The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (12 page)

Sanfi’s lips twitched; after a moment he stood and began to pace in the tight confines of the kitchen. “Your mother. I never should have married her, beautiful or not. I saw the first signs of her madness even while I courted her, but I needed her wealth…” He stopped and sighed, his fists clenching. “And Tantufi. Every day I wonder why I did not strangle that creature at birth.”

Tiaanet watched him, reading the signs and not liking what she saw. He would brood, she knew. It was what he did whenever his plans were thwarted. He would brood and seethe all the way back to their estate in the greenlands, and when they got there his anger would seek an outlet in Tantufi. She needed to distract him. But how?

“Father?” She pretended to concentrate on grating a shia nut as she spoke. “Does the Hetawa know of these deaths? Have they realized all four visited our house?”

“Not yet.” He sounded even more displeased now. She struggled to think of something else to catch his interest. “Though if the dream spreads beyond those four—”

He paused suddenly, fell silent. Tiaanet poured sweetwine into a cup, set that and the plate on a tray, then lifted the tray. “I must see to our guest, Father.”

“Yes,” he said absently. His eyes were fixed on the table, thoughts racing behind them. She turned to leave, but paused as he called her name.

“Yes, Father?”

“Tantufi,” he said. “If she were brought into the city, how fast would her dream spread?”

So that was the direction of his thoughts. She was not surprised at his cruelty, only at the method he’d chosen. He loathed Tantufi.

“I don’t know, Father,” she said honestly. “But among so many people, living so close to one another, it would probably go quickly.”

He nodded, his eyes lighting as his thoughts progressed. “The Hetawa is a threat to our plans,” he said. “They support the Kisuati these days. But Tantufi’s dream should distract them, should it not?” He smiled at her. “Eventually they’ll cure it, but until then…”

In her mind’s eye, Tiaanet saw Tantufi’s face. The child would weep to be the cause of such suffering. But she would do it, and spread her magic like a poison through the city’s veins, because she could not help herself. And Father would be pleased to see Tantufi’s curse at last put to good use.

“Yes, Father,” Tiaanet said. “I’ll send for her, if you wish.”

“Such a good child you are,” he said. “Do it as soon as our guest leaves.”

The journey from Gujaareh to the desert was lengthy and boring. To thwart possible pursuers, Wanahomen chose not to go west immediately, instead heading south to one of the upriver towns, where he treated himself to one last hot bath and Gujaareen meal before trading his horse and workman’s guise for his camel and desert robes. Not the veil, of course, or any of the other tribal markers of a Banbarra; he’d even removed all of Laye-ka’s telltale tack and ornaments before leaving for the journey, and stabling her in the town. While he was in the Gujaareen Territories, he was simply a desertman from one of the dozens of small tribes that made their living in Gujaareh’s shadow. Only when Wanahomen reached the foothills, which marked the border between the Blood river valley and the desert, did he adopt the final layers of his Banbarra self: the veil, the looping headcloth, the indigo-and-tan robes.

He spent the journey through the hills in a kind of meditation, his thoughts pressed inward by the rhythm of Laye-ka’s sure gait and the monotonous scenery of sun-seared rock. He had conceived a hundred plans along the journey in, but on this trip his thoughts were occupied by something altogether different.

Did you enjoy that, my Prince? Let me show you more.

Tiaanet. Gods, what a woman. He would marry her, of course. That had been Sanfi’s intention, as obvious as the day was bright, and Wanahomen meant to oblige him. Despite the heat of the day he shivered at the memory of her lips, of her hands working magic on his flesh, of her patience in drawing out his release until he thought he might die of pleasure. How had she learned such skill? It didn’t matter. He had to have her again, and if that meant making Sanfi grandsire to the next royal heir, then so be it.

By midday he had lost himself in fantasies, hardly bothering to direct Laye-ka as she plodded along the trail between two jagged outcroppings. When Kite-iyan was his again, he would install Tiaanet in his own suite, just as his father had honored his mother. And would not his mother be pleased by his choice of a shunha maiden as firstwife? Sanfi’s lineage was a fine old one, eminently respectable—

Pebbles rattled on a ledge above.

Startled out of daydreaming, Wanahomen scrabbled for his knife and Laye-ka’s reins at once, scanning the heights for movement or an out-of-place shadow.

Nothing.

Laye-ka grunted loudly as if chastising Wanahomen. He ignored her, continuing to scan the ledges as she plodded onward. There was no further movement, but Wanahomen’s nerves were still a-jangle. The rock slopes on this part of the trail were too close and too littered with small caverns and boulders. He should never have allowed his attention to wander in a place so perfect for ambush.

Prompted by instinct, he dismounted and led Laye-ka off the main trail and up a narrow gulley carved by the springtime rains. It ran near the same slope from which he’d heard the pebbles, but there was more cover here than on the other side or the trail itself. He even spied a small cave as he moved behind a set of boulders twice Laye-ka’s height—

—And then he spied a man, crouched in the cave.

Wanahomen whipped his knife up. “Who—” He cut the sentence off in surprise as the stranger put a finger to his lips, then pointed down Wanahomen’s backtrail. In nearly the same breath, Wanahomen heard voices echoing over the hills, coming from the very direction in which the man had pointed.

What—
But he tapped Laye-ka’s shoulder in a quick Banbarra signal to be silent and still. She jerked her head once but obeyed, and Wanahomen peered between the boulders to try to see who was coming.

There, two hills back: the gleam of bronze and cloth dyed as green as rain forests. A four of Kisuati soldiers.

