NO!
—And the dancer made no sound as the horse’s hoof came down on his head. Brain and bone sprayed the ground, the essence of a man’s whole self scattered to the dust.
Ehiru was not prepared for the rage, a flood of hatred so savage that his head pounded with it. But the soldier who had stolen his tithebearer had ridden off into the fray already.
Kill him, said the voice.
And Ehiru replied, “Yes, I shall.”
He ran after the soldier, silent, intent. Something moved across his vision and blocked his path, a different soldier brandishing a sword, words about surrender. He batted the sword aside and took hold of the arm that held it, ramming the heel of his free hand into the elbow. The wet pop of the breaking joint sounded like the head of the dancer, who might have been sentenced to an eternity in the shadowlands by a soldier’s carelessness. “I shall avenge you,” he whispered to the dancer’s soul, yanking the screaming, broken-armed soldier off the horse. The soldier kept screaming, writhing on the ground and holding the flopping ruin of his arm. Ehiru contemplated him for a moment, then remembered that this was not the soldier he wanted. He stepped around the riderless horse and continued after his prey.
Another soldier fell to the ground at his feet, choking and spitting blood. Nijiri ran into view, poised to strike again, though he held the blow when he saw that the soldier was disabled. Ehiru smiled at the sight.
“Brother!” The boy was wild-eyed. “There are more soldiers approaching from the south, a Kisuati patrol. If we can hold out a bit longer—” He caught his breath and whirled away as another soldier rode at him.
“Good,” Ehiru said, gliding onward. The boy was a Gatherer; he could take care of himself.
He spotted the soldier he’d marked near the center of the madness—perilously near Talithele’s palanquin. “You shall not,” he whispered, and charged past a riderless camel to grab the man’s leather half-torso under the arm. He hauled with all his weight and the startled soldier tumbled to the ground, confused but still trying to raise his sword. Ehiru stepped on the sword and put one knee on the man’s chest to pin him down. Then he took hold of the man’s hair and chin to break his neck—
Take him.
He frowned, pausing.
For the Goddess. A tithe was lost; here is another.
Around Ehiru the world was chaos. The soldiers had spotted the Kisuati patrol and were beginning to withdraw, harried by the surviving minstrels. Gehanu was on the ground, holding Kanek’s body and screaming her grief.
So much death and waste. The woman’s corruption and the Superior’s lies and Eninket he is Eninket.
“You should have trusted me,” Ehiru snarled at the face below him. The soldier’s eyes widened. Then Ehiru put his hand on the man’s face—
mother
—and forced his eyelids shut—
Hananja I beg you for peace
—and then he was inside the soldier and the taste of dreamblood was a sweet shock, like the first splatter of rain after a long drought. And after the taste, a torrent. He threw back his head and shouted in ecstasy as the self of the soldier poured into the aching hollowness within him, sending life surging from his core out to the very tips of his fingers and toes. So delicious it was, so powerful that his head reeled and his groin throbbed and his scalp tingled and OH GODDESS YES he needed more, so much more that he shoved aside the soul to look for it. There was nothing left save what little the soul needed to remain intact but what did that matter? He snapped the tether and sucked what spilled and crushed the soul and swallowed that too, and when nothing remained but tatters of mortal anguish, only then was he satisfied.
And then horror smashed up from the depths of Ehiru’s consciousness and shattered the bliss with a single word. The name for his sin:
Reaper.
27
Inunru, first Gatherer and founder of Gujaareh, creator of narcomancy, father of healing: the details of his murder have been lost, like patterns in sand.
(Wisdom)
As the soldiers bore down on them, Gehanu grabbed Sunandi’s arm. “Into the palanquin.”
Sunandi struggled to force her camel to turn; the anxious beast still wanted to run. “Hide with a sick old woman? I’m not a coward—”
“Don’t argue with me, fool woman! Get in there and maybe you’ll survive to warn your land!”
