“Gone from the city with the dawn. Those were the terms of the surrender we demanded.”
That woke Wanahomen up. “Surrender?”
One of the templefolk nearby, an elder who had been talking with one of the black-clad warrior-priests, turned and smiled at Wanahomen. “It was unconditional,” he said. “I’m told they abandoned Yanya-iyan in a rather unpeaceful hurry, in fact, which I suspect may have been motivated by the large crowd of angry citizens who had begun to gather at the palace gates.”
Wanahomen looked to Ezack for confirmation of this. Ezack, who had managed to follow the conversation, shrugged. “Not an arrow fired from our bows,” he said in Chakti. “Some dead, mostly when you were ambushed, but far fewer than we’d expected, in all. The wounded have already been healed, too. If you’d told us it would be this easy, we would have come to get your city back for you a long time ago.”
There was nothing easy about it, Wanahomen almost said, but of course Ezack was not Gujaareen. He would not understand.
So Wanahomen turned to the Gatherer. “This was not the war I had in mind,” he said. “Chariots and spears I was prepared to face, but dream-demons and magic?” He shook his head.
“The Goddess gives us the burdens we are each best suited to bear,” said the Gatherer. “They’re not always the burdens we expect.”
“You should have plenty of perfectly ordinary burdens now, Prince,” said the elder, who came around the bench to clap Wanahomen on the shoulder companionably, though Wanahomen had never met him before. “This may help—”
He beckoned forward two of the Hetawa’s children, each of whom carried a cloth-wrapped object. One of the objects was a long pole, by the shape of the wrapping. The other—Wanahomen caught his breath, intuiting before he saw it. The boy stopped before him and with the assistance of his fellow unwrapped the object, revealing the red-and gold-amber plates of the Aureole of the Setting Sun.
“We took it to our vaults for safekeeping when the Kisuati claimed the city,” said the elder, speaking softly as Wanahomen took reverent hold of the Aureole. He lifted it to the light, marveling at how much brighter it looked than he’d remembered. “If you like, you may borrow one of these young ones, to bear it for you as you ride to Yanya-iyan.”
To ride through the streets of the city with the Aureole behind him … Wanahomen swallowed hard past the knot in his throat and nodded mutely to the boy, who grinned and immediately began working with his companion to unwrap the staff.
“There’s much work to be done, putting Gujaareh to rights,” Wanahomen said when he could speak again. “I would appreciate the Hetawa’s aid in this. And that of the shunha and zhinha, and my Banbarra allies.”
He turned to face the people assembled on the dais, and suffered a momentary pang of nerves as he saw that their eyes were all on him, expectant. But his nerves settled very, very quickly.
“You shall of course have the Hetawa’s aid,” said the elder, whom Wanahomen finally realized must be the current Superior.
“And that of the shunha,” said Deti-arah, lifting his son in his arms so the boy could see. “I cannot speak for the zhinha, but …”
“I can,” said Iezanem, looking affronted that Deti-arah would even consider doing so. “We have already pledged our support to the Sunset Lineage. Though some details of that support must be discussed.”
She threw a meaningful glance at Wanahomen, and he inclined his head to show that he understood. He would have to share more power with the nobles than his father had done, and likely with the merchants and military too. That he did not necessarily mind—but if she thought he would tolerate becoming a mere figurehead, Wanahomen hoped she was prepared to fight another war.
Perhaps I’d better marry her; that might shut her up.
“Does this mean I’m hunt leader now?” asked Ezack in Chakti. He stretched, nonchalant.
Wanahomen stared at him, torn between amusement and amazement at his audacity. “That would be up to Unte.”
“Damn. He doesn’t like me.”
“I’ll send him a recommendation on your behalf,” Wanahomen said, “if you’ll keep the Yusir troop here and serve as my palace guard for an eightday or two. I need warriors I can trust, in case of assassins.”
Ezack brightened at once. “I’ve never killed an assassin! Will there be many?”
“Hopefully they’ll all be frightened off by so many fierce barbarian warriors.”
