The Killing Moon

by N. K. Jemisin

  That was enough to send him to his knees, dry-retching over the dusty stones. He felt Nijiri’s hands on him, trying to pull him up or at least soothe him, but that was no help. By the time he finally lifted his head, blinking away tears and gasping for breath, the warped ceremony had ended. Eninket’s shadow fell over him, right in front of the bars and within arm’s reach at last—but so sickened was Ehiru that he could not muster the will to attack.

  “I tell you this because you deserve the truth after so many lies, Ehiru,” Eninket said. His speech was faintly slurred, his eyes still hazy with lingering pleasure. “Dreamblood has more power than you could ever imagine. You know what a single life can do. What you don’t know—what the Hetawa has spent a thousand years hiding—is that the more lives one takes, and the more dreamblood one absorbs, the greater the transformations it triggers in body and soul.” He put a hand on the iron lattice and leaned forward, speaking softly and emphatically. “Take enough lives all at once, and the result is immortality.”

  Ehiru frowned up at him, uncomprehending. Nijiri’s hands tightened on Ehiru’s back. “Impossible,” Ehiru heard him say.

  Eninket gave them a lazy smile. Above it, his eyes glittered like citrines in the torchlight. “It was so for our founder Inunru,” he said. “Great Inunru, brilliant as a god, blessed by Hananja! Did you never wonder how one man could accomplish so much in a mortal lifetime? One hundred years after his first experiments he had not aged, did not die. More and more faithful flocked to the banner of Hananja as they saw him and realized the power of Her magic. The Kisuati Protectors finally banished his followers and outlawed narcomancy not because they feared the magic, but because they feared him. Inunru had made himself all but a god; they had to do something to destroy his influence.”

  “Lies,” snapped Nijiri. “The Hetawa would have known of this. There would be records, the lore would have been chiseled into every wall—”

  “The Hetawa had its own secrets to keep,” Eninket said, smiling coldly. Ehiru fixed his gaze on Una-une, who sat slumped and quiescent at Eninket’s feet. “Because another hundred years after his banishment from Kisua, right in the Hetawa’s Hall of Blessings, Inunru finally died when his own priests killed him. They, too, had come to fear him, because his power had only grown in the time since—and with it, his greed. So they killed him. And they rewrote Hetawa ritual, rewrote history itself, to make the world forget such magic existed.” Eninket leaned down, so that Ehiru had no choice but to look at him. “But I have found Inunru’s scrolls, Brother, and now I know. A Reaper is the key.”

  He reached out and caressed Una-une’s bowed head with a tenderness that had nothing to do with affection.

  “When our armies and those of Kisua meet on the battlefield,” Eninket continued, “their bloodlust and pain will draw the Reaper’s hunger like a moth to flame. But this moth will devour the flame, and through him so shall I. Una-une will die at last, burned out by the power… but I shall become as eternal as a god.” He paused, then gazed at Ehiru for a long solemn moment. “Then, however, I will need a new Reaper.”

  Ehiru’s blood turned to stone.

  With a soft sigh, Eninket turned away. “Rest well, Brother,” he said. “I’ll be back from Kite-iyan when the war is done. The guards will inform me when the necessary changes have taken place in you.” He started to leave, then paused and glanced at Nijiri. “You may think this no kindness… but at least the boy will be a willing first victim.”

  With that, the Prince of Gujaareh walked away, gesturing for all the guards, even the ones who’d caged them, to follow. The children hooded the Reaper and coaxed it to its feet. It shuffled away between them, docile for the moment.

  “Eninket,” Ehiru whispered. He did not know if it was a curse or a plea. If Eninket heard, he gave no sign.

  The great stone doors rumbled shut once more, sealing them within the tomb.

  FOURTH INTERLUDE

  Have you fathomed the secret yet? The thread of folly that eventually wove our doom?

  There is a reason we Servants of Hananja vow celibacy. There is a reason the Princes were leashed. These were raindrops in a waterfall, a grain of sand flung at a storm, but we tried. True dreamers are both geniuses and madmen. Most lands can tolerate only a few, and those die young. We encouraged ours, nurtured them, kept them healthy and happy. We filled a city with them and praised our own greatness. Do you understand just how beautiful, and how dangerous, that was?

