The Killing Moon (Dreamblood)

by N. K. Jemisin

  With a supreme effort Ehiru managed to close his eyes. But this was a mistake: the whine of the jungissa followed him into the darkness, and the voice spread its roots farther into his mind.

  “Now. Reach out, Brother. Distance should be no barrier to you. Reach out, across the desert. Do you feel them?”

  With his eyes shut, Ehiru had nothing to focus on but the voice. He fought it, but his mind stretched forth anyhow, falling away from him as though down a slanting pit. Visions formed around him: the desert, flying on skyrer’s wings. There was the village of Ketuyae, there the oasis at Tesa. There were the foothills, and suddenly his descent changed. Something pulled him aside. He frowned, slowing, tasting blood and pain and nightmare-thick fear on the air.

  And death.

  Where there was death, there was dreamblood.

  “Corruption, Brother. Do you feel it? Filth the likes of which our land has not seen in centuries.”

  Ehiru felt it. He whimpered as terror/cruelty/rage beat against his senses, driving thought even further beneath the surface of his mind. He could see them now, hundreds, thousands, men with swords and bloodlust, intent on hacking one another to pieces. The antithesis of peace. Then the vision changed and he saw only light where they had been—sparks that flared and then faded in death, others that burned steadily, together merging into a flickering whole. A Sun whose warmth promised to fill the cold and aching emptiness within him.

  So many souls. So very many.

  On another plane, Ehiru licked his lips.

  “They will come here, Ehiru. Infect us with their savagery and chaos, destroy our peace—Her peace—forever.” The voice moved closer to his ear, whispering its warning over distant screams of pain and rage and his own ravening lust. “Stop them, little brother. Take them. Take them all now, and share them with me.”

  There was nothing left in him that could fight. The magic and the hunger had consumed it all.

  Stretching out his hands and mind, Ehiru took hold of over twenty thousand lives, and began to Reap.

  39

  By the age of eight floods, a Gujaareen child should be able to read Law and recite the first four tenets of Wisdom, multiply and divide by fours and tens, and wield his soulname for protection in dreams.

  (Wisdom)

  The sight of Waking Moon had been a comfort to Sunandi throughout her childhood. The hours of the Dreamer belonged to those who ruled Kisua’s streets; that was the time of slavers and whoremasters, muggers and gangs. The strong who devoured the weak. But the setting of the Dreamer marked the end of their time, for by then the worst of the predators would have hunted, fed, and returned to their lairs to dream cold, bloody dreams. After that, only Waking Moon hung in the sky—the shy, plain sister of the heavenly queen, who had the heavens to herself for only an hour or so before the Sun returned. Less in the rainy season. But while Waking Moon’s pallid light shone over the city streets, the weak had their time. The child called Nefe and her fellows at the bottom of the hierarchy could creep forth from their hiding places then, to nibble on the leavings of their betters. And if there was no food to eat and nothing of value to steal, at least there was safety, and with safety had come the few moments of happiness she recalled in that early life. Playing. Laughing. Feeling, for that one hour, like a child. She would never regret being adopted by Kinja—but neither had she ever forgotten those times, as dear to her as the mother she barely remembered.

  Tonight the Waking Moon’s light gave her no comfort, for beneath it she could see the armies of Gujaareh covering the plateau of Soijaro like a leper’s sores.

  Too late, priest. We have failed, both my corrupt ways and your mad, rigid justice. And now both our lands will drown in blood.

  Sunandi’s horse moved restlessly beneath her, perhaps reacting to the scent of fear in the air. She controlled the animal with a clumsy tug on the reins, and only then realized that Anzi Seh Ainunu had come up beside her, accompanied by Mweke Jeh Chi, chief Wisewoman of the Protectors. Anzi, the general of the Kisuati forces, was a tall hard sword of a man, brutally straightforward in speech and action. Mweke was a sharp contrast to him: a plump self-possessed elder, radiant with quiet power. The storytellers in the capital said she was a mystic whose dreams often came true. Rumor also had it she was not fully Kisuati, which would be a great scandal if true, though no one had managed to prove it yet. Sunandi wondered if she was part Gujaareen.

