The Shadowed Sun

by N. K. Jemisin

  His mother was waiting for him as he returned to their an-sherrat, and he filled his eyes for a moment with the sight of her standing—standing!—at the entrance of her tent, watching the goings-on. He went to her, took her hands, and kissed her on the forehead. She chuckled, though he noted that she did not pull away.

  “You’ll make the other women think I indulge you too much,” she said, then frowned, pulling back as she noticed the streak of blood at his midriff. “What has happened?”

  “Too much to tell right now.” He squeezed her hands. “But don’t worry. You should rest; the priests said you would need time to recover—”

  “Yes, yes, fine.” She sighed, only mildly annoyed at his fussing. “I’ll want a full report later, of course.”

  “Of course.” He bowed to her, then headed quickly to his own tent to change. He made sure to don the finest of his indigo robes—the color of nobility among the Banbarra, which Unte had granted him permission to wear some years before. He also tied on the beautiful bronze sword that had traditionally been given to the Sunset Throne’s heir, called Mwet-zu-anyan, the Morning Sun. He did not carry it often, because it was so plainly not a Banbarra weapon—they favored curved blades—and because he feared losing it. But now it was important to show the Banbarra that there was strength to be gained from foreign allies. Even his city-born hands could spill blood.

  By the time Wanahomen found Unte again, the Dzikeh party had entered the canyon. It was difficult to tell from so far, but Wanahomen thought he glimpsed Tassa’s slight form among the corral attendants greeting their guests. The boy loved being in the thick of things. For just a moment he worried that the Dzikeh would scorn Tassa when they saw him; most Yusir gave him no trouble for it, but the Banbarra as a rule were not overly fond of half-breeds. Yanassa had warned him off trying to protect the boy, years ago. He must find his own way, and you hovering will do him no favors, she had said, and she had been right. So he’d clenched his fists but done nothing when Tassa came home bloody-nosed and bruised-knuckled, though he’d taught the boy how to fight using all the tricks his own father had shown him, long ago. And he would do nothing now, so long as Tassa could bear it. But if they crossed that line—

  Well. Best not to summon Gatherers too early, as they said in Gujaareh. He had enough trouble to deal with already.

  There was a stir at the ladders, and a moment later the Dzikeh party began to climb up. First came the tribe’s leader Tajedd, Wanahomen guessed, for this man was into his elder years, though not so far as Unte. That would give Unte the advantage of seniority, which was good. Tajedd was tall and lean and mournful-looking, with shoulders beginning to round into a stoop. He stopped in front of Unte, who stood waiting, and the two leaders exchanged greetings.

  The man who came up next set Wanahomen’s hackles all a-rise even though Wutir had forewarned him: Tajedd brings a special weapon for you. This new man was not as tall as Tajedd, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in bulk, with yoke-broad shoulders and arms—bared to the elbow, a rarity among concealment-obsessed Banbarra men—that looked muscled enough to hurl boulders. Not one but two swords hung at his side, their scabbards festooned with charms and amulets, and by the ready way he stood, Wanahomen had little doubt the man knew how to use them.

  This was the Dzikeh-Banbarra’s hunt leader, no doubt about it. And by the sharpening of his eyes above their veil, Wanahomen knew the Dzikeh man had marked him for the same.

  He will find a reason to challenge you, and then he will kill you. And though Wanahomen had scoffed at those words when Wutir said them, he saw now the truth of it. Wanahomen was a capable warrior himself, trained by Charris and Kite-iyan’s formidable palace guard—but this Dzikeh was something else altogether. A weapon indeed.

  But weapons could always be turned against their masters.

  “So this is the cause of our gathering,” Tajedd said, giving Wanahomen a long look. “I’ve heard much about you, Wanahomen of Gujaareh.”

  With Shatyrria’s clan doubtless sending him letters every turn of the Waking Moon, Wanahomen was not surprised. “And I you, Cousin,” he said. He saw Tajedd’s eyebrows rise at the word Cousin. The Dzikeh hunt leader scowled.

  “Wanahomen’s mother consented to become my fourth wife shortly after they first joined our tribe,” Unte said, his voice deceptively mild as always. “Wanahomen is a son of my clan now.”