  And yes, I knew. I’ve told you I was a talekeeper; I have always known the answers to these questions. We train our children to keep their own counsel. When I became a Gatherer, I watched, and would have spoken if the need had come. Fortunately there is no need. Is there?

  Is there?

  Ah, Superior, even without speaking, you are a poor liar.

  Will you tell my brethren, at least, that I died? Ehiru. I should have told these tales to him, not you… but he has always been fragile, despite his strength. His faith sustains him—and faith is so easy to break.

  So tell him I died. It will be true by the time you’re done with me. And tell him that I love him. He’ll need that in the time to come. And those words, I know, will be true until dreams end.

  35

  Speak all prayers in Sua, the tongue of the motherland, that we may remember always who we were.

  Speak of all dreams in our own tongue, that we may embrace who we become.

  (Law)

  Amid the thrones of the dead, the pranje begins.

  * * *

  The first day.

  “I’m not afraid, Brother. I can help you—”

  “St-stay away from me.”

  * * *

  The first night: metal scrapes against oiled twine.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Forgive me for waking you. I thought perhaps I could cut some of the knots holding the ironwork together. If we can get out of this cage…”

  Silence for a moment. “That was your hipstrap-clasp. The one your mother gave you.”

  “It was a child’s thing.” More scraping. “Are you thirsty, Brother? There’s water, though no food.”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t drunk since—”

  “No.”

  After a sigh, the scraping resumes.

  * * *

  The second day: morning, or what passes for such among the thrones of the dead. Slow, even breathing overlaid by whispered prayer.

  “Forgive me, forgive me, Hananja I beg You, I should have offered You my tithe after the Bromarte, I know it now, forgive my pride and selfishness, please please please do not let me kill him.”

  * * *

  The second day: afternoon. A brief draught of fresh air and the fading echoes of guards’ boots.

  “At least we won’t starve. Here, Brother.”

  “I want nothing.”

  Silence.

  A reluctant sigh.

  “Now drink. Your mind will fight harder if your body’s healthy.”

  “Have you forgotten your promise, Nijiri?”

  “… No, Brother.”

  “Then why do you delay? You see what must be done.”

  “I see that you must eat and drink, and when our meal is done you must pray with me, and then while you meditate I’ll resume work on those twine hinges. It may take several days, but I think—”

  Unnatural fury splits the air. “Foolish, wicked child! Do you enjoy my suffering? Will you force me to perform another of those—perverted—”

  “I want anything but your suffering, Brother. But if you take me it will be a true Gathering, because I offer myself willingly.”

  “Already my thoughts… the visions… I cannot…” A deep breath, a struggle for calm. “You gave your word, Nijiri.”

  “Have you considered what will happen if I take you, Brother?”

  “What?”

  “It might take longer with me—or it might go faster. I don’t have your strength. But in the end, one Reaper will b
e as good as another to the Prince.”

  Long and terrible silence.

  “Drink, Brother. When we’ve won our way free—and when there’s no chance of either of us becoming the Prince’s plaything—then I will send you to Her. That I vow, with everything that I am.”

  * * *

  The second night: silence in the halls of the dead, but for scraping.

  * * *

  The third day: morning. Harsh and shaky breath.

  “Brother?”

  “The bars. They constrict. They, they will crush us.”

  “No, Brother. It was a vision—”

  “I saw them.”

  “Then come sit beside me. Death is nothing to fear, is it? Over here, the bars will take less time to reach us. Come.”

  Sandals shift on stone, slowly and reluctantly.

  “Good. Feel my hand. I have calluses now, do you see? Camel reins, barge-rowing, twine-scraping… who knew the life of a Gatherer would be so hard? Gods, I should’ve stayed a servant-caste.”

  “You.” The voice is gravel, groping for itself. “You are… too willful for that. You would’ve been… forced to find a new master every other day.”

  A rich chuckle. “Too true, Brother. I should be grateful at least that the Hetawa doesn’t beat its children.”

  The harsh breathing stutters, then slows, calming.

