The Killing Moon

by N. K. Jemisin

  “I do not ‘kill,’ ” the Reaper said.

  Nearby, the last of the guards fell silent. Staring into those eyes, wishing he could close his own, Charris abruptly became aware that the only sound he could hear other than the wind was the jungissa’s soft hum. Everyone else in the prison was dead.

  Everyone but him.

  Only the jungissa protects me, he realized.

  And as that understanding came, his hand began, treacherously, to shake.

  He whimpered, sensing with instinctive certainty that if he dropped the stone, the Reaper would take him. He could see that in the thing’s mad eyes. It—for Charris could no longer think of the Reaper as a man—would burrow into his mind and rip loose his tether and drag him into the dank, shadowed cavern at its own core. There it would devour him mind and soul, leaving his flesh behind to rot.

  As if hearing his thought, the Reaper nodded slowly. Then it moved back from the bars, fading once more into the shadows. By then trembling uncontrollably, Charris dropped the jungissa. It fell into the dust and stopped humming, leaving only the low sigh of the wind.

  Some time passed.

  Later, Charris could not have said how long. He had no thoughts during that time, as he waited for the first cold, invisible caress of death. But as his mind gradually resumed functioning, he became aware of slow, heavy breaths from within the wagon. The monster, having fed, now slept.

  Charris looked up and saw that the stars had come out, framing the massive hemisphere of the rising Dreamer. By its multihued light he bent, stiffly, and picked up the jungissa. After a moment’s thought he set it humming again and attached it to the gold-and-lapis collar his wife had given him at their marriage. The stone’s faint whine resonated against the metal in a monotone song. That song comforted him as he finally turned to make his way out of the courtyard, heading to the stable to find the horses. For a moment the prospect of riding through the night with that thing hitched behind him almost made him stop thinking again, but the jungissa’s song gradually lulled away his fears. It would keep him safe. Even monsters respected some boundaries.

  He stepped carefully over the messenger’s body as he prepared to return to Yanya-iyan.

  23

  A Gatherer shall carry with him always the mark of the Hetawa: Her sacred flower, the moontear. As well he shall leave his own mark in the form of a lesser flower, for in the execution of Her blessing a Gatherer is like unto divine.

  (Law)

  When Sunandi saw the Gatherer go into the old woman’s tent, she decided to act. Clenching her fists, she marched after him, intending to denounce him in front of the whole caravan if she had to—and then the boy stepped out of the shadows beside the tent. She stopped dead, suddenly uneasy. Were Gatherer-Apprentices permitted to kill? She couldn’t recall, but something told her this one wouldn’t care about permission.

  But then the boy startled her by speaking. “He has sanction. That of the Goddess is all he needs, but he also spoke with Gehanu.”

  That shattered Sunandi’s rising anger. Her fists unclenched and she stared at him. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Not everyone fears death the way you do.” There was no scorn in the boy’s manner this time. His anger from their earlier altercation seemed to have faded completely. “Go speak to Gehanu if you doubt me.”

  “I will.” She pivoted on her heel before she could question herself. Logic told her that in the time it took her to speak to Gehanu, the Gatherer could kill the old woman, but suddenly her courage seemed to have deserted her. The boy’s manner had unnerved her too much. In that brief exchange he’d seemed far too much like his mentor, exuding the same perverse mingling of menace and compassion. That had been an unpleasant reminder of her own status of “abeyance,” and the even less pleasant knowledge that they could revoke that status whenever they pleased.

  It had been an error of judgment to discount the boy as a threat, she decided, trying to get a grip on her fear as she crossed the encampment and drummed on Gehanu’s tent. Whatever the Hetawa did to train its killers had already set its mark deep in his soul.

  Gehanu called for Sunandi to enter in her own tongue and grinned when she saw who it was, switching languages with the ease of a veteran trader. “Ah, Nefe. I would have thought you’d still be in the baths, enjoying a taste of civilization. Spoiled city woman.”

