Ehiru smiled. “It would be an honor if they had, Elder, but no. I have come for a different purpose.” He paused while she coughed again, harshly and with obvious pain. A flask of water and a cup sat on a tray nearby. When the spasm passed, he poured water for her and lifted this to her lips, holding it while she sipped. She nodded thanks when she was done.
Setting the cup down, he paused for a moment and then reached into his robes for his waist-pouch. Pulling it out, he opened it and poured his Gatherer ornaments into his palm.
She peered at the polished stones with bright-eyed curiosity. He picked up the cicada and held it up for her to see. “Do you know what this is?”
There was no mistaking the blue-black gleam of jungissa, or its characteristic hum when he tapped the cicada’s back. Talithele’s eyes widened. “Kilefe, che? What we call the living stone. I heard that it hummed, but never saw it for myself.”
He smiled. “We call it jungissa. The hum is not life, but magic. The stones fall from the sky, now and again; we believe they are remnants of the Sun’s seed, scattered across the heavens. It took ten years to carve this one, and it took me five years to master its use.” He turned the cicada in his fingers, thoughtful. “There are only a handful of jungissa in all the world.”
She nodded, fascinated—but then her rheumy eyes narrowed at him. “In my land, we tell stories of the kilefe stones and what the priest-warriors of the river kingdoms do with them.”
Ehiru nodded, gazing into her eyes. “We use them to hold spells of sleep in place, while we travel with the sleeper into Ina-Karekh—what we call the realm of dreams.”
“Ah-che.” She sat back, thoughtful. “You’ve come to kill me.”
“Death is only part of what I bring.” He lifted a hand and touched her cheek. She was old, weak; he could feel the hair-thinness of her tether. With the barest brush of his will he pushed her into the edges of Ina-Karekh, carefully steering her into a dream of pleasant memory. A vision of her home village bloomed in both their minds. Around him were huts with grass-thatched roofs, goats being chased by children, guinea fowl scratching in the dust. He smelled animal dung and grain-dust from the storage house nearby. He saw the tall, handsome youth she’d loved so long ago, and for a moment he loved along with her.
With a sigh of regret he ended the dream there, pulling her very gently back to Hona-Karekh. So near death was she that he hadn’t even needed to put her to sleep for that brief journey; she blinked once or twice and then stared at him.
“In Gujaareh, my task is to help guide others into Ina-Karekh in the manner that I have shown you,” he said. He caressed her cheek, admiring the beauty in every sun-weathered seam of her skin before finally dropping his hand to rest on hers. “I have not the skill to heal you, but I can at least see that your afterlife is peaceful and filled with your loved ones and favorite places.”
She stared at him, then let out a long sigh. “What a seducer you are. I never dreamed I would be courted again at my age, or that I would be so tempted to give in. How many women have you had with that silver tongue?”
Ehiru smiled. “None, Elder. Women are forbidden to my kind. But…” he ducked his eyes, feeling his face heat beneath her knowing gaze. “I have loved many in the course of my duty.”
“Ti-sowu? Loved them, you say?” She cocked her head coquettishly. “Do you love me?”
He could not help but chuckle, though he kept it soft so as not to break the spell of peace. “I believe I could, Elder. When I share the dreams of another it is difficult not to love them…”
As he said the words, he faltered to silence and nearly flinched from the sharpness of the chill that moved through him. Was that it, then? Had he perverted the Bromarte’s Gathering because, in the moment after that eerie true-seeing, he had failed to love the bearer of Hananja’s tithe? He had disliked the man already—without cause, simply because he was a barbarian. And then he had allowed that prejudice to overwhelm his sense of duty. He had failed to master his own disgust and fear as he might have done for another.
So lost was he in the revelation that his attention wandered; Talithele uttered another harsh cough which drew him back. Privately he cursed and thrust his inappropriate thoughts aside. He had meant to keep her calm and relaxed to ease the coughing.
But as she recovered, her sharp eyes laid his soul bare. “You are troubled, priest.”
He bowed his head. “Forgive me, old mother. My mind wandered.”