  “The final attempt at parley has failed,” Mweke said, reining in her horse beside Sunandi’s. She spoke softly, though all the camp was awake and restless with the coming battle. “Our rider was given an arrow through the gut for his trouble.”

  Sunandi drew her robes closer about herself, chilled by more than the cool night air. “We knew a truce was unlikely, Esteemed.”

  “But you hoped.” The old woman smiled at Sunandi’s expression. “You have been waiting for your priest-friend to stop this somehow.”

  Sunandi opened her mouth to tell Mweke that Gatherer Ehiru was in no way her friend, but then closed it. It no longer mattered. If he had failed, then he was dead.

  “I must go,” Anzi said. His voice was deep, surprisingly gentle for that of a soldier, perversely reminding her of Ehiru. “The enemy waits only for dawn.”

  Mweke nodded to give him leave, but the general did not urge his horse away for a moment. “There’s a wrongness in this,” he said abruptly, looking out over the plateau. His forehead, Sunandi saw, was deeply lined in a frown. “The enemy’s plan is flawed. They’ll all die.”

  Sunandi frowned, trying to fathom how he had concluded this by looking at the army massing below. In the distance she could make out a line of masts along the coast; these were the mysterious ships whose existence Kinja and probably Niyes had died to reveal. Their deaths had not been in vain, for between those warnings and the Protectors’ own suspicions, Kisua was ready to meet the Gujaareen attack, just. Anzi had managed to assemble twelve thousand soldiers, who surrounded the plateau and filled the valley beyond it—the only logical path the invaders could take to reach the Kisuati capital.

  But although Sunandi was no expert in the strategies of war, she could see no reason for Anzi’s confidence. Twelve thousand soldiers, many of them exhausted from being force-marched across half of Kisua to reach the plateau in time, were by no means a sure victory against ten thousand warriors who were fresh and chafing for battle.

  “We have enough to hold them,” Anzi said, as if reading Sunandi’s mind. “And this is our land. We have ambushes set throughout the valley and the surrounding mountains. Our supply lines are reliable. We can keep them here days, even weeks if we must—long enough for our troops on the way from the south to arrive. It will be a war of attrition, which they will inevitably lose. Their commander is a fool if he doesn’t see this.”

  Mweke watched him for a moment. “Perhaps they, too, have reinforcements on the way.”

  “Perhaps. Likely, in fact. But this is still wrong,” Anzi said. Sunandi winced at his disrespect, but Mweke merely sighed. Perhaps the Protectors were used to him. “This was foolish from the outset. If they meant to win, they should have arrived with twice this number, if not more.”

  “What are you saying, General?” Sunandi said. “That they have no desire to win?” She could almost smell the Gujaareen troops’ hatred. Many of them were northerners, the scouts had reported—barbarians who scorned all civilized folk as soft and decadent cowards. They were hungry for the chance to reap the riches of Kisua.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “You know these foreign madmen better than I. But if they’ve come to die on our shores, then I shall be happy to oblige them.” He gave Sunandi and Mweke a curt nod, then wheeled his horse away. They saw him start down the trail that led from their encampment on the heights into the valley. From there he would lead the battle.

  Which would be very soon now, Sunandi saw. The sky in the east had grown visibly paler in the past few moments.

  “We should break camp, Esteemed,” sh
e said to Mweke. “Negotiation is no longer possible. We must return to the capital, where you and the other Protectors can be properly defended.”

  Mweke nodded, but did not move. “Anzi is correct,” she said. “There must be something more to this. The Prince of Gujaareh is no fool. He has a maze of a mind.”

  Sunandi had never heard a more fitting metaphor, but they had more pressing matters at the moment. “We can do nothing but deal with the problem on our doorstep, Esteemed.”

  “No. We can make our own plans to foil the Prince, and have done. The relief troops from the south will not come here. The other Protectors and I have chosen to send them north.”

  Sunandi frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand, Esteemed. There’s nothing north but the Empty Thousand, and—” The realization came almost at once; she trailed off. Mweke read her face and nodded in cool approval.

  “There can be no reason for the Prince to have built a garrison in the desert,” the elder said, “other than to support an invasion by land. A second invasion. The Protectors believe this”—she gestured out at the Gujaareen army gathered on Soijaro—“to be merely a diversion. So we will deal with the true threat at its source.”

