The Shadowed Sun

by N. K. Jemisin

  “You must tell Unte at once,” she said.

  “I’d had no further raids planned, because of the coming solstice meeting,” Wanahomen said, frowning to himself. “It’s coincidence, but once they hear of this ‘request,’ the other tribe leaders will think me subservient to the Hetawa.” He paused, considering. “I could ignore the request—”

  “You will do no such thing,” Hendet said, bristling. “You know as well as I that this is not a request, but a condition of the alliance. Unte will understand.”

  “Unte isn’t the problem,” he replied, and then told her of the slain Gujaareen soldier and his subsequent decision to kill Wujjeg. “It was defiance,” he finished. “I ordered no Gujaareen deaths and he deliberately killed one.”

  “Then you were right to kill him,” Hendet said. “Though it is unfortunate; Wujjeg’s clan …” She faltered abruptly, visibly tired as she leaned back on the pillows to catch her breath. “They hold great influence with the Dzikeh-Banbarra. They will try … try to turn that tribe against you.”

  “I know,” he replied grimly. Suddenly it was all too much to bear: the Banbarra, his mother’s illness, the thrice-damned Hetawa. The priests were at the heart of all of it, he decided sullenly. If not for their Gatherers, his father would be alive and Kisua would be Gujaareh’s newest territory, and Wanahomen would have nothing more important to concern him than how to woo Tiaanet.

  But would she even want me if my father were still Prince? came the sudden, ugly thought.

  Pointless to torment himself with such thoughts now.

  “You need rest,” he said to Hendet.

  “I’m fine,” she said, but she did not resist when he helped her to lie flat. Her very acquiescence was proof of how bad she felt: she obeyed him only when she was in pain. His stomach constricted at the thought of what would happen if she didn’t improve soon. The Banbarra were nomads for part of each year, and they would not stay in Merik-ren-aferu much longer. After the solstice, the six tribe leaders would gather and decide whether to support Wanahomen’s war. But then whether the war was fought or not, won or lost, the tribe would begin the long journey across the Empty Thousand to the continent’s western coast, there to trade and grow wealthy from the goods they’d made or stolen during the year. Wanahomen had made the springtime desert crossing many times now in his years among the Banbarra, and he had seen the harsh reality of it: the old and infirm did not often survive the journey.

  Then I must win Gujaareh before spring.

  Tucking the blankets close around his mother’s chin, Wanahomen leaned down and pressed his lips against her forehead. “Dream well, Mother,” he whispered. “In Her peace.”

  “And you, my son,” she said, and closed her eyes.

  He had not told her of the images that had haunted his dreams for the past few weeks: his father consumed with rot, the rot threatening his own flesh, and the terrible flood of evil that threatened to swamp Gujaareh. His mother would see meaning in such dreams, and perhaps she would be right to do so.

  But what good did that do, when all was said and done? Why should he worry about dream phantoms when he had fears enough for a thousand nightmares in the waking realm?

  So he settled himself on the furs beside his mother’s pallet and watched her until she fell asleep. Once she had passed into Ina-Karekh for the night, he got to his feet and left to plan the next stage of his war.

  12

  The Second Test

  By Law and Wisdom, bodies were kept in state for a time after death. No one knew how long the final journey to Ina-Karekh took without the aid of a Gatherer; Gujaareh’s most brilliant Teachers had debated the matter for centuries to no conclusion. Consensus held there was some possibility, however remote, that destroying the flesh too soon might upset the soul and send it hurtling toward the shadowlands. Women were safe from this, naturally, being goddesses who could steer themselves through Ina-Karekh: they were kept for one day, as a courtesy, though girls before menarche were given two since their womanly power was less developed. Men, however, were ordinary—therefore the Law dictated that male bodies be kept for a minimum of four days after death, and longer where embalming and sarcophagi allowed. The only exceptions to this Law were for male bodies that bore a Gatherer’s mark, and any others whose souls were known to be safely beyond the waking realm.