Ezack sighed. “I suppose we can stay for that long. Unte shouldn’t mind, since the women will be coming into the city soon to start dickering with our new trading partners. They might like having some of us nearby in case of foolishness—though frankly, your people seem so glad to see us that I can’t imagine there being much of that.” He paused, watching another zhinha pass by with a bare-breasted servant girl walking a step behind him. All the hunt men were staring at her; Wanahomen made a mental note to educate them, quickly, about Gujaareen customs. “Speaking of gladness, will there be a party?”
“Later,” said Wanahomen. He turned to the Superior, but could not help meeting the Gatherer’s eyes as he spoke. “First we mourn the dead and see to the living. All things in their proper time. That is the way of peace, is it not?”
The Gatherer nodded, silently. “So it is,” said the Superior.
“Then let us begin,” Wanahomen said.
And although no one cheered, there was a palpable shift in the mood of the Hall. Wanahomen saw elation on many faces as they turned away to resume their duties, or left to begin the long, arduous process of repairing a damaged nation. Ezack gave Wanahomen a jaunty salute and then headed down from the dais, probably to speak to the other hunt leaders. The Gatherer vanished into the crowd, as his kind did. But as the Superior turned to leave, Wanahomen put a hand on the man’s arm to forestall him.
“All things in their proper time, Superior,” he said, speaking low and stepping near. “Sharer-Apprentice Hanani; what of her?”
The Superior sobered at once. “She’s well,” he said. “She woke a few hours before you, and told us of what had transpired in the realms of dream. If you like, I can convey your farewells—”
“I’ll convey them myself, thank you.”
The Superior hesitated, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “She has spoken freely to us of Mni-inh’s death,” he said, slowly, “and of—and of other events that occurred while she was in the desert. I realize that you may have developed some, er, attachment—That your feelings—” He took a deep breath, then finally just shook his head. “We are her family, Prince. It’s best that you not see her again.”
Only his mother’s training kept Wanahomen from snapping an immediate retort at that. He would have to relearn tact, he realized regretfully; the sharp tongue that had served him so well among the Banbarra would no longer do in Gujaareh.
“If that is her decision, then of course I shall agree,” he said instead, keeping his tone respectful despite the intractability of the words. “So I’ll just see her now, to hear it from her own lips.”
The Superior looked sour, but finally sighed. “Come with me,” he said, and Wanahomen went with him into the inner Hetawa.
Several hundred bodies had been laid out on the courtyard flagstones. Nightmare victims, Kisuati and Gujaareen who had died in the uprising, Sentinels fallen in the battle for the Hetawa … and Charris. The Superior paused at a tactful distance while Wanahomen went to see his old friend, nodding a greeting to the Sister of Hananja who was wrapping the body for cremation. But the Charris he had known was long gone from that flesh, and after a moment Wanahomen moved on.
Hanani knelt amid the bodies. She had obviously been awake for some while, having taken the time to wash and change into the Hetawa garb she had worn at their first meeting—though with changes, Wanahomen noted. She had kept her hair in the loose, ornamented Banbarra style, the thick sandy curls held back from her face by a band of beaded leather. To the kohl on her eyes, which nearly every Gujaareen wore as a wa
rd against sun-blindness, she had added a soft brown lip tint that suited her coloring; and she still wore the amber anklet above her plain, functional sandals.
But the collar that draped her neck and shoulders now bore several dozen small polished rubies, rather than the carnelians she’d worn before.
Swallowing against sudden unease, Wanahomen stopped behind her and cleared his throat. For a moment he thought she had not heard him, but then she said, “The Gatherers have judged me not corrupt.”
And then, at last, he remembered. The bargain he’d made, in his desperation to coax her back to Hona-Karekh, and life. It had never occurred to him that she might seek judgment before he even woke up. Damned stubborn woman—but he was glad, more glad than he could say, that they had let her live.
“Good,” he said. “Because you weren’t.”
“So they say.” She sighed, stroking the face of the body before her. “But I have killed a full four now.”