  “I see.” Tajedd regarded Unte as if he would’ve liked to say something about that, but in the end he opted for diplomacy. “I hope that our hunt party may be welcome among the Yusir tribe for the next several days, Unte. We rode hard in hopes of arriving in time for your solstice festival.”

  Unte put a hand to his heart in mock astonishment. “So this is why you arrived early? To court our women and eat our food? I might’ve known.” The watching tribesfolk rippled laughter, and after a moment Tajedd joined in. Much of the tension of the gathering dissipated. Wanahomen had always admired Unte’s skill at that.

  “Come, then,” Unte said, gesturing broadly for the Dzikeh pair to follow. The rest of the Dzikeh party—Wanahomen guessed they numbered a good eighty warriors—had completed the climb and were being welcomed by the tribe, offered drink and food and cloths to wash their faces and hands. Wanahomen checked to make certain that his own men were in their places: a few were down among the tribesfolk greeting their guests, but most stood quietly about the perimeters of the encampment, alert for trouble. Ezack remained on the watch-heights; when Wana met his eyes, Ezack nodded. All was well. Satisfied, Wanahomen turned to follow Unte.

  Unte’s tent was larger than most, since he often hosted gatherings. Inside, his three slaves must’ve worked like demons to prepare so quickly for the arrival of guests. Unte’s usual mess—half-written scrolls of poetry, half-smoked pipes—was gone, leaving the tent neat and welcoming. A low table had been set out, laden heavily with refreshments and teas. An ornately engraved censer in the corner burned a relaxing blend of herbs.

  Tajedd settled on the cushions at one side of the table with a contented groan, reaching immediately for a flask of cactus-fruit wine—a traditional drink for travelers who had been in the high desert. The hunt leader settled beside him, waiting for his tribe leader to refresh himself first, as was proper.

  Wanahomen settled across from the Dzikeh hunt leader. “You have the advantage of knowing my name,” he said politely.

  “I do,” the hunt leader replied, and said nothing more. Wanahomen had the impression that he smiled behind his veil.

  Unte lifted an eyebrow at this. “Are we at war, then, that names aren’t given freely? Are we wary of one another, to keep our faces veiled in-tent?” He pulled down his own veil and looked boldly at the two Dzikeh. “I was unaware of this, if so.”

  Tajedd quickly pulled down his veil, revealing a face as thin and mournful as the rest of him, though he gave them a broad smile. He had several missing teeth. “Not at war, Cousin, of course not. And neither of us has come in fear. Yes, Azima?”

  The Dzikeh hunt leader scowled as his name was given, but then he reached up to pull away his veil. Wanahomen did the same so that they might reveal their faces to one another in the same moment. In Azima’s case, this meant a face of hard planes and pitiless angles, though he had the large eyes of a westerner. This raised him, and Tajedd by proxy, a notch in Wanahomen’s esteem: the man was a half-breed too.

  “I see nothing to fear here,” Azima said to Wanahomen, and smiled.

  Wanahomen returned the smile, thinking behind his eyes, I would so enjoy killing you. But he could not do that. Azima would be infinitely more useful to him alive.

  While Tajedd tasted the wine and, as was polite, recited a poem in praise of it and his hosts, Wanahomen signaled one of Unte’s slaves, who crouched nearby. When the man came over, Wanahomen murmured in his ear: “Fetch the healer-woman. Tell her someone in Unte’s tent needs a minor wound healed.” The slave nodded and slipped out.

  When Tajedd was done, Wanahomen in
clined his head to show his approval. “Is it a long journey from your tribe’s an-sherrat to here?” he asked. Unte poured wine for himself. Wanahomen inclined his head to Azima graciously, indicating that Azima, as guest, should drink next. Azima’s lips twitched; he did not reach for the wine-flask. He would not drink, and that meant Wanahomen couldn’t either. Wanahomen was honestly surprised: did the man really believe such simple pettiness would infuriate him?

  Then again, Banbarra weren’t given to the kinds of intrigues that Wanahomen kept expecting, even after ten years among them. He had grown up watching Gujaareen noblemen offer ten layers of insult with a shift in tone and an out-of-place bow. Banbarra were so direct that he found them refreshing, even when they meant to be rude.