“Nothing to forgive. A mistake is a small matter.” She smiled again. “But you would not know that, would you? Poor man.”
“Eh?”
She turned her hand under his and grasped it, patting the back of it with her other hand. “I can see how they made you,” she said, her voice soft despite its hoarseness. “They took away everything that mattered to you, che? Upended your whole world and left you alone. And now you think love blooms in a breath and silencing pain is a kindness. Ah, but you’re young.”
He frowned, so startled that he forgot the spell he’d been weaving. “Easing pain is kindness, old mother. And my feelings for the people I help—”
“I don’t doubt your love,” she said. “You are a man made for love, I think. Your eyes make me want to die, there’s so much love in them. But it isn’t real. Real love lasts years. It causes pain, and endures through it.”
He was too stunned to respond for several breaths. When he finally found his tongue he could barely stammer out words. “That pain comes with love… that I can accept, old mother. I have lost loved ones—family. But they died quickly, and I pray thanks to my Goddess every day for that blessing. Are you saying it would have been better to let them suffer?”
She snorted aloud. “Suffering is part of life,” she said. “All the parts of life are jumbled up together; you can’t separate out just the one thing.” She patted his hand again, kindly. “I could let you kill me now, lovely man, and have peace and good dreams forever. But who knows what I get instead, if I stay? Maybe time to see a new grandchild. Maybe a good joke that sets me laughing for days. Maybe another handsome young fellow flirting with me.” She grinned toothlessly, then let loose another horrible, racking cough. Ehiru steadied her with shaking hands. “I want every moment of my life, pretty man, the painful and the sweet alike. Until the very end. If these are all the memories I get for eternity, I want to take as many of them with me as I can.”
He could not accept her words. In his mind he saw again his mother’s face, aristocratic and beautiful, marred by streaks of blood. He could smell that blood, and bile and the reek of broken bowel; he saw his mother’s eyes, staring outward with no one to shut them. Women were goddesses who needed no assistance to reach the best of Ina-Karekh—but her death had still been horrific, not at all the queen’s death she’d deserved.
He looked up at Talithele and in that moment could see the same ugly ignominy awaiting her. She would cough until her lungs tore to pieces, and die drowning in her own blood. How could he leave her to suffer so? No, worse—stand by and watch?
I could take her anyhow, came the thought. Gehanu would never know.
And on the heels of that thought came a chill of purest horror.
Swallowing against the dryness of his throat, Ehiru pulled his hands away from hers. “It is your right to refuse the tithe,” he whispered. The words came more by rote than conscious effort. “Your soul is healthy and your life does no harm. Remain in Hona-Karekh with Hananja’s blessing.”
He pushed himself up from the rugs and would have fled the tent then, but he stopped when she said, “Priest. I may accept the pain, but I’m not a goddess, whatever your people might think. My last days will be easier to bear if I am not alone. Che?”
He heard the plaintive hope in her voice and nearly wept. In a thick voice he replied, “Then I’ll visit again, old mother.”
She smiled. “So you love me after all. Rest well.”
“Rest well, old mother.”
He left the tent and kept walking
forward, his strides brisk, his fists clenched at his sides. Almost immediately he heard the scuffle of feet behind him as Nijiri recovered from surprise and followed. The boy asked no questions, for which Ehiru was supremely grateful as he reached the wall of the oasis, dropped to his knees, and gripped the lip of smooth stone as if for life. Perhaps he could dance. Perhaps he should weep. Anything—so long as it took his mind away from the terrible sin he’d almost committed, and the sour taste of dreamblood-lust in his mouth.
He did nothing but tremble there in the dust until Nijiri took his hand. “Tatunep niweh Hananja,” the boy said—the opening phrase of a prayer. All at once Ehiru’s anguish began to fade. Again the boy had proven his worth.
There’s no more time. I must make him ready to serve Her now, for I can do so no longer.
Then he bowed over his hands and lost himself in prayer.
22
Jungissa stones may be touched only by those in the service of Hananja.