The words confused Wanahomen utterly until he looked at the small, emaciated body she tended, and recognized its now-peaceful face.
“Mercy is not murder,” he said. “You were a blessing for that child, Hanani. Look at her; her suffering is done now. Surely that was the Goddess’s will.”
“And what does that mean?” Hanani looked up at him. She was not weeping, but the lost look in her eyes was painfully familiar, joined now by a weariness even deeper than that in his own heart. Wanahomen scowled; the Superior had said they would take care of her. Why were they leaving her here, then, to sit amid the dead—and envy them?
“Dayu’s death was an accident, but I can’t forgive myself for it,” she said. “Mni-inh, the same. Azima—that was pure corruption, no matter what the Gatherers say. So was what I did to this child, in dreaming. But what does it mean that I committed such sins and have been named a full Sharer anyhow? What does it mean that I prayed for guidance, and this was my answer?” She gestured at the Wild Dreamer’s body.
Wanahomen sighed. Here was the proof that he was no Gatherer, regardless of his so-mighty dreaming gift: no words of comfort came to his mind. And here, in the middle of the Hetawa, he could not take her into his arms and hold her as he might have done elsewhere. Not with the Hetawa’s collar ’round her neck like a leash of blood.
“I don’t feel like a Sharer anymore, Prince.” She turned back to look at the body. “I don’t know what I am, now.”
He could not bear her anguish. He was also furious with her superiors or pathbrothers, or whoever had arranged this little display, because he understood now that it had been done for him. To warn him that he lacked the skill to ease her pain. They were hurting her to drive him away.
So he squatted beside her and took her hand. “Come away from this place.”
She blinked in surprise. “What?”
“The girl is dead and it had to be done. That’s what peace requires, sometimes. Accept that or not as you please, but don’t sit here and wallow in it. Come.”
He pulled her hand until she got up, then took her with him as he headed for the Hall of Blessings. But the Superior moved neatly to intersect them, frowning at their joined hands. “My Prince, Sharer Hanani has duties—”
“Yes,” Wanahomen said, “tending the living, not the dead. I’m taking her where she’s actually needed.”
The Superior was so surprised by this that he actually fell silent for a moment. “Where?” asked Hanani.
“Every man, woman, and child in this city has just been through a battle.”
“Then let them come here,” said the Superior in a stern tone. “The acolytes and Sisters are out now, collecting those who can’t travel, and the Sentinels are dealing with those who resist returning to the ways of peace. We’ll heal those we can, and for that we need Hanani here—”
“But she does not need you.” Wanahomen heard the anger in his own voice and realized he was doing a poor job of being tactful, but he no longer cared. “What will you do? Stuff her full of dreamblood and lock her in a cell until she stops crying? That’s not what she needs!”
“You presume to know best what she needs,” said the Superior just as hotly, though he kept his voice down. “We would—”
“Enough.” Hanani spoke more softly than either of them, but the bleak disgust in her voice cut across their anger like a reprimand. “There’s no sense in this. Superior, I ask a few days’ leave. I know every Sharer is needed, but …” She shook her head. “Right now I’m no good to anyone.”
The Superior looked taken aback. “Well, that’s—improper, but—I, I suppose it’s a reasonable request, and yet—”
“Thank you,” Hanani said, cutting him off with breathtaking rudeness. Pulling her hand from Wanahomen’s, she walked away from them toward the Hall of Blessings. Just as taken aback, Wanahomen found himself exchanging a confused look with the Superior.
But at the door to the Hall, Hanani stopped and looked back at them. “Prince?”
Unable to resist a smirk of triumph, Wanahomen gave the Superior a barely civil nod and hurried after her.
He rode to Yanya-iyan with the Aureole carried on a horse behind him, and Hanani seated before him on his own mount. Had Charris and Hendet been present, no doubt they would have disapproved of the latter. Not only had he made it blindingly obvious to all the city that Hanani was his lover—gods knew how the Hetawa would react when they heard of it—but in showing favor to her, he damaged himself. Every noble and wealthy family in the city would be angling for political alliances now that he had returned. His choice of firstwife in particular could strengthen his still-fragile rule. He had no more illusions about Tiaanet. But what other high-ranking, well-connected woman would willingly become firstwife to a man who so plainly already had a favorite?