  “A full month, give or take an eightday,” Tajedd said. He seemed oblivious to Azima’s behavior, but Wanahomen knew otherwise. “That’s with trained warriors, moving at hunt-pace.”

  “A difficult journey,” Unte agreed.

  Wanahomen chuckled. “Well, our women will no doubt help your men forget the hardships of the journey.” He poured himself a cup of tea, preempting Azima’s stupid game with the wine. “They like new faces. Though you may have some competition; there are novelties aplenty around camp these days.”

  Unte was watching Wanahomen thoughtfully, no doubt sensing he was up to something. He had grown to trust Wanahomen over the years, granting him wide latitude in the politics of the tribe, but Wanahomen knew he would tolerate no open insult to the Dzikeh. The Banbarra might be unfriendly toward strangers, but among their own they took guest-custom very seriously. Wanahomen was counting on this.

  “You refer to yourself?” Tajedd asked, and then perhaps to reduce the implication of insult he added, “Though if you are of Unte’s clan …”

  “No, not myself,” Wanahomen replied. He gave them a self-deprecating smile. “My novelty wore out long ago. No, I mean that we have two Gujaareen priests among us, given as a gift by their Hetawa to seal our alliance. You’ll see them about—pale, soft people, typical city-dwellers. We had to put them in Banbarra clothing, since their own was indecent.”

  Tajedd’s eyes widened. The Banbarra tribes kept in contact with one another by messenger and messenger-bird, but the Dzikeh had probably left their tribe’s encampment before word of the alliance could reach them.

  Azima seemed less impressed. “A gift. Priests?” He laughed. “Do we need extra prayers to support us in battle, then?”

  “Oh, they have many talents,” Wanahomen said. He smiled at Azima, who looked annoyed. He sipped tea and then heard, with near-perfect timing, the slave return with the female Sharer in tow. The tent-flap opened as the slave led her inside.

  Unte frowned at the slave in puzzlement. “What is this?”

  The templewoman spoke quickly. Slavery went against Hananja’s Law; no doubt she feared the slave would be punished. “I apologize for interrupting,” she said in her own tongue. “I, I was told someone here had a wound that needed healing.”

  Wanahomen could not have planned it better. Both Tajedd and Azima stared at her, astonished by her soft voice and deferential manner. She was dressed properly, for Yanassa had done an astonishing job on her; Wanahomen himself had been impressed. Yet no woman who knew her value to the tribe would stand there stammering like a child.

  “Here,” Wanahomen said, curtly beckoning her over. She came at once—another thing a Banbarra woman would not have done, given the rudeness of his gesture—and knelt on a cushion at his side.

  “Where is the wound?” she asked. Already she was wholly focused on her duty, oblivious to the stares of the two Dzikeh men. Over her shoulder, Wanahomen could see Unte frowning at him, though the tribe leader had obviously decided to let him play out this game.

  Wanahomen lay back on the cushions, getting comfortable, and then lifted his robes to reveal the slash Wutir had made across his belly. This too caught the Dzikeh’s attention, for Banbarra men bared the vulnerable parts of their bodies only to relatives, other men, and women with whom they had been—or intended to be—intimate. “Here,” he said. He pulled off the strip of cloth he had bound over the wound to keep it from bleeding through his robes.

  The Hetawa woman leaned forward to examine the wound with her fingers, touching its edges gingerly. “Shallow,” she said briskly, almost spoiling the effect he wanted to create. With a task before her she was confident, cool. He would have to do something about that. “But because of its location it will reopen again and again. Infection is likely.”

  “Yes, that was my thought,” Wanahomen said. Then, making the gesture seem casual, he lifted a hand and brushed the girl’s ornamented hair back over her shoulder. She started just a little, throwing a confused look at him, but, as he’d hoped, she did not protest or pull away. In fact—Ah, she was blushing! Her lowcaste-pale skin warmed like a lantern.

  In other circumstances he would have laughed. But it was crucial now that he appear soft-spoken with her, intimate, affectionate. The Dzikeh probably had only the vaguest idea of what they were saying to each other, if they knew any Gujaareen at all, but they would be paying attention to postures and tones of voice. He wanted them to see a lustful man and a reluctant woman—reluctant, yet unable or unwilling to refuse his attentions.

