The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2

by N. K. Jemisin

  “She’s been weak for several months,” Yanassa said for Hanani’s benefit. “But with this fever, her mother had begun to fear she would die. The clan has only the one girl-child to inherit the an-sherrat.”

  Hanani got to her feet and brushed her skirts straight, nodding to the teary-eyed mother who babbled thanks at her. “All thanks to the Goddess,” she said. “I’ve cured the fever, but the underlying problem remains. Please tell them that the child must take care to eat certain foods or she may weaken again, especially now that her fertile cycles have begun. Meat would be best, but …” She glanced around the tent. It was one of the poorest she had seen among the Banbarra camp, patched and old and containing few of the trinkets and decorations most Banbarra women seemed to collect. “If the family cannot afford meat, then there are other foods that should serve as well. If I tell you the Gujaareen names, will you know them?”

  “If I don’t, I’ll find out,” Yanassa replied. She got to her feet as well, then followed Hanani out of the tent. “Too many children die needlessly in this tribe. Will it help if all the tribe eats these foods?”

  “It would help anyone, but especially the young and women of childbearing age, yes.”

  “Then I must tell Unte, and in the spring trading we’ll make certain to collect stores of those foods.” Glancing sidelong at Hanani, she smiled. “Once again you have given value to the tribe. If you stay with us much longer, we’ll have to send you home with a horse or two!”

  Hanani said nothing. Two days had passed since the first solstice celebration; one since Azima’s quiet, unlamented burial. Even the Dzikeh had not attended the interment—by Tajedd’s order, since Azima had shamed their tribe. The slaves had seen to the matter, and besides them, only Hanani had stood at graveside to whisper prayers in a language Azima would not have understood, offered to a goddess he probably scorned.

  Since then she had devoted herself to duty to distract her thoughts from that terrible night. Yanassa had helped her find those members of the tribe who suffered from illness or injury, and with the Banbarra woman’s help she had coaxed most of them to accept her magic. With Hendet’s advice in mind, she had accepted the gifts and services they offered in return, but she knew the truth. She had not performed the healings for their sake.

  “Are you still troubled by it, little mouse?” Hanani felt Yanassa’s gaze on her face. When Hanani did not reply, Yanassa sighed. “I may never understand the gentle hearts of you city folk. To mourn a man who did you such an insult …” She shook her head. “Do you mourn the enemies you kill in war too?”

  “Yes.”

  Yanassa stared. “I was joking.”

  “I was not. Murder, violence, causes corruption unless done with the purest of intentions. That’s why my people kill only for mercy, and never in anger. It’s why we consider war anathema … or we did once.” But the world had changed in so many ways.

  Mni-inh came toward them from the far end of the encampment, nodding to Yanassa with cool courtesy before falling in to walk with them. He gave Hanani a measuring look, then brushed his hand against hers. “Your reserves are low.”

  “I have enough left for minor injuries and illnesses.”

  “We’re here for a war, Hanani. You must be ready for more than that. Come; I’m going to see Unte right now. We might as well both ask.”

  Yanassa gave them a curious look. “Ask?”

  “For dream-humors,” Hanani said. She had half hoped to do without them, working what small magic she could out of her remaining reserves and her own dream-generated energy. Then she would have no further ability to perform higher narcomancy. Then she would no longer be able to kill.

  Mni-inh nodded, throwing Hanani a disapproving scowl. “My apprentice seems to have forgotten that the Goddess Hananja—She Whose dreams encompass the afterlife—gives us the gift of magic to serve others. Our own dreams are not enough, however; we must ask your people for donations.”

  “Donations … of dreams?” Yanassa considered this and sighed. “We like Gujaareh’s gods as well as any other land’s, but yours in particular seem uncommonly pushy. Does it hurt, this donation?”

  “No,” said Mni-inh, “and it does no harm except when one takes dreamblood; only Gatherers are sanctioned to collect that. Though I suppose if we find volunteers, we could siphon off a tiny amount from each. That should be safe enough.”

  Azima would have had more dreamblood than we needed if he had died in peace, Hanani could not help thinking, but she did not voice the thought.