As they traveled the avenues of the city with his army and allies in tow—Wanahomen nodding to the crowds that formed to cheer and weep at his passing—Hanani seemed not to care about propriety for once. She rested against him as they rode, her head on his shoulder, her eyes open but lost in some inner turmoil. He could not have said whether she took any actual comfort from his nearness.
At Yanya-iyan, the faces of the servants and staff bore welcome—and a surprising amount of familiarity from the days of his youth. It seemed the Kisuati had not been foolish enough to interfere with such competent and efficient function. Thus Wanahomen felt safe in turning Hanani over to their care, ordering them to treat her as they would one of his wives. It troubled him, though, that she did not look back as she went away with them.
He spent the next hours holding meetings to secure the city and set in place the nascent structures of his rule. It was necessary but trying work, and Dreaming Moon had shown her full four-banded face by the time he finally retired to the apartments that he would think of as his father’s for many months more. There the servants bathed and perfumed him, took apart his ragged braids and rewove them rope-fashion, took away his Banbarra clothes and dressed him in a golden torque and a loinskirt of such soft cloth that he barely felt it on his skin.
It was in this state—feeling naked and alien to himself, weary and incomprehensibly lonely—that he went to Hanani.
She lay curled amid the pillows of his great round bed. The servants had tended her as well, replacing her Banbarra headband with a diadem of gold and tigereye, and dressing her in a pleated linen gown that clung to her curves and was far, far too sheer for a woman of her pale coloring. The sight of a fully dressed woman had never aroused him so powerfully.
But he restrained his desires as he came to the bed, for he knew with a warrior’s instinct that to move too clumsily now would mean losing her. And suddenly keeping her was powerfully, desperately important to him.
So he lay down beside her and waited. As he had hoped, Hanani turned to face him. He noticed only then that she still wore the ruby Sharer’s collar.
“Congratulations,” he said, jerking his chin toward the thing. It was a more graceless and stiff gesture than he should have made, bu
t he thought it foolish to pretend what he did not feel.
She nodded slowly. “Mni-inh-brother would be proud.” She reached up to touch his fresh-woven hair. “As your father would be, of you.”
He could not resist; he caught her hand and kissed the open palm, then rubbed her arm to assuage some of his longing. To his great pleasure, some of the melancholy left her eyes. It returned quickly, however.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “The Hetawa … I sat today in the Sharers’ Hall, in the Hall of Blessings, and felt like an interloper. I’ve spent most of my life there, but it’s no longer home to me.”
He forced himself to say, “That feeling might pass with time.”
“No. I don’t think it will.” She swallowed hard, clearly struggling for words. “I still love the Goddess. I think I could love healing again, in time. But to go back to that life … I no longer have the strength, Prince. Not after all I’ve lost. Not—not knowing what else I might have instead.”
And Wanahomen privately rejoiced when her eyes met his, for just a breath, before she looked away.
But oh, softly, softly. He wanted so much from her, and things between them were fragile still.
“Stay here and decide,” he said. “A fourday, an eightday, a season, a year. However long you need. Spend every day praying in the garden, if it pleases you.” And every night with me. “You’ll have no troubles here.”
She frowned. “I won’t presume upon your hospitality—”
He touched her lips to silence her, as she had once done him. “As you have reminded me, we aren’t Banbarra,” he said. “And Gujaareh is Kisuati-free. Now we may behave again like civilized people, and be kind to each other without compensation or cause.”
She smiled back, shyly, though again the smile faded. It troubled him that her happiness was so fragile. She nuzzled his hand and pressed closer to him, seeking greater comfort. He pulled her into his arms, savoring the warm scent of her, and would have been content to lie that way all night. But she lifted her face and sought his mouth, and her tongue tasted sweet with desire.
The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2 Page 45
