The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (3 page)

Reaching the shelf, Wanahomen dismounted without removing his beast’s tack or saddle, whistling the note that meant
stay
. The camel grunted in surly acknowledgement, and Wanahomen strode into the encampment, ignoring the eyes that followed and tried to read him, making no response to the few voices that murmured greetings. His gaze had fixed on a young man who squatted near one of the fires, laughing with a cluster of his companions. Someone nudged the young man—Wujjeg—as Wanahomen approached, and after a moment’s hesitation Wujjeg stood and turned to face him. He had let his veil slip aside. With no women or strangers about, this was not an insult in itself, but all the camp saw the insolent look he gave to Wanahomen.

“I-Dari,” he said, offering the respectful term in a tone that was anything but. “The raid was profitable, at least, you must admit.”

“Indeed,” Wanahomen said. “The tribe must be certain to thank you when praying to its ancestors.” He laid a hand on the ivory hilt of his knife and waited.

Wujjeg’s smile slipped for just a moment, along with some of his swagger. Automatically he put his hand on his own blade-hilt, though he did not draw it. “I-Dari,” he began, but before he could say more Wanahomen’s blade scythed from its sheath and drew a second mouth across Wujjeg’s throat.

There was one gasp, from somewhere among Wujjeg’s friends. No one else spoke or moved. Wujjeg made no sound either, putting his hands to the flood from his throat for a moment before toppling to the ground.

Wanahomen shook off his knife and turned to the youngest member of the troop. “Wrap Wujjeg for travel and stow him with the baggage. We must return him to his clan.”

The youth swallowed hard and bobbed his head in silent acquiescence. Wanahomen sheathed his knife and stepped over the spreading pool of blood to walk to the next campfire. Just beyond the circle of stones he knelt, bowing his head. “Unte, may I enter?”

The man who sat beside the fire inclined his head. An elderly man with the rounded features of a westerner—a slave—hastened to move aside one of the stones, and Wanahomen stepped within the circle.

“Be welcome,” Unte said, then signaled the slave. As the slave fetched a clamp to remove a metal cookbox from the flames, the man gave Wanahomen a long considering look. “I’m trying to decide whether I’ve claimed a fool or a genius as my hunt leader.”

The slave handed Wanahomen a bowl. Roasted cercrus tubers, with flecks of spiced meat that might have been kinpan, a ground bird, or one of a half-dozen species of desert vole. Lifting his veil with one hand, Wanahomen ate quickly and neatly, not looking up at Unte. He said, “You came on this ride to see how I do things.”

“Indeed. And now I see.”

“I’ve done nothing that violates the customs of this tribe.”

“True. You’re always proper and careful, Wana.”

Wanahomen set his plate down and rubbed his eyes. He was too tired for verbal games. “Will you cast me down?”

“I haven’t yet decided.”

No! I’m so close!
But instead of voicing this protest, Wanahomen said, “If I may ask one boon, then, while I’m still your hunt leader?”

“Ask.”

“Wait.”

“Wait? For Wujjeg’s clan to incite their kin in the Dzikeh-Banbarra to feud?”

“Every man in this troop is sworn to obey me, Unte. Wujjeg disobeyed my command. There can be only one punishment for that while we’re on hunt-ride.”

“He killed an enemy.” Unte’s voice was mild, but his eyes were cool and sharp over his veil.

Wanahomen tried not to sigh. “I have explained this to you, and to everyone else in the tribe. Only the Kisuati are our enemies, not all city folk.”

“And I have explained to you that most Banbarra would neither agree with that statement, nor care about the distinction,” Unte replied. The lines about his eyes relaxed in the firelight; he was amused behind his own veil. “Though I grant they may be more inclined to pay attention now.”

Wanahomen relaxed as well, relieved. “So then. Fool or genius?”

“Not a genius, by any stretch.”

“But not a complete fool?”

“Gods help us all, no, not a fool. My life would be easier if you were, because then I could be done with you.”

Wanahomen set down his empty bowl, nodding thanks to the slave out of careless habit, and then rose to grip the older man’s shoulder. “I promised to make you a king among kings, Unte. Is that not worth putting up with me?”