  “Dreamseed will be a problem too,” Mni-inh went on, musing to himself. “Given these people’s feelings about sexuality, I’m not certain of the appropriate way to ask for donations of that. And I’m no Sister; I haven’t a clue how to actually—well.” His face flushed red. “But we’ll definitely need that humor too.”

  Yanassa shook her head, uncomprehending. “Well, whatever you need, Unte will provide. I understand now why your people offered you in trade: this magic of yours is a great treasure.” She slowed as they reached Unte’s tent. To Hanani, pointedly, she said, “I’ll come to check on you later tonight.” Then she bowed and headed away.

  Mni-inh gazed after Yanassa for a moment. “You’ve won a friend, it seems.”

  “Yes.” The Banbarra admired swift, efficient killers.

  The interior of Unte’s tent was cooler than the heat outside, but smoky thanks to the long wooden pipe smoldering on a plinth near Unte. Unte, his face-veil and headcloth laid aside—he was bald as an egg, she saw for the first time—smiled as they came in and beckoned them over to the low table that Hanani had seen before. And as before, Wanahomen was there, though this time he sat upright and solemn on a cushion near the table. His veil was off as well; he did not look at them as they came in. Hanani had no great urge to look at him either.

  “Everywhere I go, my people exclaim of your magic,” Unte said, gesturing them toward empty cushions on either side of the table. Hanani waited for Mni-inh to choose a seat, but he beckoned for her to sit down first, and she recalled that this was Banbarra custom. Awkwardly, fighting the feeling of wrongness, she sat down beside Unte. Mni-inh took the remaining seat next to Wanahomen.

  “That is why we’re here, Lord Unte,” said Mni-inh.

  “Lord! These city folk have pretty manners, don’t they?” Unte looked at Wanahomen and smiled. “I haven’t been called that since you first arrived.”

  Wanahomen managed a faint smile, but it went nowhere near his eyes. “In my land, it’s considered politeness.”

  “Hmph. The day my people need a fancy title to know their leader is the day I ride off into the desert to meet Father Sun.” Unte laid out small cups and poured tea for each of them, not bothering to ask whether they wanted it. Hanani, following Mni-inh’s lead, picked up her cup and sipped it carefully. To her surprise the liquid was cool rather than hot, spicy and richly sweet.

  Mni-inh raised his eyebrows in appreciation as he also sipped the tea, though he set it down. “May that day not come for many years,” he said. “If you like, one of us can check your health, and perhaps stave it off a little longer. But for that and any other healing, we require your assistance.”

  “Oh?”

  Mni-inh glanced at Hanani. They had discussed this; among the Banbarra it was improper for a woman to stay silent, even if that woman was a lowly apprentice trying to show respect for her master. Even if that woman had no particular desire to speak in the first place. So Hanani took a deep breath and set her tea aside.

  “Our power comes from dreams, L—” She winced. “Unte. In the city, in the Hetawa, we take dreams from others who come to offer them to our Goddess in tithe. But here we have no tithebearers, and soon we will run out of magic.”

  Unte sat back, surprised. “I didn’t know you could run out. Is it dangerous to, er, offer these dreams?”

  Hanani started to shake her head no, then remembered Dayuhotem. “Not ordinarily. It’s painless, taking no more than a few breaths.”
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  Unte glanced at Wanahomen. “You’ve heard of this?”

  Wanahomen nodded and looked at each of them for the first time since they had come in. Hanani could not read his eyes; he kept his expression carefully neutral as he faced her. “In Gujaareh’s capital, all citizens are expected to make regular tithes, though I have never done it myself.” To Unte, he added, “Charris and I are more familiar with this than anyone else in the tribe. With your permission, I’ll arrange volunteers before we leave.”

  “Leave?” Mni-inh asked.

  Wanahomen threw him a guarded look. “With so many visitors expected in the next few days, it would be easy for spies of the Shadoun, or some other of our enemies, to breach our borders and perhaps even launch a sneak attack on the canyon. I and part of my hunt-troop are going to patrol the heights for the remainder of the solstice.” He gestured vaguely toward the walls of the canyon.