  Sunandi forced a smile, moving to sit opposite Gehanu’s pallet. “I had a good soak earlier. ’Anu—about my companions—”

  “The priest, you mean?” Gehanu smiled at Sunandi’s startled nod. “You have so many secrets, some of them break loose when you aren’t looking.”

  “So it seems. Then he does have your sanction? The boy said so. I didn’t believe him.”

  “The boy was a surprise. Never saw a young one before, though I suppose they can’t spring whole from gourds. Yes, I told him he could talk to Talithele.”

  “You—” She struggled to keep her tone polite and not accusatory. “You are aware of what he might do to her?”

  “If she wants it.”

  “His kind don’t care whether you want it or not.”

  Gehanu raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the one who brought him here?”

  “Under duress. I don’t trust him. I don’t even like him.”

  “A shame. He seems decent enough.”

  “For a killer! One of his ‘brothers’…” She faltered as the grief rose again to mingle with her anger, nearly choking her. She pushed the word out around it. “Lin.”

  “The scamp? She was Gathered?”

  “No, murdered. That thing that’s been running around the city—”

  “Ah!” Gehanu uttered a soft wail. “Not that! Tell me not!” She caught her breath when Sunandi nodded. “Oh gods of earth and sky.”

  “That monster started out as a Servant of Hananja, like him,” Sunandi said, nodding in the direction of Talithele’s tent. “That’s why you should stop him.”

  But to her surprise, Gehanu shook her head. “Not my place. The choice belongs to Talithele.”

  “I told you—”

  “He said he’d ask her permission. I believe him.”

  “You can’t believe anything he says! Even he doesn’t realize how evil he is!”

  Gehanu’s face became stony, and it was only then that Sunandi realized she’d raised her voice in her host’s tent. “Bi’incha. Gehanu, forgive me.” She sighed, rubbing her eyes. “I’m going mad. I miss Lin so much, I can’t even think anymore.”

  “Forgiven,” Gehanu said at once, her face softening. She reached over to take Sunandi’s shoulder. “My heart aches with you, Nefe. But Talithele is dying. In my land she would be surrounded by dozens of her offspring, welcomed by all the ancestors buried beneath our soil. Here she is virtually alone and cut off from the land of her birth. The priest gives her another choice. I have no right to take it from her.” Gehanu lifted her pipe, took a long inhalation, and sighed out smoke. “At least with the priest she will have no pain.”

  Sunandi lowered her eyes, feeling her own grief resonate with Gehanu’s. If she could have given Lin this choice—Gathering, or the terrible death the girl had suffered instead—would she have done so? She refused to contemplate that question.

  Instead she said, “Forgive me for questioning your decision.”

  Gehanu shrugged. “If it comforts you, I doubt she’ll accept his offer. We asked her if she wanted to go to the Hetawa while we were in Gujaareh, and she said no. Didn’t want to be healed—just wants to let life happen as it may. I can’t imagine an eightday would have changed her mind. She’ll stay around for as long as she can, just to plague me.”

  Sunandi smiled in spite of herself. “That would be good.”

  “Good? You don’t know the woman. Enough about that. I’m glad you came, because I had something else to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  Gehanu nodded, setting the pipe down on its stand. She began to rummage in her robes. “The village headman had a messa
ge that he wanted sent to Kisua. Since you speak for Kisua…” She pulled her hand out of a fold and opened it to reveal a tiny scroll. Sunandi caught her breath; it was the same type of scroll that Kinja had always used in communicating with Kisua’s network of spies. She hadn’t realized that network extended to Tesa. Kinja must have cultivated the village headman on his own.

  She took the scroll and opened it, scanning the coded hieratics quickly. “Strange.”

  “Another stray secret?”

  “I’m not certain. It says that some of the Shadoun have seen odd things some ways east of Tesa, in the high desert. Tracks where there should be none—camels and horses, many in number and carrying heavy enough to leave lasting marks. Two trackers went east to follow, but never returned. I don’t understand why the headman thought this was significant.”

