dead. But however much she forced herself to remember the things he had done, however much her heart rang with the hate she had never dared to feel before, her vision blurred as she watched him gargle and gasp for breath. Her hands shook when she finally touched his throat to see if his heart had stopped. She stayed on the trough for an extra measure just to be sure, but finally had to get up when nausea struck.
Dead. He was dead. Dead. Dead.
After the nausea, she wept for a while.
Once she had recovered, she took the satchel and packed the remaining space with travel clothing and food. She took the key to Tantufi’s chains too, tying it ’round her neck and tucking it into the brocade of her gown. There was no thought to this gesture. She did not hope to remember her daughter by the tool used to enslave her. It simply felt right—and for Tiaanet, who had survived as long as she had by relying on reason and not emotion, by outthinking her father if not overpowering him, letting feeling guide her actions was new and somehow a relief.
On the doorstep she stopped, abruptly at a loss, for she’d thought no further than her father’s death. But as the last sliver of the Dreaming Moon vanished amid the rooftops of the city, she looked up and noticed the topmost star of the constellation called the Griever. It appeared only during the first season of a new year; already Waking Moon was creeping out of hiding to cover it. For now, however, the star shone brighter than any other, low in the western sky.
Turning to follow it, Tiaanet began to walk.
46
Prince of the Sunset
The world had changed again by the time Wanahomen opened his eyes.
“Greetings, Prince.” A familiar voice—though not an entirely welcome one. Wanahomen looked over to see the Gatherer Nijiri crouched beside him.
“Wana!” Wanahomen blinked. Ezack sat on his other side, scrambling to his feet now that he saw Wanahomen awake.
Pushing himself upright, Wanahomen found himself painfully stiff, and as weary as if he hadn’t slept at all. He rubbed his face, and only belatedly recalled that he was supposed to be injured. But there was no pain in his chest or thigh, and when he examined himself he found that the wounds had closed, leaving only bloody holes in his Banbarra robes.
“Hanani,” Nijiri said. “She healed you, even while saving you from the Wild Dreamer. How do you feel?”
“Tired,” Wanahomen replied. He could have slept for a week. “Hungry.”
“We feed you,” Ezack said in wretched Gujaareen, grinning wickedly. “Or you feed us, now you rich king.”
Wanahomen looked about. Sunlight and rainbows shone into the Hall of Blessings through the prism windows, and through the wide-open bronze doors. He lay on one of several healing benches that had been set up on the dais, at the Goddess-statue’s feet. Beyond the Gatherer and Ezack he could see many others, his own men mingling with his Gujaareen allies, and the Servants and Sisters. Iezanem was deep in conversation with a Teacher; Deti-arah had crouched
to speak to his son. There were no Kisuati soldiers present. The pallets where the sleepers had lain were gone as well.
“You sleep all night, into day,” Ezack said, sobering. “We think the fuh atat Kisuati, they poison, but priest say no. Say you busy with magic.”
“I was,” Wanahomen said, frowning. The memories were hazy, thick. If he had ever been trained to remember his dreams, perhaps he might have pulled clarity from them, but all he remembered was redness, and revulsion. And … a frightened child? Something about the Gatherers?
He looked at Gatherer Nijiri, noticing only then that the man looked as weary as he felt. And there was an odd sort of weight to the Gatherer’s mannerisms that puzzled Wanahomen for a moment—until he remembered how many people had died. Including Charris. Then he understood the Gatherer’s mood.
“You may never remember,” Nijiri said. “Even for those of us raised in the Hetawa, not all that happens in dreams can be explained by the light of day. Suffice it that the nightmare plague has ended, and Gujaareh is—at least in dreams—safe.”
The memories were like morning mist in Wanahomen’s mind, burning off as he came fully awake. He shook his head to clear it and carefully got to his feet. For a moment he was dizzy, but the sensation passed quickly.
“The sleepers went still while you and Hanani battled the Wild Dreamer,” Nijiri continued, rising with him. “They did not wake, but they stopped dying. That was how we knew something had changed. A few moments later, they began to wake. That was how we knew you had won.”
A few moments. He felt as though years had passed.
“What of the Kisuati?” he asked to distract himself, stretching to ease his stiffness.
“Gone from the city with the dawn. Those were the terms of the surrender we demanded.”
The Shadowed Sun Page 44