(Law)
The Reaper does not serve Hananja. It no longer needs a stone.
* * *
Niyes was a fool to think he could escape this nightmare, thought Charris.
Now General Charris, elevated to Niyes’s place. Once Charris might have been pleased with the appointment and with the oblique victory over his old rival, but no longer. Now he would have given anything to be able to hand the title back to Niyes, and the foul duty that came with it.
The prisoners knew they were to die. They moved reluctantly, only after much shoving and shouting on the guards’ parts; Charris could see the despair in their eyes. They could not have seen the heavy-walled, locked wagon that Charris had brought with him to the prison, and which now stood in an adjoining courtyard. They could not have known about the monster locked inside it—yet still they seemed to sense the imminence of death. Criminals they might be, but they were true Gujaareen as well.
Because of that, Charris—normally more pragmatic than devout—prayed for them. May Hananja watch over you in the dark places you’ll inhabit for eternity, he whispered in his mind. And may you die better than Niyes did, for I saw his body when that thing was done with him.
“Sir.” Charris turned to see one of his message-riders standing at attention, escorted by one of the prison guards. The rider was sweaty and filthy, all but swaying with exhaustion. Charris narrowed his eyes and ordered the guard to go fetch lemon-water and salt. Then he pointed toward the floor, and the rider gratefully sat.
“Report.”
“Orders were delivered to the southeast garrison by messenger bird two days ago,” the rider said. “Another bird was dispatched from there to the southwest. The southeast commander distrusts birds for critical information, so he sent me to deliver the message to—” He hesitated. “To the high desert. I killed a horse getting there, but delivered the message successfully. On the return journey I passed through the border town of Ketuyae. The minstrel caravan crossed the river there a fourday ago.”
“Just four days? You’re sure?” Barring storms or accidents, the fastest desert route to the Kisuati Protectorate’s northernmost trade-town was usually seven days. Ketuyae was a day out of Gujaareh. They would be past Tesa by now, half their journey completed.
“Yes, sir. But the desert commander assured me that his troop would be able to catch up to the caravan. They have good trackers. And they have Shadoun horses, bred and trained for the high desert and twice as fast as any camel.”
Which meant that it would take another day, perhaps two, for the garrison troop to find and catch up with the minstrel caravan. Right at the border. Charris could only pray that Sesshotenap, the commander of the desert force, would have enough sense to send his men without Gujaareen livery. All they needed was for a Kisuati patrol to catch a party of Gujaareen soldiers where they weren’t supposed to be, dispatched from a garrison that wasn’t supposed to exist, trying to kill a Kisuati ambassador. War was coming—Charris wasn’t blind—but an incident like that could precipitate it sooner than the Prince wanted.
And if that happens, I’ll be lucky if he only beheads me. Which reminded him of the task at hand.
The guard returned with a salt biscuit and a cup of lemon-water, which he held for the messenger, as the man’s hands would not stop shaking. “Take a fourday’s rest,” Charris said, “but you must leave this place to do it. Guard, help him to the stables.”
The messenger started and spilled a little of the water down his chin; out of habit he wiped his chin and licked the moisture from that hand. “Sir? Begging your pardon, but my horse is half dead, and I’m not much better—”
“You may have a fresh mount from our stable. But you should go quickly.”
“It’s a whole extra day to the city from here, sir!”
Charris scowled. “Stay, then,” he snapped. “But when you hear what’s about to happen and the sound haunts your nightmares for the rest of your life, remember that I tried to spare you.”
He turned on his heel, ignoring the messenger’s confused “Sir?” behind him. As he walked off the parapet into the tower stairwell, he heard the prison guard telling the messenger to leave and not be a fool. Ah, but of course; the prison guards had witnessed this horror before, though on a lesser scale. They knew what was to come better than Charris himself did.
On the ground level the warden of the prison met him, his craggy face tight with nervousness. “Your, ah, guest has been restless, sir,” the man said, turning to walk with Charris. “We tried to put food through the window-bars, but he growled at us and flung it out. We could try again—”
“No,” Charris said. He reached for his hip-pouch and took out the rough chunk of jungissa-stone that the Prince had given him. “Food isn’t what he hungers for right now. Make certain your men are out of the courtyard, and then wait.”
