The Killing Moon (Dreamblood) (12 page)

The Prince lifted the stone in front of himself as if to ward off whatever lurked in the shadows. “I’ve brought you something, Brother,” the Prince said, keeping his voice soft. “This
one is corrupt too. But you must finish him quickly, for tonight you have another task to complete. Do you understand?”

“Corrupt…” There was a shuffle from the dark, followed by a soft step. Niyes made out the figure of a man rising slowly from a crouch.

Escape was impossible. Even if he made it out of the room, Charris’s soldiers would take him down at one word from the Prince. Heart pounding, Niyes drew his dagger.

“It’s better if you don’t fight,” the Prince said. He kept his voice gentle, soothing, though his eyes marked Niyes’s dagger. “He has enough control left to do it properly, if you don’t agitate him.”

Niyes smiled grimly. “I am also military-caste, my lord.”

“So you are.” The Prince sighed, then turned back to the door. “I’ll tell your family that you died bravely, protecting me from an assassin. They’ll not be harmed.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Farewell, Niyes. I’m sorry.”

“So am I, my lord.”

The Prince left. After a moment, the Reaper came.

A leaf had fallen into the fountain. The patter of water against its surface sounded like rain. Ehiru closed his eyes as he sat on the fountain’s edge, listening.

Rain came only once a year in Gujaareh, during the spring. When it came, the Goddess’s Blood overflowed her banks and flooded the entire river valley, from the Sea of Glory all the way into the northeastern reaches of Kisua. Most Gujaareen hated floodseason and the small discomforts that it brought—mud everywhere, insects rampant, families forced to live on their upper floors or rooftops until the waters receded. Ehiru had always loved floodseason, himself. It cleansed, despite the initial mess; the city’s sun-baked walls gleamed anew once the dust of the dry seasons had been washed away. It renewed—for without the annual floods Gujaareh’s narrow band of fertile land would be swiftly devoured by the deserts beyond.

The boy would make a fine replacement once his training was complete, Ehiru decided.

But Nijiri was to replace Una-une; he grimaced, remembering this. There were one or two other promising youngsters among the acolytes who might replace Ehiru himself—none so clearly called to the task as Nijiri had been, but suitable nevertheless. Life would be difficult for Sonta-i and Rabbaneh until the new Gatherers gained seasoning, but soon their younger brethren would be ready to walk the Goddess’s most difficult path. Then the Gatherers of Hananja would be renewed. Cleansed at last of weakness and taint.

“Ehiru-brother.”

The patter of the fountain might have covered the boy’s footsteps, but not the rustling of the palm fronds. These were so thick in the Water Garden as to be unavoidable. Yet Nijiri had approached undetected. Ehiru smiled to himself in approval.

“Hananja has given us to each other, Nijiri.” He kept his voice only loud enough to be heard over the fountain. In the intermittent silence he heard the boy’s soft intake of breath. “Me to you in your time of need; now you to me. I will be here until you need me no longer. Understand this.”

More silence, just for a moment. “I may need you for many years yet, Ehiru-brother.”

“Not so long. Only until your apprenticeship ends.”

“And beyond!”

Ehiru turned away from the fountain and looked at him, surprised by the urgency in the boy’s tone. Nijiri stood a few feet away, half-hidden amid the palm-tree shadows, looking every inch the handsome young highcaste in a tailored shirt and loin
skirt of fine woven cloth. No one would guess him servant-caste given his manner, and his beauty. There was something perpetually deceptive about him: fine bones hid the strength that came from years of physical training, and his smooth-cheeked, pretty face drew attention away from his eyes—which Ehiru knew could turn very cold when circumstances merited. He had always had Gatherer’s eyes, even as a child.

Not now, though. Now Nijiri’s face seemed calm, but his body was rigid, betraying feelings that perhaps even he did not yet fully understand.

I should never have allowed you to choose me as your mentor. Selfish of me, and confusing to you. Poor child.

“A Gatherer must be strong enough to stand alone, Nijiri,” Ehiru said. The boy’s face twitched ever so subtly at this warning; Ehiru could not guess what was in his mind. “Your greatest lessons will come long after your apprenticeship, taught to you by the world. I cannot stand between you and those.”

“I know that, Brother.” There was an edge to Nijiri’s voice, all of a sudden, that Ehiru had not expected. “I went with you, all those years ago, because I had already grown to understand it.
You
taught me my first lesson: that love means sacrifice. Making choices that are good for others, even at the cost of the self.” He ducked his eyes suddenly, radiating unhappiness. “I
can
do that. But I see no reason to do it unnecessarily.”

Suddenly Ehiru wanted to embrace him. It was the wrong thing to do—too familiar, too paternal. Nijiri was his pathbrother, not his son; someday soon his opinions would hold as much weight as Ehiru’s own. The relationship between mentor and apprentice required a careful balancing of affection with
respect, on both sides. But in the wake of his mishandling of the Bromarte’s soul, and the miserable self-loathing he had wrestled in the days since, it was both humbling and humiliating to realize that Nijiri still thought highly of him. Humiliating because he did not deserve the boy’s admiration—but humbling to realize he could not abandon his duty so easily. The boy trusted him, needed him. He had to be worthy of that trust—
become
worthy of it, somehow, and stay worthy for long enough to get the boy trained.

A heavy burden, this unwanted reason to live. Yet in his innermost heart, he could not lie to himself: it was a relief, as well. The Superior had been right to require this of him.

“We have duties to complete,” Ehiru said at last, and after a moment the boy took a deep breath to compose himself, then nodded. A fine replacement indeed, in spirit if not truth.