  Sunandi swallowed hard. “The general may have need of those troops, Esteemed. At the very least he should know to expect no relief.”

  “It is problematic to ask a soldier to risk his life for no good reason,” Mweke said. “He doesn’t fight as hard, thinking it hopeless; he welcomes death too quickly, thinking of the glory in sacrifice. We must have Anzi’s full commitment, for this is our distraction as well. Kisua has defenses enough to deal with this rabble, should we lose the battle. But we shall win the war. When our relief troops are done with the desert garrison, they have orders to continue even further north, to Gujaareh’s capital.”

  Struck dumb by pure horrified astonishment, Sunandi stared at her.

  “So it must be,” Mweke said. Her voice was soft, almost lost in the early-morning breeze, but implacable. “Gujaareh is a daughter gone wayward and spoiled, and now we must take her in hand. The correction will be painful for both our lands, but in the end all will be better.” She glanced over at Sunandi, contemplative. “You’ve done very well through all this, Jeh Kalawe—better than expected, given your youth. Learn from these events. They may make you a formidable Protector, some day.”

  With that, Mweke turned her horse and rode away, back to where a party of soldiers and slaves were packing their encampment to leave.

  Sunandi gazed after her, too numb to follow. Inadvertently she visualized a pitched battle at the gates of Gujaareh. The image of pale walls splashed red filled her with sudden nausea. She had always hated Gujaareh. And yet…

  Behind Sunandi, dawn broke.

  Below, on the plateau, the battle began.

  Sunandi closed her eyes against the massed battle cry of twenty-two thousand men. Silently, for the first time in her life, she prayed to Hananja.

  Stop this. Only You can, at this point. Make the Prince see reason. Save Your city—and both our lands—from more pointless, useless death.

  For a long moment, as she had expected, there was no answer. Then the back of her neck prickled, reacting to a presence. Startled, she turned in her saddle.

  Ehiru stood behind her horse, his shoulders slumped, his eyes on the ground. Sunandi caught her breath, more glad than she could ever have imagined to see him alive. But—

  He lifted his head and Sunandi recoiled, shocked by what looked out at her through his eyes. Insanity, naked and glittering, so alien to his face that she barely recognized him. Insanity and something more: hunger.

  Distantly, through the sudden pounding of her heart in her ears, Sunandi registered that the sounds of the battle below had faltered to a halt. They all see him, she realized, though she could not have said how she knew. Every soldier, official, and slave on the Soijaro plateau shared this vision.

  Then Ehiru reached for her with arms grown impossibly long, his lips stretching in a ragged smile to reveal teeth sharp as rose thorns. “I bring you peace,” he whispered, his fingers burrowing into her skin like roots.

  In the world of flesh and blood, Sunandi went rigid on her horse and began to scream. Twenty-two thousand other throats screamed with her, but that world was meaningless. The dream-world was the Reaper’s domain, the only world that mattered, and in that realm Ehiru dragged Sunandi to the ground, pinning her effortlessly. He crouched over her, still smiling his loving smile, and hunkered down to feed.

  40

  A Gatherer who refuses the Final Tithe shall be deemed corrupt.

  (Law)

  Die at last, Nijiri thought fiercely, and if you fall into the shadowlands I do not care.

  He kicked Una-une over onto his back and then straddled him, taking hold of his chin and the back of his head.

  But he had forgotten a Reaper’s speed. Una-une’s fist struck him under the chin, the force of the blow nearly breaking his neck. Stunned, Nijiri swayed back; Una-une heaved underneath him and flung him to the balcony floor. An instant later Nijiri found their positions reversed, Una-une’s head blotting out the dawn sky above him. Amber streaks of the rising Sun illuminated Una-une’s gaunt face and one eye, which glittered with malevolent glee.

  “I remember you,” the Reaper breathed, his thin body trembling with eagerness. His fingers scrabbled over Nijiri’s arms, trying to pin them. “Your soul was sweet.”

  Nijiri snarled in response and flung himself upward, driving his forehead into Una-une’s mouth. Una-une uttered a muffled grunt of surprise as Nijiri set his feet against the floor and shoved with all his strength, throwing Una-une off to one side. Freed, Nijiri scrambled to his feet, stumbling back to try and recoup his wits.

