Hanani’s voice gave out sometime after the twentieth or thirtieth cry. She sobbed then, helpless and anguished—and angry too, for now and again she made a fist of one hand and pounded him with it. Resigning himself to bruises and a damp tunic, he finally lifted her and moved them both to the cushions, lying down and arranging her so that she could spend the rest of the night crying on him if she needed to. He’d realized after the first unleashing that there was more to this than grief over Mni-inh’s death. Perhaps she cried for other losses, or perhaps she simply sought to vent feelings suppressed for all her Hetawa-bound life. Regardless, he found himself rubbing her back and murmuring vague reassurances—“Shh, shh, you’re not alone, don’t worry”—which seemed to soothe her.
And perhaps, given his new understanding of his father, and his fears of the coming battle, he soothed himself a little as well.
Gradually she quieted. Wanahomen dozed at one point, waking when instinct prompted him. Hours had passed, though the sounds of the celebration outside hadn’t dimmed at all. The Banbarra could and would revel all night when sufficiently motivated. The lantern had gone out, but there was plenty of the Dreamer’s light coming through the tent’s smokehole. He guessed it was midnight or thereabouts.
Turning his head, he saw that Hanani was awake, her head pillowed on his chest, her eyes open and dry but lost in thought. One hand was still fisted on the cloth of his tunic. It made her look very young.
“Feeling any better?” he asked.
She drew in a deep breath, her eyes still gazing into the distance. “Tired,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse.
“You should rest, then.”
Her brow furrowed; she lifted her head and looked up at him. He suppressed a grimace as the movement of her head exposed a wide wet area on his tunic. “Do you have to leave?”
“No.” He smiled ruefully. “In fact, after accepting your invitation I’m supposed to stay all night, or until you tire of me. Are you tired of me?”
She ducked her eyes and smiled. It was a weak, barely noticeable thing as smiles went, but he was relieved almost to tears to see it. It was the first normal thing she’d done in days. “No. But then, we’ve done nothing that would tire either of us.” Her shoulders tensed again, the beginning of unease.
She should have been exhausted after that storm of grief, but he decided not to point this out to her. He did address the unease, however. “The Banbarra will think all sorts of things, but we know the truth.” He shrugged. “As long as word of tonight doesn’t get back to the Hetawa, there’s no problem. Let me up for a moment.”
She seemed surprised that she still had tight hold of his tunic, but she let him go. He sat up and pulled off his tunic and the undershirt, and laid them on the rug to dry. Then, spying an uneaten meal at the side of the tent, he got up and checked the flask: cold tea. There was only one cup, but he brought that over and filled it, offering it to her. She gave him a weary nod of thanks and drained it. After she’d drunk a second cup, she gave it back and he poured the last of the tea for himself. Then he lay back down, holding his arm out so that she could curl against his side again.
She hesitated, apparently shy of his bare chest. “Skin dries faster than cloth,” he explained. “That way you can weep on me to your heart’s content.”
That earned him another tired smile. The tiredness won out; she lay back down, her hair tickling his shoulder, her hand resting lightly on his belly. He sighed, pulling a nearby blanket over them both against the night’s cool, and enjoying the contact. He’d always preferred it when women took pleasure in him for more than just the one thing.
The silence stretched out, punctuated by the distant beat of a drum and a dozen voices singing a raucous song. Wanahomen had begun to drift again when Hanani’s voice pulled him back. The tea had done her good: she was not so hoarse now.
“I don’t care,” she said. “Whether word gets back to the Hetawa.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed her back, wishing she would sleep. “It would make things awkward for you when you return. Me as well.”
“I’ll tell them that I made you come to me. They can’t fault you for that. And I’m the one they would blame anyhow. You never made an oath to Hananja.” Her hand on his belly tightened; he hoped she didn’t hit him again. “But I don’t care what they think anymore.”
She would, of course, when her grief over Mni-inh’s death had faded and she had the wherewithal to consider her future again. He would ask Yanassa to help control the rumors that constantly ran rampant through the tribe, to lessen the chance that word might reach the ears of Hanani’s superiors.