  Speaking too quickly she said, “Yes, of course. The healing won’t take long. Do you remember how this is done?”

  He had seen one of his brothers healed once, after a boyish adventure in Kite-iyan had gone badly. In answer he leaned his head back, closing his eyes. A moment later, her fingertips landed on his eyelids, light as feathers. Then—

  He opened his eyes with a start, the dream fading before he could even recall it. His belly itched; lifting his head he saw that the wound had healed, the already-shed blood beginning to dry. He wiped it away with the cloth that had covered the wound, and only then noticed that the templewoman sat pale and still beside him, something in her expression that might have been fright. But since her back was to the Dzikeh, Wanahomen dismissed it.

  He sat up so Tajedd and Azima could see his healed belly. “You see?” Tajedd caught his breath; Azima scowled.

  “Magic,” Tajedd said, awed. “I’d heard the priests of Gujaareh had such power.”

  “They kill, too,” Azima snapped. “Like demons, creeping in on night-breezes and breathing poison into your sleep.”

  “That’s a different kind of priest,” Wanahomen said, in a dismissive tone that said, and I don’t fear them. He closed his robes and nodded toward Hanani. “This kind can do nothing but heal. They’ll heal our men after battle, leaving us strong and ready to fight while our enemies are still treating their wounded. Now do you see the value of the Hetawa’s friendship?”

  Tajedd looked thoughtful. Azima leaned over quickly to whisper in his ear. Unte was no longer frowning; his face had gone as expressionless as a statue’s, though he too was watching the Dzikeh. The Sharer had managed to compose herself, though she still looked troubled about something as she bobbed her head in absent farewell and made as if to rise. He reached over and took her by the chin, startling her into wild-animal stillness.

  “Thank you,” he said, and leaned over to kiss her.

  If she’d been standing, he thought her knees might’ve buckled. He kept the kiss light, a lover’s tease, even though she didn’t fight him and he could easily have made a show of devouring her in front of all of them. As it was, it took her two tries to get to her feet when he let her go, and even then she was unsteady, visibly shaken. He could not help smiling as she went to the door and nodded farewell again—to the slave of all people, dearest gods, even in Gujaareh no one did that—and finally exited.

  There was little more than small talk after that. By Banbarra custom, one did not discuss important business immediately after a journey; it was considered unfair to the more tired party. Then too the sun was setting, and already Wanahomen could hear the tribe’s musicians warming up their lutes and hand-drums. The eightday of the solstice
always began and ended with a grand party, and with guests to share the revelry, tonight’s was certain to be legendary even by Banbarra standards.

  Unte had one of his slaves take Tajedd and Azima to a guest-tent. When they were gone, he let out a long sigh before turning to Wanahomen.

  “If you fail to win Gujaareh,” he said, “you must leave this tribe.”

  Wanahomen stiffened in shock and unexpected hurt. “Unte?”

  “Not because you are incapable, Wana.” There was a softness in Unte’s face that soothed some of Wanahomen’s shock. “In fact, I know that if you were to become leader after me, the tribe would prosper.”

  “Then why must I leave?”

  “Because I love you as if you were the son of my blood—more—but you frighten me, Wana. I know you’ll use anyone, destroy anything, to assuage the anger that burns like Sun’s fire in your heart. This entire tribe included. You love some of us, but not enough. Not enough to keep us safe if you ever began to hate us.”

  “I—” He stared at Unte, unable to think. He groped for some response within himself. Any would do.

  “Do you deny it?”

  His heart constricting, Wanahomen looked away and said nothing.

  Unte nodded as if he’d expected nothing else, and sighed. “Have your slave keep a close eye on the Gujaareen girl from here forth. You planted a dangerous seed today.”

  It was a dismissal. Wanahomen got to his feet, as shaky as the templewoman had been, and made for the door. When he touched the door-flap, something shifted in him and he saw—

  —His father, extending a dead arm to him, skin mottled with foulness—

  —That same taint creeping over his own flesh—

  —And then the vision, daydream, or whatever it was, vanished.

  “Wana?” Unte’s voice behind him. There was concern in that voice, and sorrow, and love. The love drove the pain of Unte’s words deeper into his heart, because it meant that Unte truly believed them.