  They burned Gatherer Sonta-i two days after his death. He had given no Final Tithe; no one knew the disposition of his soul, or if it even still existed. Yet he was cremated as if his death had been proper and wholesome, because to do otherwise would invite questions that the Hetawa could not, dared not answer. How did he die? would be the least of them. The ones to follow would be far, far worse: What is this terrible dream that killed him? What can the Hetawa do to stop it? And the answer to that last one—Nothing, we can do nothing—would disrupt the entire city’s peace.

  For there were now five new victims.

  Hanani stood at the entrance to the Hall of Respite, one of the buildings allotted to the Sharer path. It was in this building that the most difficult and disturbing healing magic was performed. While most displays of magic were believed to strengthen a worshipper’s belief, some healings required that limbs be severed or broken, babies cut from their mothers, or worse. That did not apply in this case, but the sight of the five helpless dreamers was disturbing nevertheless because so little could be done for them.

  Several senior Sharers moved among the Hall’s beds, examining and tending the dreamers as best they could. Beyond them, Mni-inh spoke quietly with a cluster of layfolk nearby—the families of the victims, Hanani assumed. She wondered what he could possibly have found to say to them.

  Turning to face the central courtyard, she saw that Sonta-i’s funeral pyre had fallen in on itself at last. The Dreaming Moon was high overhead; they’d lit the pyre at sunset. A handful of mourners had lingered throughout the burning, but now they drifted away in ones and twos as if the collapse of the pyre had been a signal. None of them spoke as they walked away, Hanani noticed. No one wept. Perhaps, with the state of the Gatherer’s soul so in doubt, no one knew quite how to mourn.

  “Sharer-Apprentice.”

  Teacher Yehamwy’s voice. It was a sign of Hanani’s own low spirits that she felt none of the usual dread as she turned to face him. But perhaps he felt the same; there was none of the usual distaste in his eyes.

  “Teacher.” She inclined her head to him, then glanced at the open curtain of the Hall of Respite. “I did not enter, Teacher.”

  He glanced at the entrance as if that was the last thing on his mind, and sighed. “Well. Given the circumstances, it seems clear the boy’s death was unforeseeable. In the morning I shall inform the council that my interdiction is lifted. I’m sure they’ll concur.”

  Just like that. Hanani stared at him, too numbed to speak. But then the breeze shifted, carrying a whiff of the funeral pyre—incense and fragrant wood-resin and the unmistakable odor of charred flesh—and whatever elation she might have felt vanished unborn. Soon she would be able to heal again. But what good did that do when even dreams had turned to poison? She could not bring herself to thank Yehamwy.

  Yehamwy seemed to be ignoring her in any case, gazing across the courtyard at the pyre. He wore a Teacher’s brown formal robes, which meant that he’d probably attended Sonta-i’s funeral.

  “There was a time when I thought you were the greatest threat to our way of life,” Yehamwy said, not taking his eyes from the pyre.

  Hanani started. “Me, Teacher?”

  “You. Our walking, breathing capitulation to the Kisuati and their ‘superior’ ways.” He sighed. “Their women are not goddesses, merely weak mortal creatures who do the same work as men—and can suffer the same torments. Their servants are bought and sold like meat, their elderly resented as a burden … I would not have this for Gujaareh.” He shook his head slowly, his eyes reflecting the pyre’s flickering light. “But in the end, you’re just a foolish girl-child who will never kn
ow true womanhood. If you want to heal, why should I stop you? Compared to the real dangers in the world, you are nothing.” He turned away from the pyre, and also from Hanani. “I suppose the Goddess has seen fit to remind us all of that.”

  He walked away then. Hanani stared after him until his brown robe blended into the darkness.

  never know true womanhood

  What did that mean?

  “Hanani?”

  You are nothing.

  She felt bruised inside. The syllables of her name seemed to echo in her mind, but she turned to face Mni-inh, who had come to the door of the hall. He looked very tired.

  “You should go,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

  For a moment, with some part of her mind expecting more pain, Hanani thought he had heard Yehamwy’s last words and agreed with them. But then he gave a heavy sigh. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  She dragged her scattered thoughts back to the present. “Sonta-i. That was why he did it, wasn’t it?”