“Sleep,” he said firmly. “No lessons this time, and no magic. We both need rest.”
She nodded and fell silent, and eventually Wanahomen slept.
The city again, in color this time. This was Ina-Karekh, true dreaming, and not the mirror of his soul that was the realm between. Yet for some reason he seemed to have been drawn to the shadowlands. The sky was a charnel pit of tumbling, scattered clouds flecked with lightning. Wanahomen stood on the steps of the Hetawa, and in its doorway stood a shadowed, swaying form.
“Father,” Wanahomen said. He inclined his head in greeting.
The shadowed form said nothing, and did not move beyond its unsteady shift from side to side. Wanahomen looked down at himself, but saw none of the creeping foulness of before. The damage had been repaired.
“My son, my heir,” said the shadowed figure in its clotted voice. “My reborn soul.”
“No,” Wanahomen said, frowning. “Your son, your heir if Hananja wills it, but my soul is my own, Father. As is my future.”
There was silence for a moment. He thought he sensed surprise from the thing in the doorway. Then teeth gleamed from the dimness, whether in a snarl or a smile he could not tell.
“Niim.” The voice had changed. It was less sibilant all of a sudden, more human and real. “Strength devours strength in the realms of dream, Niim. Hate and fear grow ever stronger. But compassion … She has had so little of that. And trust? Love? Against these she has no power.”
“Who?” Startled by the dream’s change, Wanahomen climbed one step, another. “Who, Father? Hanani? Yanassa?” Those names did not feel right. “Tiaanet?” Closer, though more troubling. “Do you warn me against the woman I want as my queen?”
Another gleam of teeth; definitely a smile now, and a real one. This was his father. He felt it with every instinct he possessed: not a phantasm, not a distorted memory, but truly the soul of Eninket, damned to the shadowlands for his cruelty and greed. The Hetawa had declared Eninket mad, and he had been, in waking. But somehow, in this realm, it seemed he had found some measure of peace.
And it was as a whole, healed man that Eninket said, “Be well, my son. Be a better man than I.”
“Father!” Wanahomen lunged up the steps, no longer caring what horror waited for him in the shadows. “Father, no, wait—”
But the city faded, and the silence between dreams was his only reply.
35
Comfort
Hanani waited in a dream of the Hetawa’s Hall of Blessings. After a long while—the time meant nothing, it was a dream, but she marked it anyhow out of waking habit—the shimmering shadows near the donation alcoves stirred, and Gatherer Nijiri stepped forth.
“Hanani?” He frowned. “Where is Mni-inh?”
She got to her feet, came down from the dais, and bowed low over both hands. “Dead, Gatherer.”
She heard rather than saw Nijiri’s soft intake of breath. He said nothing, but the Hall reverberated, just a little, with his shock. Since she’d expected this—he had loved Mni-inh too—it was an easy matter for her to hold the dream steady, balancing its structure against his surge of anguish.
“The nightmare plague,” she explained. “A woman of the Shadoun brought it into the Banbarra camp. We didn’t know. Mni-inh-brother tried to heal her.”
Nijiri let out a sigh that was half moan, and turned
away to rest his hands against the nightstone statue of the Goddess. In waking this was never permitted, but in dreams there were no rules. When Hanani looked up, she saw him leaning against the statue as if he needed the support to stand; his head hung out of sight. She sat down on the edge of the dais to wait.
“Even in the desert!” he breathed, then let loose another great sigh. “Mni-inh was all I had left for friends in the Hetawa beyond my pathbrothers. This plague is an abomination worse than the Reaper. Indethe etun’a Hananja, let him walk in Your peace until dreaming ends.”
Hanani remained silent, allowing him time for grief, as was proper. When he finally turned, however, his expression was stricken; he came to her and crouched, taking her hands at once. “Forgive me, Hanani. I think first of my own pain and forget yours. Let me give you peace—”
She got to her feet and stepped back from his touch as politely as she could. “I will find my own, Gatherer. Thank you. The P—The Banbarra, they are very kind. They’re helping me.”