He walked through the arched corridor that led to the other courtyard. Normally prisoners were let out to exercise here, but at the moment the dusty yard held only the reinforced wagon. The horses had been unhitched to stop them from chafing against the harness; they kept trying to get away from the wagon. As Charris walked toward it he heard nothing from within, though he sensed the attention of the thing inside. The window-shutters had been nailed closed save for the one used to feed its occupant. This one was barred, but as Niyes drew close he saw only darkness within.
He stopped just beyond the range of any arm that might extend through the bars and took a deep breath to school his thoughts. The Prince had given him explicit instructions, but between the pounding of his heart and the knowledge of what was to happen, he could barely remember them.
Then he heard something stir within the wagon. A halting voice, thick and clotted, spoke from the darkness. “Is it sunset, Brother? Will… will we go out tonight?”
Charris swallowed and tapped the back of the jungissa to set it humming. “Not tonight,” he said, keeping his voice soft, no louder than the stone’s hum. “But there is work for you here. Can you feel them? Gath—” He faltered, sought another word. “Assembled nearby. One hundred men in the next courtyard over. They have been judged corrupt and require your aid.”
There was a shifting sound from within the wagon; the faint clink of chains. “I feel them. So many…” Then the voice hardened. “So many corrupt.”
Charris swallowed. “Yes. You must take them, Brother—all of them at once. Do you understand? From where you are, without touching them. Can you do that?”
The scrolls were explicit, the Prince had told him. In every account, Reapers could do this and more, Charris—see without eyes, kill without hands, drink life like wine and spit back wonders. Magic to rival the gods themselves. Don’t you want to see that for yourself?
Not for all the riches in existence, Charris had thought, though he’d known better than to give that answer aloud.
Within the wagon, Charris heard a long slow breath as though the creature tested the air through the barred window. “Filth and hatred. Do you feel it, Brother? Their fea
r?”
“Yes.” That one Charris didn’t have to feign. “I feel it.”
“Filth.” The Reaper’s voice was hard again, almost angry. “They always fear us. No faith… blasphemy. I must purify them all. I must… I must…”
The first screams caught Charris by surprise. He’d thought there would be some warning. But Charris could still hear the creature muttering to himself within the wagon even as the individual screams blended into dozens, then a great chorus of anguish—which then began, voice by voice, to fall silent.
Then the chorus resumed, closer by.
Charris turned toward the archway and froze in shock. The warden stood there, his body rigid, his face twisting into an expression like nothing Charris had ever seen before—though his eyes were shut tight. Asleep. It was the guards who were screaming at the sight of him; the warden himself was silent. As Charris watched, the warden began to shake all over, his hands clenching and unclenching in rapid spasm, urine splattering the dusty ground beneath his loindrapes. His eyes snapped open suddenly, awake but not awake, white as cowrie shells. The muscles of his neck stood out in taut cords as his teeth ground audibly.
“No,” Charris whispered.
“No faith,” snarled the Reaper.
It was happening all around now, throughout the prison fortress. The prisoners were dead. The guards were dying.
“No!” Horror woke Charris from his stupor at last. He ran to the wagon and banged on the bars. “Stop it! Not them! They—they are your brothers, you shouldn’t, not them—”
“My brothers would not fear,” came the voice from within, sounding more lucid now. More than lucid; there was a fierce, gleeful undercurrent in its voice.
“Stop it, gods damn you! You’re killing everyone!”
Something moved in the shadows and then suddenly the Reaper was at the bars. His eyes, the color of pitted iron surrounded by bloodshot whites, saw beyond the world into some nightmarish place Charris prayed he would never visit. Housing them was a painfully gaunt face, skin stretched so tightly over the bones that it shone like leather. That skin crinkled now—he expected to hear the sound of its flexing and folding, like dead leaves—in a rictus that Charris realized hours later was the Reaper’s attempt to smile.
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