  “Ah.” To Hanani’s surprise, Mni-inh’s face assumed a coldness that she had rarely seen in him. “This is punishment for your role in that man’s death.”

  A painful silence fell for several breaths. Wanahomen’s eyes turned even colder and his lips pressed tightly together, but he said nothing. It was Unte, after taking a long sip of tea, who finally answered.

  “Wanahomen has done no wrong in the eyes of my people,” he said. “Azima was unfit to be the Dzikeh hunt leader, as he proved when he attacked your daughter-of-the-soul. That’s no fault of Wana’s.” He set the cup down and looked at Hanani. “Still, I’m aware that you have been harmed in the process, maiden of Gujaareh. It is the duty of the Yusir-Banbarra to console you in the wake of your injury. Thus I’ve decided to send Wanahomen away for a time so that his presence will cease to offend you.”

  “His presence doesn’t offend me,” Hanani said.

  They all looked at her in surprise—even Wanahomen.

  “Hanani.” Mni-inh reached over to take her hand, concerned. “You don’t realize what he did.”

  She looked at his hand, then his face, wondering if he realized just how much his words—and their implication that she was too stupid to know any better—hurt. He did not realize, she saw at once; that caused the hurt to recede a little. But not completely.

  “I know exactly what he did, Mni-inh-brother,” she said, earning another look of incredulity from him. “I know he manipulated that man into attacking me, though I don’t know or care why. But to gain and keep power has always required a degree of corruption, which the Hetawa permits so long as our leaders keep the greater good of our people in mind.” She looked at Wanahomen. “Was Gujaareh’s good in your mind, Prince?”

  He did not answer for a long moment, and when he did there was an odd intensity to his words. She could not tell if he was angry, frightened, or overwhelmed with some other great emotion, but his voice wavered as he said, “In my mind and heart and soul, Sharer-Apprentice. Every part of my life serves that purpose.”

  Hanani inclined her head. “Then I must accept that what you did was Hananja’s will.”

  Which was the only reason she had not yet offered her own dreamblood to Mni-inh.

  Unte seemed truly taken aback, but then he shook his head and sighed. “Nevertheless, the patrol should be done. It’s Wanahomen’s duty to guard the tribe.”

  Wanahomen made a curt bow at the waist. “My duty and pleasure, Unte.” When he straightened, however, he continued to frown at Hanani.

  “So, so, and so.” Unte picked up his teacup and drained it. “Wanahomen, you may leave to make whatever preparations you require. And you, my Gujaareen friends—was that your only request of me?”

  “Yes,” Mni-inh replied. Then he hesitated and added, “For now.”

  Unte laughed. “You learn at last, city man.” He gave them a flourishing gesture that seemed part salute and part farewell, and picked up the still-smoldering pipe. “Return whenever you like. Or feel free to stay and enjoy the sun-hour rest with me.”

  As in Gujaareh, the Banbarra dealt with the hottest part of the afternoon by sleeping through it. “Thank you, but no,” Mni-inh said, getting to his feet. “Our best time to work is when others sleep.”

  “Ah, yes. So then, rest—and work—well.”

  They filed out of the tent, Wanahomen coming last to make sure the flap was closed properly. When he straightened from that he faced them. “You may take whatever dream-humors you need from myself and Charris,” he said. “I can also ask my mother if she is willing to tithe. Will that suffice?”

  “Your mother cannot,” Mni-inh said. “Her body is still healing. And Charris must volunteer himself, for Hananja will not accept unwilling offerings.”

  “I think he’ll say yes; he has always been devout. But I’ll summon him so you can ask.”

  Mni-inh nodded. “As for you—Well, you understand the dangers. Are you willing in spite of that?”

  Wanahomen gave them a blank look. “Dangers?”

  Mni-inh’s eyes widened. He looked over at Hanani and she stared back, needing no narcomancy to share his shock. How could Wanahomen not know the dangers? Unless he had never been warned of the problem in the first place.

  “Explain these dangers,” Wanahomen said. He had caught their exchanged glance; his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You mentioned no dangers with regard to Charris.”

  Mni-inh only shook his head, muttering to himself in wonder. It was left to Hanani to explain as Wanahomen looked at her. “You should never tithe,” she said.