But Unte shook his head and said, “Only if you survive to succeed, Wana. Sleep lightly tonight.”

Thus dismissed, Wanahomen rose and left. He kept his eyes forward as he passed through the encampment again, this time out of weariness rather than anger. Most of the hunt party consisted of his own supporters, few of whom begrudged him Wujjeg’s death. Still, they would want to talk with him, to find out his plans or praise his forthrightness or reassure him of their loyalty. One or two would no doubt invite him to share their pallets for the night, though he usually refused such offerings to avoid accusations of favoritism. He wanted nothing more than his own pallet and the peace of dreams, but first he had to tend his mount; no respectable Banbarra would
sleep before doing so. As he was not Banbarra, it was important that he keep within the bounds of respectability.

When he reached the trail below the shelf, however, he found Laye-ka already unsaddled, her cream-colored coat brushed clean. She chewed placidly on some bit of scrub and grunted at him by way of greeting, rattling the necklace of amulets he had woven for her. At her noise, Ezack leaned out from behind her rump and grinned at him. “Knew you’d come back. The lady here didn’t want to wait. Started stomping about and grumbling once you were gone.”

Wanahomen chuckled and went to the camel’s head, reaching up to rub her hard forehead. She pushed against his hand, begging scratches. “Isn’t that just like a woman?” he asked, obliging her.

“True enough! So…” Ezack darted a look around for listeners. “Is the old man angry?”

“No. He understood.”

Ezack sighed in relief, his breath momentarily tenting the cloth of his own veil. “I thought he would, but still.”

“He warned me to be wary. As if I needed that warning.” As Wanahomen scratched Laye-ka’s ears, his eyes drifted back toward the camp. Most of the knots of men had broken up, as if Wujjeg’s death and Unte’s approval had ended all debates. One remaining cluster—those who had been Wujjeg’s friends—sat together whispering around one of the campfires. Wanahomen was not particularly disturbed by this, for Wujjeg had been the smartest and boldest of that bunch; without him they were little threat. Nevertheless, he would obey Unte, and be careful.

“Ha, you greedy thing; get on now.” He slapped Laye-ka’s shoulder, and with a last mournful look she turned and ambled off to join the other horses and camels. “Rest well, Ezack.”

“In peace, Wana.”

Wana paused, glancing back in surprise at the familiar, but quintessentially
Gujaareen, parting phrase. Ezack shrugged at his look. “We Banbarra find a use for whatever comes our way. We’ve kept
you
, haven’t we?”

With this, Ezack began stacking the saddlebags against the shelf wall, politely ignoring Wana when he murmured in Gujaareen, “Thank you.” Too delicate a moment for Banbarra tastes; the sort of thing Wanahomen would never have allowed himself to do with anyone else, lest they think him as soft as most city-dwellers. But Ezack had learned to tolerate his commander’s peculiar behavior years before, for which Wanahomen was grateful. He walked away quickly, before the urge to become sentimental got any worse.

His camp space was ready, the fire burning briskly and his pallet laid out by his own slave. There was no barrier circle here; a good hunt leader did not need to separate himself from his men. As he entered the area of firelight and sat down, shifting to lie on his side, Wanahomen nodded to the slave. “We’ll be heading home tomorrow.”

Charris—once a general of Gujaareh’s army, though those days were long past—returned the nod from where he lay on his own pallet. “You handled things well.” He spoke in Gujaareen, in part because his Chakti was poor, and in part for privacy. Only Unte and Ezack spoke anything of the tongue: Unte with marginal fluency, Ezack far less than that.

Wanahomen’s cheeks warmed with the praise. “Father taught me to deal swiftly with defiance.”

“If it’s any consolation, the Gujaareen who was wounded will probably live. If his comrades kept him warm and took him to the Hetawa right away, the wound could’ve been healed.”

Wanahomen nodded slowly, gazing into the fire. “I had forgotten about that. Healing. Amazing, isn’t it? That I could forget such a thing.” He fell silent as the capital’s walls, golden at sunset, gleamed
in his memory. For a moment he could almost smell moontear blossoms on the wind, and then the memory was gone. He mourned its passing; his memories were thin and rare these days. “No true Gujaareen would forget such a thing, Charris. Would they?”