He looked surprised, but nodded. “Was the plague spread to others before …”
“No. Mni-inh-brother’s death ended it.”
“Such a terrible thing to be thankful for.” He fell silent for a moment, and the air felt heavy with his sorrow. Then he shook his head. “But I have little time. Share this with the Prince: the city is as ready as we could make it. If he attacks soon, the people will fight at his side. They’re angry enough to fight without him, really, but we hope they’ll hold ’til the right time.”
She nodded. “I shall pass the message, Gatherer. I believe the Prince’s plans culminate in the next few days.”
“Good. The Sentinels have made agreements with some of the military caste—those few of the Sunset Guard who managed to escape the purges, officers of the former army, a few mercenary companies persuaded to return and fight for free. They have a series of sabotages to implement as soon as the Prince’s force begins its assault. This should disrupt the Kisuati’s defenses and prevent them from regrouping as effectively. Beyond that, it’s up to him.”
“Yes, Gatherer.”
He paused, then, and looked hard at her. She had chosen to appear in the Banbarra clothes that Yanassa had given her, rather than her red drapes. His Gatherer eyes no doubt recognized other, more subtle changes. “Are you truly well, Hanani?”
She had expected this too, but that made it no easier to endure. “I’m better than I was, Gatherer, and I believe I’ll be better still with time. But—” She hesitated, then spoke what was in her heart, since he had already sensed it. “But I don’t know if I can ever again be well. Mni-inh, he and Dayuhotem—” She bowed her head. “I know we’re to love all our brothers, but there was no one in the Hetawa who meant more to me than the two of them. Without them I am a river barge set adrift with no steering pole, headed for the yawning sea.”
His expression was more compassionate than she had ever seen it. “I understand,” he said, very softly. She believed that he truly did. “I have no comfort to offer, unfortunately. Dreamblood is only cautery; it can ease pain for a time, when the wound is fresh and most in danger of festering. Beyond that, it’s best if the soul heals itself—” He caught himself. “But you are the healer here.”
“Only of the flesh,” she said. “You Gatherers have always taken care of the soul.”
He gave her a smile so gentle and kind that she wondered how she had ever thought him cold. “There’s more overlap than you think, Apprentice. Your mentor taught me that.”
Before she could speak again, he paused and abruptly looked away, frowning. “I must go. My dreamer is waking.” Like all Gatherers, he could not dream on his own. He must have come to her through the dreams of some acolyte or apprentice at the Hetawa, or perhaps a fellow Servant of some other path. It was odd, however, that he had not simply put his jungissa on the dreamer to hold that person asleep.
“Be well, Hanani,” he said, stepping back. “Dayu and Mni-inh were not your only friends in the Hetawa, no matter how you might feel. You aren’t alone.” Then, holding up a hand in farewell, he vanished.
Hanani opened her eyes in the dimness of the tent. She couldn’t tell the hour, but the sounds of the celebration outside had faded. There was still plenty of activity in the camp, but the music was softer and slower now. She could hear no children running or shouting, which meant that it was at least past their bedtimes.
Beside her—her head still rested on his shoulder—Wanahomen slept, his eyes flickering beneath their lids. She wondered what Gatherer Nijiri would have made of her decision to train him. Had Mni-inh told him about that? Knowing Mni-inh, she doubted it. For that matter, she wondered what Nijiri would have made of Wanahomen in her bed, however innocently. She would not be the first in the Hetawa to endure embarrassing rumors. There was Gatherer Nijiri himself, and Sentinel Renamhut was said to have a woman and daughter in the artisans’ district, and Teacher Ide was known to have a taste for shunha-dark apprentices. In fact, to judge by the rumors, quite a few of the Hetawa’s acolytes and priests carried on secret affairs, though much of that was probably exaggeration. Hanani had never understood why Mni-inh took such care to keep his distance from her when half the Hetawa suspected them anyhow, and the rest had their own secrets to hide.