  Mni-inh nodded. “Someone had to try. The Gatherers are the strongest narcomancers in the Hetawa. If this thing could be defeated by magic …” He sighed. “Well, now we know it can’t be.”

  Perhaps she was dreaming, Hanani thought.

  There had been a dreamlike quality to the past few days, an ever-present note of unreality that her daylight mind could not seem to grasp. In the waking world, bad dreams did not pass from soul to soul like a pestilence, and Gatherers did not die of them. Acolytes did not die at all, especially when they were bright and beautiful and well loved.

  In waking, women were goddesses in and of themselves, not the Goddess’s servants.

  She forced herself to focus. Mni-inh looked as soul-weary as she felt; concern for him pushed away some of her unhappiness. “You should rest, Brother.”

  “I know. There’s just … I’ve never been so useless before. It’s not something I’m used to.” He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Oh—Damnation, I almost forgot. Gatherer Nijiri informed me earlier today that we’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Leaving?”

  “Yes. For someplace in the desert, so wear your formal robe over your usual attire; it will protect you from the sun. Mounts and supplies are being packed for us. We leave at noon from the House of Children gate.”

  In waking, Sharers did not leave Gujaareh. Hanani frowned. “For what reason, Brother?”

  “Nijiri said you knew.” Some of Mni-inh’s weariness faded, replaced by curiosity.

  Nijiri’s trial. Now? With Sonta-i dead and corrupt magic threatening the city?

  “He spoke only of a task that he wanted me to complete,” she said, “but he gave no details. He’d originally meant the task for you, but said he’d changed his mind.”

  Mni-inh frowned to himself. “What in endless dreamscapes could he be up to?” He sighed. “That boy’s more meddlesome than any Gatherer I’ve ever known. I suppose Ehiru had no time to knock it out of him.”

  Mni-inh closed the door to the Hall of Respite and came to stand beside Hanani. In the distance the pyre settled farther in on itself. They both watched as a great shower of sparks rose to swirl and dance in the night air. Then Mni-inh touched Hanani’s shoulder, and in silence they both returned to the Sharer’s Hall.

  There were more people present than Hanani had expected when she arrived at the House of Children’s courtyard the next morning. The Superior stood on the steps nearby, watching the group prepare. Sentinel Anarim conferred with his equally solemn young apprentice and three other Sentinels whom Hanani did not know. Mni-inh looked on apprehensively as one of the Hetawa laymen tried to explain to him how to mount a horse. Gatherer Nijiri was already a-horseback, his hooded face gazing into the distance; he did not look around as Hanani arrived. On impulse she went to him and touched his hand. He blinked and focused on her.

  “Do you mourn for Sonta-i?” A fourday before, she would never have dared to ask such a personal question of a Gatherer. But that was before she had met his true self in the dreamscape, and watched him send a brother to die. In his face that day, she had seen the toll this took.

  He gave her a rueful smile. “You should have become a Gatherer, I think.”

  She ducked her eyes, inordinately pleased, though given how Yehamwy and his ilk reacted to her as a Sharer, she couldn’t begin to imagine the uproar—however peaceful—if she had chosen the Gatherer path instead. “I don’t have your strength, Gatherer.”

  “I’m not strong.” Before she could do more than frown at this, he sighed, reaching up to stroke his horse’s neck. “Another journey into the desert. The last time …” He fell silent for a moment, then shrugged. “Well. Memories can be both sweet and painful.”

  She could not imagine why a Gatherer would ever need to go into the desert. But before she could think of a tactful way to ask him about this, Mni-inh spotted her and called her over.

  “Let this fellow teach you how to climb these beasts,” he said, jerking his head toward the layman as he tried, again unsuccessfully, to mount his horse. The horse grunted and sidestepped, and Mni-inh landed back on the ground. Irritated, he slapped the horse’s saddle. “I don’t want to ride you either!”