Charris spoke gently. “We’ve been away a long time, my Prince, but we will always be Gujaareen.”

Yes. And Gujaareh would be his again. Wanahomen repeated that thought to himself once, and thrice more under his breath; four repetitions made a prayer.
His
, by Hananja’s grace.

“The appointment with the shunha,” he said. “Is it set?”

Charris nodded. “Three days from now, at sunset. I told him in the message that it would be me.” He threw an uneasy look at Wanahomen.

“I must see this man for myself, Charris. The shunha might give their first allegiance to Gujaareh, but they’re still too close to their Kisuati roots for my comfort. I need to be sure we can trust this one.” Wanahomen reached under his headcloth to rub the gritty back of his neck, missing with rueful fondness the scented baths of his people. “I’ll be careful, never fear.”

“And my other suggestion?”

Wanahomen scowled. “Never.”

“The Hetawa is as much a power in Gujaareh as the nobility, my Prince. More.”

“And I will never ask their aid for so much as healing a stubbed toe.”

Charris sighed. “In peace, then, my Prince.” He shifted to lie back on his roll.

“In peace, old friend.” Wanahomen shifted to remove his boots, then lay down, securing his face-veil for rest. Watching shadows dance on the shelf’s overhang, he shut his eyes—

—And opened them to a churning, storm-choked sky.

Where the stone of a sheltering ledge should have been, where Dreaming Moon and the million Lesser Suns should have filled the night sky beyond that, thick black clouds boiled and rippled. The lightning that flickered among these clouds was attenuated, thin and sickly, and it lingered, more like the thread of veins through flesh than light and fire. He had never seen such a sky, even in the worst of floodseason.

He sat up. Beneath this sky the world had turned gray and strange: leached of color, the shadows gone sharp and too deep to see into. As Wanahomen’s outer robe fell away, he saw that all his dusty Banbarra clothing was gone—replaced by a loinskirt of fine tailored linen, a feathered waistcloak, and a collar of lapis teardrops. Clothing befitting a prince.

“As it should be,” whispered his father’s voice.

Wanahomen turned. The Banbarra encampment was gone; Charris was gone. Wanahomen’s pallet and fire sat on the filthy bricks of a Gujaareen street, in a high-walled and shadowed alleyway. Near the back of this alley, where the shadows were thickest, a form at once familiar and hideous lurked. Its head listed to one side; he saw the gleam of teeth. And yet—

“Wanahomen,” the specter whispered.

He got to his feet, filled with the certainty of dreaming. “Father.”

“My son, my heir.” The voice was soft, airy, yet Wanahomen would know its timbre anywhere. He bit his lip and took a step closer, wanting to close the distance. Knowing, despite ten years’ absence from Gujaareh, that this desire was foolish. The land of dreams was incomprehensibly vast; it would take aeons for the souls of the dead to fill it. Most of the people seen in dreams were merely reflections of the dreamer’s own thoughts and fears.

But…

“My reborn soul.” The shadow of his father shook its head; dirty,
limp braids swung back and forth. “Where is the Aureole, Wanahomen? Where is your kingdom?”

“In enemy hands, Father.” He could hear the hate in his own voice, echoing from the alley’s walls. “They’ve taken everything from me.”

“Not everything. Not hope. Not Her favor.”

Wanahomen shook his head, smiling bleakly. “Does She even know me, Father? I’ve made no offerings and enjoyed no blessings for many years.”

“Blessings will come.” Something in the voice, at once sly and amused, made this less a promise and more a warning. The figure lifted one crooked, palsied finger skyward. “They have come already, see? Such powerful blessings. They will shake all Gujaareh, waking and sleeping, and drown the weak in their own dark dreams. Her suffering knows no limits.”

Wanahomen looked up at the grinding sky and shivered, though there was no wind. “Do you mean the Goddess? I don’t understand, Father—”

“Don’t you?” The shadows shifted as the shape lowered its arm to point at Wanahomen, stepping forward enough that the firelight illuminated its flesh at last. Wanahomen’s gorge rose as he saw purple-black sores mottling skin that had once been the pale gold of desert sand. The rot of death? No. These sores looked more like some sort of sickness.