There was no arguing with that. Swallowing her pride, Sunandi dismounted and ran to the palanquin. Two of the minstrels were helping Talithele inside, piling saddlebags around the palanquin to help shield it. She joined them and climbed inside the flimsy cloth-and-balsa enclosure with the old woman. An instant later the sounds of chaos erupted around them, shouts and clanging metal and the whistling of frightened camels. The palanquin shuddered with the vibrations of hooves and bodies against the ground.
Talithele caught her breath in fright, which turned into a racking cough. Sunandi helped her hold a cloth to her mouth, wrapping an arm around her for comfort and willing the pounding of her own heart to slow. But the sounds from without were too terrible to assuage her fears. Finally—for not knowing made the waiting worse—she pulled aside one of the palanquin’s drapes to expose a sliver of outside, and peeked through.
Guidance of the Protectors!
Only a few moments could have passed since the beginning of the attack, but already the air was thick with dust and the stench of blood and worse. Just beyond the tent lay the body of one of the men who’d helped them into the palanquin. Beyond that she saw another minstrel fall from his camel, screaming; an instant later she gasped in horror as a soldier ran him down. Gehanu ran past, screaming like a madwoman and brandishing a short sword with both hands. Then Sunandi’s heart leaped into her throat as a soldier swung his horse about and narrowed his eyes at the palanquin, spotting her as she peered through the curtain.
“We must go!” Hooking an arm around Talithele, she put her shoulder under the old woman’s arm—she was light as a child—and hauled her out of the palanquin’s other side, struggling to climb over the saddlebags. Behind them she could hear the beat of hooves, all but sense the soldier’s malice directed at her back as he drew closer, closer yet, close enough to run her through—
There was a horse’s sharp squeal of protest from behind her. She put her hand on the ground to brace herself and haul Talithele over a sack of fruit; the earth gave a hard shudder against her palm as something heavy landed nearby. She struggled to her feet and saw:
The soldier’s horse was dead. So was the soldier, lying sprawled across the now-smashed palanquin, his neck broken. Above the soldier, his fists still clenched, Nijiri stared down at the body with something like shock on his face.
Sunandi helped Talithele upright and tried to catch her breath. “Little killer,” she said between pants. “How fortunate for me that you are.”
He flinched and glared up at her, anger displacing the shock in his diluted brown eyes. Then his face hardened, turning as cold as his mentor’s. “Stay with me,” he told her. “Carry the elder and I’ll protect you both.”
She wanted to refuse him, but pragmatism—and the scream of another horse as it went down nearby—outweighed pettiness. Nodding, she lifted Talithele in her arms and moved behind him, trying not to crowd against him in her terror. He stayed where he was, keeping the palanquin debris and piled baggage at their backs, crouching in some sort of defensive stance. But when Sunandi looked around, she was relieved to see there would be little need of the boy’s skills. Although the caravan clearly had been on the losing side of the battle, their attackers were beginning to withdraw, calling alarms to one another and looking southward in visible agitation. Sunandi followed their sight and spied another party of riders drawing near, trailing a dust-plume in their wake and bracing the green-and-gold wooden shields of the Protectorate to the fore. Relief nearly brought tears to her eyes.
Abruptly Nijiri stiffened and whirled, looking not toward the Kisuati riders but off in a completely dif
ferent direction. “Stay here,” he told her, and before she could protest he went running off. She saw him halt beside Ehiru, who sat slumped on his knees beside the sprawled body of another soldier. But she had no more time to puzzle this out as the rescue party arrived.
The Kisuati riders split, the bulk of the troop continuing on in pursuit of the Gujaareen while a four veered off and slowed to ride among the minstrels. Sunandi glanced down at Talithele, torn.
“Put me down,” the old woman whispered. Her voice had gone hoarse. “I will be fine.”
After another moment’s hesitation, Sunandi crouched and helped Talithele to lie down amid some sacks of northern herbs, whose savory fragrance did little to cover the smell of death around them. They had left all their lean-tos behind when they broke camp, so she pulled some of the mangled palanquin debris over the pile and jammed one broken pole into the ground, hooking a cloth over its end to give the old woman some shade. Then she turned and raised her fists. One of the Kisuati riders, a lean, large-eyed man with a slashing scar across his face, spurred his horse over to her.