  His frown deepened. “Explain, woman.”

  “It would be dangerous. Your dreaming gift is powerful. Even the slightest imbalance in your humors could send it spiraling out of control. Without dreamblood to keep you tethered to yourself, you would go mad.”

  The Prince flinched, his face working from horror through confusion to rage as he stared at her. After a long moment he said, “Dreaming gift.” It was a question.

  “Your father must have known,” Mni-inh said. He was smiling, but there was a cold, angry edge to it that Hanani found quite alarming. “You said you’d never tithed. All the Prince’s other dozens of children gave tithes whenever they were in the city, yet somehow there was no time to bring you?” He uttered a contemptuous sigh. “Ah, but the Hetawa was corrupt in those days. It would only have taken a bribe to the right person to keep his precious heir’s secret.”

  Wanahomen’s fists had clenched at his sides, his body rigid. “What in nightmares are you talking about?”

  Hanani interjected quickly, before Mni-inh could say anything else.

  “In some people, the ability to dream is too strong to stay within their minds, or to come only during sleep,” she said to Wanahomen. “Their dreams are more vivid, their minds able to navigate between Ina-Karekh and Hona-Karekh as if dreaming and waking were one. We consider that level of strength to be a gift from the Goddess. Those who possess it are usually claimed by the Hetawa.”

  His eyes filled with such horror that Hanani inadvertently drew back. Why was he so upset? Unnerved, she ventured, “It’s a great honor to possess a gift as powerful as yours. If you had been found and trained young enough, you could have become a Sharer too, or a Gatherer. Perhaps you could even have served alongside the Gatherer Ehiru, your uncle …”

  Though she trailed off as she realized what that would have meant. Wanahomen was of the same age as Gatherer Nijiri, or close. Had he been claimed by the Hetawa as he should have been, he rather than Nijiri might’ve been the one to help slay his father.

  She put her hand to her mouth, at last understanding the terrible realization in his face. But before she could think of some way to rectify her error, he pressed his lips together and walked away.

  “Prince—” Hanani moved after him, but stopped as Mni-inh caught her arm.

  “Let him go.”

  “Brother!”

  “Let him go, I said.” Mni-inh watched as the Prince’s indigo-clad form disappeared amid the tents. “He’s just learned he belongs among the very people he’s hated his who
le life. That won’t be easy for him.”

  “You’ve made it no easier!”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Mni-inh. There was no apology or guilt in his expression. “And neither should you, after what he did to you. You’re too gentle, Hanani.”

  It was the second time he had spoken to her as if she were a fool. And though it was improper and unpeaceful of her to feel anger at his words—or to show it if she felt it—she felt it so fiercely in that moment that she jerked her arm roughly out of his grip.

  “I had better be gentle, hadn’t I, Brother?” He stared at her, taken aback by her vehemence; she took a step closer and had enough presence of mind to drop her voice to a heated whisper. “Does anger give you comfort? I assure you, it’s not so easy for me. Someone else might die the next time I lose my temper. Better I should pray for more gentleness, don’t you think?”

  “Hanani—” he blurted, and then faltered silent. Before he could say anything else, Hanani did as the Prince had done, and walked away.

  24

  Legacy

  “Yes,” said Hendet. “Your father knew, and so did I.”

  Wanahomen closed his eyes. You could have become a Gatherer, the Sharer had said. Like Ehiru, who had slain his father. Like Una-une, the mindless soul-eating Reaper.

  He’d woken Hendet out of a sun-hour nap to demand this truth from her. “Why?” He whispered the word. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “The gift runs in the male lineage,” she said. Her voice was flat and cool, but he knew her. She was afraid. “You’ve heard the tale of Mahanasset the First Prince many times, Wanahomen; have you never understood its message? He was the first to know the marvel of dreamblood, because without it he couldn’t tell reality from the visions that plagued him—”

  “And that is what I can expect for myself? Madness?” Wanahomen leaped to his feet. “Demons and shadows, is that what you’re saying to me?”

  “Sit down!” Her voice snapped like a whip. He opened his mouth to protest and she glared him silent. “Sit, fool boy, and listen to me.”