  Gehanu frowned. “The Shadoun tribe have lived in the high desert for generations. For one tracker to go astray is unusual. Two is bad.”

  “They could have been tracking a trade caravan too poor to pass through Tesa. Some poor fools who got lost. A marauder band that killed them, maybe.”

  “A lot of marauders, if so. And with a lot of provisions; you can’t bring that many horses into the high desert without a reliable source of water and feed. That doesn’t sound like poor lost caravanners.”

  “Soldiers, then?” Sunandi shook her head. “No. The Empty Thousand is neutral territory between the Protectorate and the Gujaareen Territories. It belongs to the desert tribes, really, though mostly because no one else wants it. Neither land is permitted to send soldiers into it. Neither land could—there’s nothing out there but sand. Soldiers need barracks, horses need stables…”

  She trailed off even as Gehanu’s eyes widened, both of them realizing the truth in the same moment.

  “And a means of resupply,” Gehanu said.

  Sunandi nodded, her mind numbed by the implications. “A garrison. Near one of the smaller oases, most likely. But how big a garrison, housing how large a force? There can’t be many. A force of any great size would have left permanent tracks as it moved through the desert. But then…” She drummed her hands on her legs, thinking. “It doesn’t have to be a large force. Just enough to strike Kisua’s defenses from an unexpected direction in advance of Gujaareh’s real armies. With such surprise they could take the northernmost cities of the Protectorate, establish a foothold before our army could get back to fight them.” Her hand trembled and she clenched it around the scroll. “Even with Kinja’s warning, I never dreamed the Prince was this mad.”

  Gehanu watched her, nibbling her bottom lip a bit. “I’ll send word around the camp. We’ll leave well before dawn, and move with as much speed as possible.”

  Sunandi nodded. “The sooner we can get this news to Kisua, the better.”

  “Not only that.” Gehanu gave her a small pained smile. “Those trackers went missing because there’s an army out there trying not to be noticed, killing anyone it finds. If some of those recent tracks came from messengers bringing orders to that army from the city—the city where someone tried to kill you—I think maybe they will be trying hard to find us. Che?”

  The evening desert chill had set in, but that had nothing to do with Sunandi’s shiver. “Ah-che,” she whispered.

  “Ti-sowu.” Gehanu smiled again, turning to a saddlebag that sat nearby. She flipped it open and pulled out two cups, followed by a polished gourd engraved with decorative carvings. “Here. You need to sleep tonight.”

  Sunandi raised her eyebrows as Gehanu gave her a cup and poured a generous amount from the gourd into it. Paniraeh wine, a potent spirit made only in the far southern countries. In spite of herself, she smiled down at the little cup. “I’ll need more than this if I’m to sleep anytime soon.”

  “I promised I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” Grinning, Gehanu produced a second bottle from the bag, then nodded toward the already-opened one. “That one is yours.”

  THIRD INTERLUDE

  Now that you have heard the greater stories I must begin the lesser—for I see that you have grown weary and distracted. No, don’t apologize. We are men of the Hetawa, after all; sleep is no hindrance. There, take the couch. Sleep if you wish. I’ll weave the tale into your dreams.

  It began with a madman. In the days when Gujaareh was new—we had only flesh healing in those days—the castes of the city began to take shape. Those sonha nobles who had settled here from Kisua split into two groups: the shunha, who wished to uphold the ways of Kisua as much as possible, and the zhinha, who wished to make Gujaareh something new. The former kept to themselves and preserved the most important lore of our motherland, while the latter mingled with outlanders and adopted many of their ways. Each group needed the other, for without this mingling of tradition and progression Gujaareh could never have established herself as a powerful trading nation so quickly. Yet each group scorned the other too, for the divisions between them were deep.

  Two things kept them together: love of Hananja, and hatred of our enemies. In those days Gujaareh was threatened by the Shadoun, a proud tribe from the desert who beheld Gujaareh’s growing wealth and coveted it for themselves. They believed us soft because of our civilized ways, and our belief in a sleeping goddess. But time and again we drove them back when they sent their raiding parties to test our defenses. It was the great general Mahanasset who led our army in those days—a man born pure shunha, yet also learned in the ways of foreign lands. His victories were brilliant, his strength in battle legendary; all loved him, from soldiers to the most rigid elders.