  Una-une was up as well. Quick as a dust snake he lunged, a skeleton’s grin fixed on his face. Nijiri narrowly ducked a fist; the wind of its passing tickled his scalp. He snarled and shifted his weight for a kick, but before he could deliver it Una-une ducked under his guard and tackled him with a shoulder to the belly.

  They were both lucky. Once Una-une had been a large man, shorter but heavier than Ehiru. Now he was skin and bone and shrunken sinew. His weight bore Nijiri back against the metal balcony railing hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs in an involuntary cry, but not hard enough to drive them both over to their deaths. Nijiri scrabbled at Una-une’s shoulders for a moment, nearly panicking as wind soughed up his back and warned him of the danger. Desperately he clasped his hands and slammed them into the back of Una-une’s neck with all his strength.

  The blow should have driven Una-une to his knees. But the leather collar around his neck softened the blow, and in the same instant Una-une writhed aside and backed away. He swayed, arms and collar-chain swinging, grinning in blatant mockery.

  Playing with me, Nijiri realized with a chill.

  He pushed himself away from the railing, falling into a defensive crouch and trying to ignore the throbbing agony in his neck and ribs. His anger was gone now; it had been little more than a cover for his fear. Unbidden came the memory of the Reaper’s cold touch on his flesh and in his soul, and despite the rising warmth of the day he shivered.

  But without warning Una-une’s mood shifted.

  “Afraid,” he whispered. A faint frown crossed his features; he cocked his head as if that would somehow shake loose his tangled thoughts. “Attendants… should not fear.”

  Nijiri frowned as he realized what path the mad creature’s thoughts now traveled. Not the night in the alleyway. The pranje.

  In spite of the drumbeat of his heart, Nijiri set his jaw. “You killed the boy who served you.”

  “It could have been you.” There was a manic smile on Una-une’s face; Nijiri suspected the creature meant to compliment him. “Lovely boy. For you, I would have fought the madness harder. You love Ehiru, don’t you? As he loved me…” He trailed off, confusion flickering in his face for a moment, and then he lifted his eyes. Nijiri started at the sudden luc
idity in them.

  “Hananja’s favorite,” Una-une said. He looked away, radiating shame, as Nijiri stared in confusion. “Everything came to his hand like a tame bird. His skill in Gathering, Hananja’s peace, and so many admirers. I loved him as a son… and hated him, too. Do you understand? That was when I knew. No peace left in my heart. Nothing but loneliness and anger. Time to go.”

  From the corner of his eye Nijiri saw movement. He dared a glance to the side and saw Ehiru turning away, stiff as an elder as the Prince guided him toward the railing. What were they doing? And why did Ehiru move like a man sleepwalking through some nightmare?

  Visions of the Prince throwing Ehiru over the railing rang through his mind. “Ehiru-brother!”

  For a moment it seemed as though Ehiru heard him. He stopped and began to turn back, but then the Prince murmured something and raised his other hand. A jungissa? Whatever it was, Ehiru seemed powerless to resist. He faced south again and continued to the railing.

  “Even now,” said Una-une. With a chill Nijiri realized he’d forgotten his adversary. But Una-une only watched him, hollow-eyed and radiating such deep despair that Nijiri’s hatred faltered. And that reminded him of his one remaining weapon.

  Swallowing, he lowered his hands to his sides, straightened, and took a step forward.

  “There is still peace in you, Una-une-brother,” he said. “A Gatherer belongs to Hananja, always, even now.”

  Una-une frowned at this, turning to gaze out at the horizon, but Nijiri saw that his words had been heard. Sorrow wavered in his ravaged face.

  “I was ready,” Una-une said. “I told them I wanted Ehiru to come and take my Final Tithe. But they took me away, and there’s been no peace since.” He sighed, then glanced at Nijiri. “Do you think I could’ve seen Her? Just once, in Ina-Karekh?”

  Nijiri took another step closer. “Yes, Brother. You served Her well.” He took a deep breath, trying to still the pounding of his heart, trying to feel the truth in his own words, trying not to think of Ehiru and whatever the Prince was doing to him. A Gatherer’s sole duty is to bring peace; for that a Gatherer must have peace within himself. He tried to feel compassion for Una-une. To his own surprise, it was not difficult.