Wanahomen glanced back at the man in the cave, who nodded quietly. From this vantage, the man had probably seen them from even farther away. If Wanahomen had not heard and reacted to that pebble-rattle—something he now suspected the man had made to warn him—the soldiers would’ve seen him as they crested the last hill.

The man returned Wanahomen’s gaze with an odd, somehow familiar calm. Something about that calm unnerved Wanahomen, though not as much as the nearness of the soldiers, so for the time being he focused on the greater threat.

That the soldiers were not searching for him was obvious almost at once. They kept their horses at a leisurely walk, the metal-shod hooves making far more noise on the rocky trail than a camel’s toes. They talked loudly in some backcountry Sua dialect that Wanahomen could barely comprehend, but he gathered they were talking about a wager. One of them made some boastful-sounding statement, and their raucous laughter seemed to confirm this guess. Still laughing, they rode out of sight.

Wanahomen did not move for what felt like hours, listening until the last echoes of the horses’ hooves had faded. Then, finally, he
turned and climbed up to the cave’s mouth so that he and the man could speak quietly. “Who in the gods’ names are you?”

“Anarim,” said the man, who rose smoothly as a dancer from his crouch. His loindrapes were unadorned black, and shorter than was currently fashionable. He wore no collar, though his skin was paler about the neck and shoulders; usually he did wear one, it was clear. Wanahomen’s sense of familiarity increased—and turned ugly—as he saw black-dyed leather gauntlets about the man’s forearms, shin-guards, and the hilt of a short sword peeking over one shoulder. As if sensing Wanahomen’s sudden fury, the man nodded and said, “A Sentinel of Hananja.”

Wanahomen hissed through his veil and tightened his grip on his knife, prepared to fight to the death. But logic seeped past the red hatred in his mind. The Sentinel could have let the Kisuati find Wanahomen. He could still do it now, simply by raising his voice; the soldiers would be on him before he could mount and get Laye-ka back up to speed.

Very slowly, Wanahomen lowered his knife.

The Sentinel shifted minutely, perhaps relaxing whatever defenses he’d readied. “I hadn’t expected you for another day. You are Charris, once a general of Gujaareh?”

“Cha—” All at once Wanahomen understood; the fury returned. “So Charris has betrayed me.”

The Sentinel’s face registered surprise for an instant, and then went impassive again. “Ah. You are Wanahomen, whom Charris serves.”

“I am Wanahomen who will kill Charris next I see him,” he snapped. Charris, conspiring with the Hetawa against him! The only thing greater than Wanahomen’s anger in that moment was the hurt that throbbed underneath it.
Charris, you damned old fool, I trusted you with my life!

The Sentinel regarded him for a long moment. “So that is why he asked to meet in secret. You have no love for the Hetawa.”

Wanahomen stared at the man, and only just remembered to keep his voice low when his rage found words. “The Hetawa
killed my father
. They opened the gates of the capital and let foreigners walk in to conquer us! As far as I’m concerned, all Gujaareh should rise up and throw your kind into the sea.”

“As I recall, it was your father who set Kisua against Gujaareh.” The Sentinel’s tone, like his expression, was almost inhumanly neutral. There was no hint of censure in his manner, yet Wanahomen felt his words like a slap to the face.

“He never meant for Gujaareh to be conquered,” he snapped, turning away and pacing in the tight confines of the cave. “Whatever mistakes my father made, he acted in Gujaareh’s best interests. And I don’t have to defend him to you!” Though he’d been doing precisely that. Furious with himself now, Wanahomen rounded on the Sentinel and pointed with his knife at that revoltingly calm face. “Tell me why you were meeting my man here.”

The Sentinel regarded the knife for a moment before answering. “I bring a message from my superiors.” Moving slowly, he pointed off toward a wall of the cavern, where a small shoulder-pouch lay atop a folded travel cloak. “For you.”

Frowning to cover his surprise, Wanahomen went to the pouch, keeping the man in sight. When he flicked the pouch open, a scroll sealed with a knotted-cord binding—the generic pattern used by city officials—slipped out. Stamped along the scroll’s edge were the pictorals of Wanahomen’s recent lineage, ending with those comprising his given name.

“General Charris requested an audience on your behalf with the Superior,” the Sentinel said when Wanahomen threw him a suspicious look. “The response is contained therein.”

Wanahomen stared at the scroll, then burst out laughing. “An audience with the Superior? Gods, if I didn’t know any better I’d accuse Charris of senility. Why would I possibly meet with
anyone
from the Hetawa?”

“You want your throne back. For that you will need our help.”

Wanahomen nearly dropped his knife.

“An alliance,” he said, after a long and stunned breath. “Charris actually believes he can forge an alliance between the Hetawa and the Banbarra?” He could hardly believe his own words.

“The alliance would be with
you
,” the Sentinel replied, “though it may of course include others you deem appropriate.” He paused, then added, “It is not so far-fetched a notion. The Hetawa created the monarchy, after all, and supported it for centuries.”

“Yes.” Wanahomen’s hand tightened on the scroll. “Until your kind enslaved mine with dreamblood. An alliance requires trust, Servant of Hananja, and I’ll never trust you or your murdering brethren. Charris should have known better.”

He threw the scroll on the ground, and was irrationally annoyed that the Sentinel showed no sign of affront. Instead the man said, “Then you refuse the alliance?”

“I cannot refuse the impossible,” Wanahomen snapped. He turned away and peered between the boulders again at the trail, which was now clear. He would have to find another way through the hills, since the easiest route was the way the Kisuati soldiers had gone. They must have begun patrolling the hills after the last Banbarra raid, perhaps hoping to forewarn the city or harry the raiders next time.