“I am Sunandi Jeh Kalawe, First Voice of the Protectors assigned to Gujaareh,” she called as he drew to a halt. She lifted the sleeve of her robe to reveal the gold band around her bicep, detaching the polished half-orb of agate set into it as a decoration. Its flat side was inscribed with a formal pictoral of a stylized double moon above four trees: the mark of passage granted to all Kisuati high officials.
He raised his eyebrows and said, “You’re a long way from your assignment, Speaker. What happened here? These aren’t the usual bandit scum.”
“Gujaareen soldiers.”
“Gujaareen! But how…?”
“I believe there may be a garrison hidden somewhere in the desert.” She stepped closer, reaching up to put a hand on his saddle. “They attacked to stop me from bringing that secret back to the Protectors, but I have more secrets to deliver, all equally important.”
His eyes widened, then hardened. “You shall deliver them, Speaker. When my captain returns I’ll tell him, and we will escort you to make certain of it.”
“These people need help first. They—” Grief and guilt struck then and she bowed her head. “They have suffered much because of me.”
The lieutenant nodded and signaled his three riders to begin aiding the wounded. Sunandi assisted as much as she could, moving among the minstrels to perform the unpleasant task of sorting the all-but-dead from those who could still be saved.
“You’re not to blame, Nefe.” Gehanu’s voice drew Sunandi out of the numbness. Kanek lay dead across Gehanu’s knees, his chest a mass of red. Tear-tracks had dried on Gehanu’s cheeks. “The people behind this don’t care what they unleash to get what they want. We were just in their way.”
Sunandi sighed and turned away.
* * *
Barely two fours of their party survived—a third of the number that had started out from Gujaareh. Like a pittance from the gods in compensation for their earlier cruelty, many of the wounded would survive thanks to the Gujaareen in their party. Nijiri revealed to the others that he was a Servant of Hananja and asked for tithes of humors to help heal the wounded. He could perform only simple healing—closing wounds, easing shock—but even that much helped greatly. The three Gujaareen minstrels who’d survived immediately let him put them to sleep and siphon whatever he needed from their dreams. He did not tell them what sort of Servant he was, Sunandi noted, and they did not ask. Nor did they censure him for lying to them, for Servants of Hananja often went in disguise for various reasons. The power of faith, even in Gujaareh’s expatriate children, was strong.
The Kisuati troop returned to report that the Gujaareen soldiers, after a pitched battle, began to turn their swords on themselves when it became clear they would lose. Those who hesitated were cut down or shot by their captain, who managed to mortally wound himself before they disarmed him. He’d died as they tried to question him.
“Those two will be accompanying me as well,” Sunandi said, nodding toward Ehiru and Nijiri. Ehiru sat on some baggage nearby, slumped in apparent exhaustion; Nijiri crouched near him, offering him water. The boy glanced around as they spoke, listening.
The captain assessed them in a glance and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Gujaareen?”
“Yes. I have promised to present them to the Protectors.”
“They might be assassins.”
Sunandi smiled thinly. “I assure you they are not.”
The captain looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “There are plenty of extra horses from the Gujaareen troop. We’ll need some to carry the bodies, but you and your companions may have one each. The rest I’m giving to this caravan to compensate them for their losses.”
“I thank you,” said Gehanu, overhearing and coming over. Her face was dry now, but its lines had deepened. She looked old and tired. “That will help.”
“Gehanu…” Sunandi groped for something to say. Gehanu gave her a weary smile, reaching out to grip her shoulder.
“Go,” she said. “Suffering and death are part of life. We’ll be fine.”
Sunandi’s throat tightened. My fault. She began to turn away, mourning Kanek, and mourning her friendship with Gehanu since it could hardly survive such a blow. But Gehanu made a sound of irritation and abruptly pulled her into a tight embrace. Sunandi stiffened, then could not help bursting into tears, as the captain tactfully withdrew behind them.
