The Killing Moon (Dreamblood) (44 page)

Longing flooded the creature’s eyes; tears welled in its eyes. “Yes. Yes. Oh please, Brother. I have served for so long.”

“I know. Just a little longer, and then Her peace awaits you, I promise. Come.”

He stood, tugging the Reaper’s leash. It rose and flowed after him, predator-graceful even with its mind all but gone. He stopped at the railing, gesturing Hendet and the rest of them back.

But then, suddenly, the Reaper stiffened. It whipped about to
face the balcony doorway, nearly pulling the chain from the Prince’s hand. He caught his breath and gripped the leash, preparing to set his will against the thing’s mad hunger—but then realized the creature’s attention had not fixed on Hendet or Wanahomen. He followed the Reaper’s gaze, and set his jaw.

“Enough, Eninket,” snarled Ehiru.

Like a vision, the Dreamer had raced across the nighttime sky as their horses blurred along the Moonpath to Kite-iyan. Through the rushing wind, the only constants Ehiru had grasped were anger and Nijiri’s voice, penetrating the blur now and again to remind him of who he was. They entered Kite-iyan’s welcome hall and found it full of soldiers. With his mother’s voice echoing in his mind, Ehiru hated them, and so fierce was his hatred that some of it broke free and leaped forth. When he pulled it back, their souls came with it, plump wriggling fish snared in the net of his mind. He’d devoured them greedily, savoring their pain and terror as a piquant spice, and guilt soured the moment only a little.

Now he stood facing his Prince, his brother, his betrayer, and the hatred returned—but this time he held it back. He would cleanse this corruption from Gujaareh’s soul in the proper manner, he had decided along the way, as a Gatherer and not a
monster. For justice and for Hananja, he would be himself one last time.

“Enough,” he said again, stalking onto the balcony. Nijiri flowed behind him, a shadow ready to strike. To one side a woman, two men, and a servant-child stood in shock, their souls bright alluring flames that called out to him. He ignored them and the hunger that wanted them. “Yield. I still have enough control to give you peace. If you resist I can promise nothing.”

Eninket gave him a cool smile, though Ehiru saw anger lurking underneath. “Don’t be foolish, Ehiru. Death or godhood; which would you choose?” He put his hand on the Reaper’s shoulder and the creature uttered a feral hiss at them.

“Control your beast, Eninket.” Ehiru raised his voice. It was not the peaceful thing to do, but there was little peace left inside him, and he did not care besides. “The man it once was could have beaten me, but not this sorry thing. And if you unleash it, it may attack indiscriminately.”

He glanced at their inadvertent audience. The man in the garb of a high-ranking soldier drew his sword; the youth did the same. The youth’s features bore Eninket’s stamp, Ehiru had already noted, and that of the shunha woman who stood with them. He saw too the fear that flashed across Eninket’s face.

Keeping a hand on the Reaper’s shoulder, Eninket spoke softly, but firmly. “Wanahomen, leave with your mother. Charris, protect them with your life.”

The man looked ready to argue, though he threw an uneasy glance at the Reaper—which had fixed its gaze on Nijiri in blatant eagerness—and subsided. The youth had no such qualms. “Father, I will not!”

“
Do as I say.
” Eninket tore his eyes away from Ehiru long enough to glare the youth into submission. “Now. Go!”

After another moment, the youth slumped, and the woman pulled him toward the door by the arm. The soldier grabbed the arm of the child, who clutched a pole bearing the Aureole, and dragged him out as well. Once Ehiru heard their footsteps moving away down the stairs he stepped closer, keeping a wary eye on the Reaper.

“You’ve lost,” Ehiru said to Eninket. “Face your death with dignity.”

“Even now, after everything I’ve told you?” Eninket uttered a soft, bitter laugh. “A slave of the Hetawa to the end. No, Ehiru.
I’m
not the one who’s lost here.” He sighed. “So be it.”

As he gazed down the Reaper, Eninket’s face took on a peculiar look of concentration. The Reaper froze, expression going even more slack than usual—though it cocked its head, as if listening. Then Eninket took his hand away from its shoulder.

Even with that warning, the creature’s speed caught Ehiru by surprise. He had only an instant to brace himself—but it flashed past him, and suddenly he realized that he was not its target. “Nijiri!”

But the boy caught the Reaper’s hand before it could reach his face, twisting to turn aside its momentum. The creature stumbled, off balance, and Nijiri struck it in the middle of its sunken chest. It fell to the ground flailing and Nijiri closed in, his eyes more vicious than Ehiru had ever seen. Ehiru moved to assist, but abruptly a faint sound from behind impinged on his awareness. He whirled to face whatever trickery Eninket was attempting—

—And froze, staring at the humming jungissa stone in his
brother’s hand. Eninket tensed, then paused, narrowing eyes at him.

“Come here, Ehiru,” said Eninket. Ehiru took a step toward Eninket before it occurred to him to wonder why he did so. He stopped, frowning.

“So it works on you as well.” Eninket stared at him with something akin to wonder. “The Superior said you had been deprived… and yet the boy is alive. Who, then, have you killed to preserve your own life, my brother?” As Ehiru set his jaw against shame, Eninket smiled, relaxing, a high gleam of victory in his eyes. “You’re as corrupt as the rest of them, for all your pious talk.”