She sighed, contemplating the weight of Wanahomen’s arm against her back. Gatherer Nijiri would have understood, she decided. Wanahomen was not a Gatherer himself, and he had no dreamblood to give her, but he had a Gatherer’s gift for sensing when comfort was needed. She would have broken if not for him. Mni-inh: she closed her eyes, allowing the pain to wash over her for a moment. It was as if someone had reached inside her and hollowed out her soul. The edges of the empty place were raw, shaped to fit him; nothing would ever fill it. Still, Wanahomen’s presence eased the ache.
Restless from her own thoughts, she shifted to get more comfortable. Her hand, on his belly, caught on a line of roughness; a scar. Puzzled—the belly-wound she’d healed should have left no scar—she traced the roughness and realized it was a different injury. This one was not as long, but the thickness and shape of the scar was troubling, as was its location just under his rib cage. It had been deep, this wound, and it had healed badly, reopening at least once.
“It was a serrated knife,” Wanahomen said.
He’d spoken softly, but Hanani still started in surprise. She felt his hand rub her back, soothing, which almost made her jump again. She had noticed that the Banbarra constantly touched one another in ways that Gujaareen did not: casual linking of the arms, nudges, affectionate caresses for children or even animals. Wanahomen had been among them long enough that he must have picked up some of their habits. She found his easy, careless touches exotic and disturbing.
Then she focused on his words. “A serrated knife? Why would anyone use such a thing on a man?”
“To cause pain, I assume. Probably encourages festering, too. I almost died from the fever alone.” His voice was heavy with sleep; in the Moonlight she could see that he had not opened his eyes. “It’s a foolish sort of thing to use in battle—too likely to catch on something at the wrong moment. But the man who used it on me was no warrior. Just a coward, corrupt as any other slaver.”
Hanani shook her head, privately amazed that he had survived at all without a Sharer’s aid. “You were a slave?”
He nodded and yawned, coming more awake. “For a brief time, I and my mother and Charris. We were captured fleeing the city by Damlushi traders, who had camped out along the northgoing trails like vultures to take any Gujaareen they could because they knew our army was busy elsewhere. Apparently Gujaareen are known to make good slaves—healthy, educated, nonviolent.” Wanahomen’s lip curled. “And though we’d taken the last of the Sunset Guard with us, we were overwhelmed. They’d hoped to get riches from us too.”
Hanani frowned and looked down at his wrists. She had noticed marks there before, though they were faint. The remnants of scars. “They chained you.”
He nodded again, opening his eyes at last. “They were taking us south, afraid to sell Gujaareen so close to home. In the south we might have been separated, and it would have been much harder to escape or buy our way free. So I challenged the head of the caravan to some game. I don’t remember what. If I won, he had to sell us hereabouts. I won, but he was a poor loser. As they made us ready for the sale, he knifed me and bound the wound so that it wouldn’t show. I had to pretend I felt nothing, and look healthy, or no one would buy me.”
Hanani caught her breath. Such an act was indeed corrupt—but then, out here beyond the Gatherers’ reach, corrupt souls seemed plentiful as ants. “And the Banbarra bought you?”
“Mmm-hmm. Unte’s firstwife, Widanu. She was furious when she found out about my wound. My mother saved us then, because I was already coming down sick with wound-fever and Widanu would have killed me to put me out of my misery. Mother bargained with Widanu for my life, offering all the jewels she’d brought out of Gujaareh; we had hidden them in a cave in the foothills before the Damlushi took us. That established her as a woman of value in the eyes of the Banbarra, and gave me value too as her son, so we were set free. Charris … Well. Widanu had to bring back something. But as soon as Mother had built our wealth enough—she’s always been shrewd—we bought him back. He won’t let us free him because having a slave adds to our clan’s prestige. Stubborn old man.”
Hanani absorbed this, tracing the scar again with her fingers for the simple novelty of the thing; she had not seen many scars. Magic left no marks. Then her eyes picked out another blemish on his skin—a little divot the size of a glass coin, carved from the flesh just beneath his collarbone. She sat up, curious, and then noticed two other marks: one just above his hipbone, and another perilously near his heart. If all of them had stories like the first, she understood better why there was so little peace in him.
The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2 Page 32