Ehiru turned and led the boy out of the Water Garden. They stopped in the silent, dim Hall of Blessings to kneel at Hananja’s feet, where they asked Her to divert a fraction of Her attention from the Eternal Dream long enough to guide their endeavor. Then they left the Hetawa by the Gatherers’ Gate, and went out into the night.

Ehiru had chosen not to travel the streets or rooftops this time. The hour was still early; too many of the city’s folk were abroad seeking entertainments, or working now that the day’s heat had faded. Ehiru and Nijiri had both disguised themselves as wealthy highcastes, so they traveled as highcastes would—hiring a small carriage drawn by a strong young man of the servant caste. With Hetawa-provided funds, Ehiru paid the servant to take them directly to the bronze gates of Yanya-iyan.

At the palace, other carriages had arrived to dispense passengers, and a number of waiting guests milled about the gates and courtyard. Most of them wore the rich colors and silks of foreigners—dignitaries in town for Hamyan Night—and all of them chattered loudly of the sights they’d seen and the pleasures they’d tasted and how marvelous was the Prince’s hospitality. Ehiru had chosen to disguise himself as a wealthy shunha, which allowed him to glide through the crowd in haughty silence. Shunha scorn for foreigners was infamous; none of the guests even tried to speak to them. He drew Nijiri along in his wake as if the boy were a servant or favorite, and was pleased to see that Nijiri played along perfectly, keeping silent with his eyes downcast. The guises were so suitable that the gate-guards waved them through without a second glance until Ehiru paused to flash the Hetawa token concealed in the palm of his cupped hand. The guard who saw it stiffened and looked up at them for a moment, then jerked his head again to send them through.

Word would spread, Ehiru knew—first through the guards, then the servants and lowcastes. By dawn even the royals would know that a Gatherer had been in the palace on Hetawa business. Thus no one would suspect rivals or criminals when the body was found in the morning, and the guards would not be accused of laxity. Hananja’s Law was paramount, but that did not prohibit Her Servants from showing professional courtesy.

Once within, Ehiru led the way up stairwells and through a labyrinth of curving corridors, seeking the halls designated for guests. He did not hurry, for shunha never hurried. The guards eyed but did not question them, and Ehiru did not bother to
inform them of his true identity. He had satisfied practicality; now duty took precedence.

The guest halls were lined with thickly curtained entryways, each leading into an identical furnished apartment. The higher floors held even finer accommodations, and their target, but this floor was the means they would use to reach her. There were eight apartments here, two of which were dark and silent. Selecting the first of these, Ehiru pushed the curtain aside without jingling any of the tiny bells sewn along its bottom edge, and entered.

He held himself tense in case the chamber was occupied, but the rooms had a disused and impersonal air. Moonlight filtering through the sheer balcony curtain outlined brocaded cushions and plush couches, allowing them to navigate easily in the dark. Ehiru lit a single candle while Nijiri looked around, his face expressionless even though Ehiru knew the boy had rarely seen such opulence.

“The floors above us are for the lowest-ranked of the royal family and the highest-ranked of the guests,” Ehiru said. “With the palace so full of strangers tonight, the guard will concentrate its efforts on protecting the Prince wherever he happens to be. That leaves all other areas—like this floor—vulnerable.” He began to undress, laying aside the rich garments and jewelry of his costume. “The tithebearer should be in one of the suites on the next floor up.”

Nijiri noted Ehiru’s preparations and began to remove his own highcaste disguise. The boy had applied a cosmetic balm under his clothing, Ehiru saw with approval. The brown pigment would help to dim his conspicuously pale skin.

“Do we know which suite?” Nijiri asked, all business.

“The Kisuati ambassadorial suite is right above this room.”

“I, I see, Ehiru-brother…” In the midst of donning his ornaments, Nijiri fumbled the jungissa—his own, newly issued, and carved in the likeness of a dragonfly. Ehiru winced, but the boy stooped and caught the precious stone before it could hit the floor. He straightened and attached it properly this time, shoulders hunching in shame.

Ehiru watched him. A degree of nervousness was understandable, but if Nijiri could not be calm, he would have to remain behind while Ehiru went up to perform the Gathering.

Either sensing Ehiru’s scrutiny or realizing the problem himself, Nijiri drew himself upright and moved to sit on a nearby couch. His eyes closed; his lips moved in prayer; presently the wire-taut tension went out of his frame.

Pleased, Ehiru went to the balcony. Yanya-iyan’s courtyard spread below, empty save for sand that had been swept into decorative patterns, and the Sun pavilion. No sign of the previous night’s revelry lingered to spoil the image of perfect peace. It was a view so familiar that for a moment his mind wandered away from duty, remembering the other life of his childhood. He had visited Yanya-iyan only a handful of times, yet every visit was clear as water in his memory. In those days Gatherers had been nothing more than shadowy figures from his mother’s tales, and the then-Prince had been more of a god to him than Hananja.

Movement across his field of vision caught his eye. He looked up to see a shadow fly across the bands of the Dreaming Moon. A skyrer, one of the night-hunting birds of the desert. They
rarely hunted in the river valley itself, preferring the borderlands near the desert where there were scrubmice and lizards in plenty. Those of the farming caste considered it an ill omen to see skyrers over inhabited land outside of the rainy season—a sign that something, somewhere, was out of balance.

A predator’s silhouette etched upon a Moonlit rooftop…

Behind him, Nijiri finished his prayer. “Brother? Forgive me for the delay.”