  The layman, struggling not to smile, said, “Just keep trying, Sharer-lord.” Turning to Hanani, he stared at her for a moment. Hanani waited again, patient; after a moment the layman recalled himself and gave a quick apologetic bow over one hand. “This way, Sharer-uh-lady.”

  “Lord,” she corrected, and smiled. “Though in truth neither is appropriate. I’m only an apprentice.”

  “I see,” he said, looking more perplexed than before, but he put on a smile anyhow. “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “Yes,” she said, earning a surprised look from Mni-inh. “But it has been many years since.”

  “Some things never change, l—Apprentice. You remember?”

  She nodded, smiling as he led her to the horse that had been saddled for her. It was a beautiful tawny creature, smaller than average but with an intelligent eye. “What’s this one’s name?”

  “Dakha,” said the layman, obviously pleased. “She’s part Banbarra, which you’ll pardon once you see how she handles the foothills.”

  Hanani nodded, patting the horse as she moved around to its other side. The stirrups had been slung low to help the inexperienced riders mount, for which she was grateful given her height and lack of practice. Some things indeed did not change, however, for she pulled herself up as smoothly as if fourteen years had not passed since the last time she’d ridden. The layman whistled, impressed, as she settled into the saddle.

  “In the desert, a good animal can mean the difference between life and death,” he said, smiling up at her. “The Banbarra treat their mounts like family, you know. Give them the names of dead children, put jewelry on them, everything. So treat this lady right.”

  Hanani smiled, delighted, as she scratched along Dakha’s mane and the horse’s neck arched under her hand. “I’ll be sure to, sir.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Superior come over to Nijiri’s mount.

  “You’re certain of this?” he asked the Gatherer. He spoke low; Hanani heard it only because she was nearby.

  “No, I’m not.” The sadness Hanani had heard in his voice earlier was gone, replaced by Gatherer calm. “But I’m certain that if we do nothing, we’re doomed.”

  The Superior only sighed in response. Hanani dared not look at them. Instead she looked up as Sentinel Anarim raised his hand for attention.

  “We’ll leave the city through the east gate,” he said. “It’s little used, which suits our purposes for avoiding the notice of the Kisuati, though it will force us to circle the city before we proceed southwest. It should take us two days to reach the hills, another day to traverse them.” He eyed Nijiri. “We’ll be there in time.”

  Nijiri inclined his head, and Hanani wondered again what he and the other Gatherers had planned.

  “We wil
l ride by twos,” Anarim continued. “We must be on guard even in Gujaareen lands, and the farther we get from the city, the more hazards there will be. I and Dwi will lead.” He nodded to his apprentice, who nodded back with a briskness that belied his apparent calm. “Sentinel Kherkhan and Gatherer Nijiri shall take the rear; Sentinels Emije and Lemuneb shall flank. Sharers, stay between us if there’s trouble.”

  Hanani threw a quick, worried look at Mni-inh, and saw that her mentor looked equally anxious. She had been born in the greenlands herself, but had not passed beyond the city gates since joining the Hetawa. She knew Mni-inh was city-born; for all she knew he had never left the city in his life.

  Mni-inh let out an exasperated sigh. “Damnation, Nijiri. I’ve tried to be patient, but I’ve had enough. When are you going to tell us what this is about?”

  Nijiri smiled as if he’d expected the question. “We’re going to meet friends, Mni-inh. At least, I hope they’re friends.”

  “You hope—”

  “We’ll know if they don’t kill us. That’s if they even show up in the first place.”

  Mni-inh stared at him. Still smiling, Nijiri nodded to Anarim, who wheeled his mount about and started for the courtyard gate, which four acolytes had cranked open for them. “After you,” Nijiri said to Mni-inh. With a muttered curse Mni-inh carefully urged his horse forward, uttering a startled yelp when it actually moved.

  Then it was Hanani’s turn, and Dakha started out at a trot, as if eager to see them all meet whatever fate awaited.

  13

  Break

  In the garden of Kite-iyan there was a leopard. He could not see it, but he knew that it was there. As the Prince’s heir it was his duty to hunt and kill it before it harmed his mothers or siblings.

  “Wana.”