“You’re still the daughter of my heart,” whispered Gehanu. She was trembling, Sunandi noticed; trying very hard not to cry herself. “That will never change.”
When Gehanu finally released Sunandi, she pulled away reluctantly, remembering the night when a foreign trader had given shelter to a street child whose incompetence at thievery had gotten her beaten nearly to death. That trader had brought the child, a bright and pretty girl with no future, to the notice of an old sonha nobleman with no heirs. He had renamed her and raised her to do battle with kings—but the street child had never forgotten that first kindness.
“You’re still a meddling old bat,” Sunandi said back.
Gehanu gave a rusty chuckle and shook her head. “Kinja never could tame you, wild child. Go on now.”
Reluctantly, Sunandi turned away. Not far off, Ehiru had mounted his horse, and Nijiri stood near his. Another horse had been saddled for her and she pulled herself onto it now, feeling a moment’s pang as she gazed southward. That way lay home, and a storm of trouble when the Protectors learned of Gujaareh’s plotting.
Trouble? Say “war” and be truer.
She glanced over at Nijiri. It took him a moment to notice her gaze; he was staring at his mentor. When he finally did turn she was stunned at the bleak despair in his face. Then he noticed her gaze and his expression became a cool professional mask.
“We must see this through, Jeh Kalawe,” he said.
Sunandi frowned, wondering what troubled him. The soldier he’d killed? He was trained to kill, but not so brutally. Then she looked beyond him at the slumped, hooded, too-still frame of Ehiru, and guessed.
Well. At least we won’t have to waste time going to the hospital now.
After the long, bloody day, and facing a far uglier future, that was the most comforting thought her tired mind could dredge up.
The captain called the march, and they spurred their horses toward Kisua.
28
The Prince protects Hona-Karekh, as the Hetawa protects Ina-Karekh.
(Law)
Yanya-iyan’s audience chamber was nearly empty when Charris entered through its bronze doors. The dais at the far end, a mounting series of steps leading up to the throne, was normally thronged with courtiers and worshippers. Now it held only the Prince, who stood with arms extended as two of his attendants dressed him in the full-torso armor that was the Sunset’s traditional wartime garb. A third servant held the Aureole in place behind him, shifting it as he turned. “Ah, Charris. Please report.”
Charr
is knelt at the foot of the steps. “No word from the south yet, my lord. The attack would only have occurred yesterday evening. It would take time for the troops to return and send a bird or runner.”
“Hmm. Well, whether the woman is dead or not, she may have sent a message. We shall have to assume the Kisuati forewarned.” He turned, the bronze scales of his breastplate gleaming, his arms still held out from his sides. “Do I look suitably martial, Charris? Not military-caste, of course, but acceptable?”
“More than acceptable, my lord. You will inspire our soldiers to fight to their utmost.”
“Spoken like a true highcaste.” The Prince lowered his arms, gave himself one final look before the mirror that a fourth attendant held, and nodded in satisfaction. Dismissed, the servants quickly left the chamber, save the Aureole-holder. “I have no need of flattery, Charris. Niyes understood that. In time I hope you will as well.”
Charris took a deep breath to school his churning emotions. “Yes, my lord.”
“Of course, there are benefits to having a general like you, too, Charris. You ask no awkward questions, give me no disapproving looks. I suppose that’s refreshing.” Walking down the steps with the Aureole-holder in tow, the Prince gave a curt signal for Charris to rise and follow. They passed through the back of the hall, Charris nodding to the Sunset Guardsmen who fell in behind them as the Prince left the chamber.
“In the end, loyalty is what matters most,” the Prince continued. “Take our mad, murderous friend, who is currently chained and resting in the catacombs beneath the palace. He doesn’t think—not anymore. He doesn’t act unless I tell him to, or unless he’s hungry and prey comes near. In many ways this limits his usefulness, but at the same time I never need fear his betrayal. There are kings who struggle all their lives to earn that kind of loyalty, and here I have created it at will.” He chuckled. “True power, Charris. My father and all the Princes before me never had it, but I shall.”
The Killing Moon (Dreamblood) Page 23