  After a long while—“Thank you.”

  No response, although a voice begins to hum a gentle, comforting hymn.

  “It goes so fast this time, Nijiri.”

  “Shh.” Another shift; now flesh strokes against flesh. “Here. You’re here. In this world, this body. Stay with me, Brother. I need you.”

  “Yes… yes.” An audible swallow. “I’d forgotten what true fear felt like. Nothing holds it back anymore.”

  “There’s nothing to fear. All will be well. Rest. I’ll be here when you wake.”

  * * *

  The third day: afternoon. The stir of fresh air. The stillness of the dead is broken by three new voices, peaceless and loud and disrespectful.

  “Is he dead yet? I’ve got money on you, boy.”

  “Look at those eyes, Amtal! If hate could kill, you’d be dead already.”

  “No luck. The big one is breathing. He’s just asleep.”

  “Sitting up?”

  “Maybe that’s how they do it. Maybe he’s trying to kill you from afar.”

  “Maybe he’s laying a curse on your family line.”

  “Maybe he’s laying a curse on your family jewels!” Raucous laughter.

  “Just feed them, you imbeciles, and let’s go. I don’t like this place.”

  Stone and chains; the return of silence. After a time, the scraping begins again.

  * * *

  The third night: early evening.

  “You’re shivering.”

  “N-not… cold.”

  “I know.”

  “Have I ever… harmed you, Nijiri?”

  “Harmed me? No, why do you ask?”

  “A v-vision. It was the pranje. I hurt you. Beat you. K-killed.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Brother. I’m here, aren’t I? I never sat pranje for you, though I wanted to, trained to. And I listened to the rumors about you, talked to others who attended you. Don’t worry; you’ve never done such a thing.”

  A voice that trembles: “In the vision, I wanted to.”

  A voice that soothes: “I will never let that happen.”

  * * *

  The third night, late, or the fourth morning, early: the small hours. The infinitesimal sounds of stealth. Death creeps on fingers and toes.

  Slow, even breathing catches for a moment, then resumes.

  “Welcome, Brother.”

  Silence.

  “Do you want me?”

  Silence, pent.

  “Take what you need. Use it to free yourself. I’ll wait for you in Ina-Karekh.”

  Silence. Stealth abandoned; now there is only breath, ragged with strain.

  “N… nnh…”

  Waiting.

  “Nnnnh…” The voice breaks; it sounds barely human. “N-no. I will n-not. I will not.”

  “Brother—No, Brother, don’t—Here. Yes. Yes, Brother.”

  The sobs that break the silence are without hope, but the soothing tones that overlay them are confident and loving.

  “I wanted to… I would have… Indethe a etun— ”

  “Shhh. She has never turned Her sight from you, Brother. You’re Her most beloved servant, and you have served Her long and well. She’ll welcome you when the time comes. You will dwell in Her peace forever. I shall see to that myself.”

  “Now, Nijiri. It must be now. The next time—”

  “The next time you’ll do whatever you must. But try to hold on, Brother. I cut through the hinges a few hours ago. Now only a push will make the wall come loose. When the guards come again, we can break free.”

  “Can’t… hold…”

  “You can. I’ll help you. Shhh. Close your eyes. Yes, like that. Shhh. I’ll weave us a dream; would you like that? Not a Gathering, but perhaps enough to keep the madness at bay awhile longer. Now lie still.”

  “Nijiri.”

  “I’ve always loved you, my Brother. I no longer care what’s right. You are my only Law. Rest now, safe in my dreams.”

  Silence.

  * * *

  The fourth day.

  “The Prince was right, Brother.”

  Massive chains rumble, sending forth echoes as stone doors shift. Fresh air wafts through the catacombs. Amid the thrones of the dead, life gathers itself for battle.

  “You have indeed become a weapon, but not his. All things serve Hananja’s will—even this. Remember that, no matter what you do.”

  The rumbling ceases; footsteps violate the peaceful sanctity of Yanyi-ija-inank as the guards approach.

  “And no matter what happens, I shall never leave your side.”

  * * *

  The guards stop before the cage’s door. “So, boy. Is he dead yet?” They laugh.