  Yet as time passed, his leadership began to falter. First he lost one battle, then another. Rumors drifted back from the battle lines of strange behavior. Mahanasset gave orders to soldiers long dead, charged screaming at phantoms no one else could see. The Protectors of the city, for we did things like Kisua in those days, began to worry that it would be necessary to replace him, which would be a terrible blow to the people. If Mahanasset fell in battle, the city would revere him and the armies fight harder to avenge his name. But if he were set aside, the city would be wounded by sorrow. With the Shadoun hovering near like scavengers, we dared not weaken ourselves.

  Thus did Inunru, the founder of our faith and head of the Hetawa at that time, intervene with a possible solution. In the ancient knowledge of narcomancy brought out of Kisua, there existed a secret form of healing that had been forbidden in the motherland because it brought death as well as life. Yet applied properly, this secret art might have the power to do what the Hetawa’s healers otherwise could not—restore a broken soul to peace.

  Yes, you understand now. It seems strange to think that something so valued in our society today was once feared and misunderstood then… but this was the beginning of the change. Mahanasset was brought to the Hetawa—raving, sick, unable to tell reality from phantasm. One of the Hetawa’s priests, a dying old man, offered himself as the donor of the dream. Inunru himself performed the transfer from one to the other—and in the process the city beheld not one but two miracles. The first was the restoration of Mahanasset’s sanity. He leaped up from his sickbed whole and healed in every way. The second, unexpected, miracle was the joy with which the old priest died. “Hananja, I come!” he is said to have cried in his sleep before the end. And there was no doubt that the old man had died happy, for Inunru shared his joy with everyone present. Many wept to know that he had experienced such peace.

  The rest you can guess. Mahanasset resumed control of his army and led them in a devastating strike against the Shadoun, forcing them to pay tribute, barring them from the local trade, and assuring the world of Gujaareh’s strength. The dying began to come to the Hetawa in fours, then in hordes, choosing peace over misery and pain. The afflicted were brought to the Hetawa as well, and sent away sane or healed in body. When Mahanasset returned from his victorious campaigns, the people were so joyful that they made him their ruler in place of the Protectors, naming him ‘King’ as barbarians do their lords. But he refus
ed this.

  “This is Hananja’s city, as I am Hananja’s servant,” he said. “She can be the only true ruler here. I will rule in Her name as Prince, and claim ‘King’ only when I can take my place at Her side in Ina-Karekh. And I will rule with the guidance of the Hetawa, without whose wisdom Gujaareh might have fallen.”

  And so it was. Under Mahanasset the Hetawa’s law became Gujaareh’s law, and Hananja’s peace became the Prince’s gift to the people. And thus did it begin that we honor Hananja above all others.

  24

  Members of the four paths to Hananja’s wisdom are permitted to put aside propriety and the order of command, so long as this is done in service of peace.

  (Law)

  The Superior of the Hetawa sat in his office, enjoying the sounds of early morning, and wondering again how long it would be before his Gatherers came for him.

  A day and a night had passed since the meeting with the Prince, and its aftermath. Usually when he returned from such meetings in the small hours of the morning, few of the Hetawa’s denizens were about—only the two Sentinels who served as his bodyguards, the ones on guard duty, and the handful of Sharers on night duty. Sometimes a few sleepy acolytes accompanied the latter, in their contemplation of the Sentinels’ or Sharers’ paths, and a few apprentices assisted their older brethren. But as the Superior had passed through the Hall of Blessings that morning, Rabbaneh had been there, kneeling at Hananja’s feet—but not praying. The Gatherer instead faced the Hall’s entrance, and he had not donned his hooded robe; he was still on duty. Shocking to see him like that, the Superior reflected, with his back to the statue. A snub to Hananja, though a mild one since after all the statue was only a statue.