The jungissa’s song filled Ehiru’s mind, throwing him back to a thousand nights and a thousand Gatherings, making him yearn for the time when things had been so simple in his life. When he had been pure, and there had been nothing but peace in his heart, and—

What is this?
In confusion he shook his head, but the stone’s whine pierced through his thoughts like a dagger.

“Another secret of the scrolls,” said Eninket, drawing near. “A Reaper’s mind grows in sensitivity as well as power, leaving you vulnerable to the simplest narcomancy.”

Ehiru struggled to draw his eyes away from the jungissa as it grew in his vision, but he failed. The sound of the thing drowned out everything else—including the sounds of Nijiri’s struggle against the Reaper behind him. He tried again to focus on Eninket, who was now unprotected and could be Gathered, but—

“Hananja’s favorite, they call you. The most skilled Gatherer in recent memory; the dying dream of being taken by you. Yet
look at the price you’ve paid for serving the Hetawa so well, Ehiru. You’ve become mine even faster than Una-une.” The Prince sighed. “Perhaps this was always meant to be, my brother. Now
come
.”

The word drove into Ehiru, backed by a will that parted his own like bedhangings and touched the most secret part of his consciousness where it lay. On some level he thought he made a sound, perhaps a strangled groan. He could not be sure. A hand touched his shoulder. He shivered beneath it, trying to let the hate loose again, but the mind that had woven its way into his gently pushed those thoughts aside. “Come, Brother,” Eninket said again.

Ehiru turned and walked where the voice steered him, over to the balcony railing.

Behind him, from a distance, he heard someone cry his name. Nijiri. Fear for the boy nearly gave him the strength to turn back, but Eninket’s will beat against his own.

“Shhh, Brother.”

Now he was lost again, in the cage under Yanya-iyan, weeping against the hunger that had nearly driven him to murder Nijiri. The voice was different, but the words of comfort were the same, the hands on his shoulders almost as tender.

“It’s all right,” said the voice in his ear, twisting his memories further. Nijiri? No. There was no love in this voice. “I understand. So much corruption all around, so much suffering, and you helpless to stop it. But I can help you, Brother.”

With a supreme effort Ehiru managed to close his eyes. But this was a mistake: the whine of the jungissa followed him into the darkness, and the voice spread its roots farther into his mind.

“Now. Reach out, Brother. Distance should be no barrier to you. Reach out, across the desert. Do you feel them?”

With his eyes shut, Ehiru had nothing to focus on but the voice. He fought it, but his mind stretched forth anyhow, falling away from him as though down a slanting pit. Visions formed around him: the desert, flying on skyrer’s wings. There was the village of Ketuyae, there the oasis at Tesa. There were the foothills, and suddenly his descent changed. Something pulled him aside. He frowned, slowing, tasting blood and pain and nightmare-thick fear on the air.

And death.

Where there was death, there was dreamblood.

“Corruption, Brother. Do you feel it? Filth the likes of which our land has not seen in centuries.”

Ehiru felt it. He whimpered as terror/cruelty/rage beat against his senses, driving thought even further beneath the surface of his mind. He could see them now, hundreds, thousands, men with swords and bloodlust, intent on hacking one another to pieces. The antithesis of peace. Then the vision changed and he saw only light where they had been—sparks that flared and then faded in death, others that burned steadily, together merging into a flickering whole. A Sun whose warmth promised to fill the cold and aching emptiness within him.

So many souls. So very many.

On another plane, Ehiru licked his lips.

“They will come here, Ehiru. Infect us with their savagery and chaos, destroy our peace—
Her
peace—forever.” The voice moved closer to his ear, whispering its warning over distant screams of pain and rage and his own ravening lust. “Stop them,
little brother. Take them. Take them all now, and share them with me.”

There was nothing left in him that could fight. The magic and the hunger had consumed it all.

Stretching out his hands and mind, Ehiru took hold of over twenty thousand lives, and began to Reap.

The sight of Waking Moon had been a comfort to Sunandi throughout her childhood. The hours of the Dreamer belonged to those who ruled Kisua’s streets; that was the time of slavers and whoremasters, muggers and gangs. The strong who devoured the weak. But the setting of the Dreamer marked the end of their time, for by then the worst of the predators would have hunted, fed, and returned to their lairs to dream cold, bloody dreams. After that, only Waking Moon hung in the sky—the shy, plain sister of the heavenly queen, who had the heavens to herself for only an hour or so before the Sun returned. Less in the rainy season. But while Waking Moon’s pallid light shone over the city streets, the weak had their time. The child called Nefe and her fellows at the bottom of the hierarchy could creep forth from their hiding places then, to nibble on the leavings of
their betters. And if there was no food to eat and nothing of value to steal, at least there was safety, and with safety had come the few moments of happiness she recalled in that early life. Playing. Laughing. Feeling, for that one hour, like a child. She would never regret being adopted by Kinja—but neither had she ever forgotten those times, as dear to her as the mother she barely remembered.