  And Ehiru looks up, smiling a smile that chills their souls.

  “Yes,” the Reaper says.

  36

  The Reaper is the abomination of all that Hananja holds dear. Do not suffer such a creature to live.

  (Law)

  The first guard fell when Ehiru kicked the loosened cage wall off its hinges. The wall was heavy; it knocked one guard to the ground while the other two, caught by surprise, stood there in shock. By the time they reacted, Ehiru was out of the cage and on them.

  Nijiri ran out after him, ready to take down whichever one Ehiru missed, but there was no need. Ehiru struck the first guard a slashing blow across the throat, and in the same blurring movement twisted about and took hold of the second guard’s face. Nijiri saw the guard—screaming, blinded by Ehiru’s fingers on his eyes—fumble for his sword. Nijiri rushed forward to assist Ehiru, but abruptly the guard made a strangled sound and sagged to his knees. Ehiru released him. The man fell over on his side, dead.

  All things were Hananja’s will. Nijiri clung to that thought. In Her name they would do whatever needed to be done.

  The first guard gurgled and finally died, clutching his throat. The third guard had managed to get halfway free of the entangling lattice of metal, but his leather breastplate had snagged on a spar. Ehiru, swaying in the aftermath of his Reaping, turned slowly, his attention attracted by the man’s struggles.

  Nijiri crossed the room in three strides, dropped to one knee beside the struggling soldier, and broke his neck in one swift jerk.

  The glaze faded from Ehiru’s eyes. He blinked at Nijiri, lucid again for however long the guard’s dreamblood might last him. Sorrow flooded his face as he gazed down at Nijiri’s handiwork.

  “No more than is necessary, Brother,” Nijiri said, standing. He wiped his hands on his foredrape. “Now come. We still need to make our way out of Yanya-iyan.”

  “Eninket.” Ehiru’s voice w
as deeper than usual, as rough and sluggish as if he’d just eaten timbalin paste. Even now, when he was newly flush with dreamblood, Nijiri could hear madness lurking near the surface of his lucidity.

  The dreamblood no longer holds it back. It keeps him alive, nothing more.

  Hananja’s will. Setting his jaw, Nijiri replied, “He said he was going to Kite-iyan.”

  Ehiru nodded and turned on his heel, heading for the door. Startled, Nijiri hurried after him. The corridor beyond the catacombs’ entrance was empty, for which Nijiri gave private thanks. The Prince must have limited the guards to three in order to minimize the chance that word of Ehiru’s and Nijiri’s capture would get out.

  “Three’s an unlucky number, anyway,” Nijiri muttered to himself.

  They went up the steps two at a time and then out into the brighter-lit corridors of Yanya-iyan’s ground floor. Servants and courtiers stumbled in passing, staring at them. Doubtless they rarely saw hollow-eyed, unwashed men in Kisuati garb sweep through the palace like a flood, Nijiri thought cynically. If they raised any alarm it was slow, so Nijiri and Ehiru remained unmolested all the way to the courtyard. As they crossed the sandy expanse toward Yanya-iyan’s bronze gates, for a fleeting moment Nijiri’s mind was flung back to Hamyan Night, which now seemed ages ago and a thousand dreams away.

  The guards on duty faced the courtyard gate, alert for unwanted intruders and unaware of the internal threat. They might have escaped relatively unscathed if someone up on one of the high tiers of the palace hadn’t whistled an alarm. One of the men turned and spied Nijiri and Ehiru. Startled, he jostled his fellow, both of them turning; Nijiri broke into a run to close the distance, hearing Ehiru’s steps speed up beside him. The first man grinned, seeing only an unarmed youth rushing toward him. Not bothering to draw his sword, he braced himself to grapple. Nijiri ducked his first grab, skidded to a crouch, and drove his fist at the side of the man’s knee. The wet pop of cartilage echoed though the empty courtyard.

  The man began to scream, dropping to the ground and holding his knee. Nijiri heard another scream behind him and turned to see Ehiru, his eyes glittering with unholy fierceness, letting a corpse fall from his hands. Before it fell onto its face, Nijiri saw an expression of starkest horror frozen on its features.