What a lucky man he was to have two fathers, both kings, who cared for him so deeply, and who would never willingly allow him to rule their kingdoms.
“Good night, Unte,” Wanahomen murmured. Pulling up his veil, he returned to his own tent.
21
Set, Trap
Hanani found Mni-inh in his tent, sitting on a stack of new pallets the Banbarra had brought, his eyes closed and head slumped. He might have been truly sleeping, but more likely he was praying. It was a reminder to Hanani that she herself had not prayed for many days. But as she crouched on the rug to gaze into her mentor’s face, she found that she had no desire to try it now. To find peace in Ina-Karekh, it was necessary to have peace within oneself. She could not remember the last time she had been at peace.
Still, it was a comfort to be near Mni-inh’s body, even if his soul was elsewhere. She curled up on the pallets beside him, resting her head on his thigh as she had not done since she was an acolyte. He had begun gently pushing away her hugs and other childish gestures of affection around the time that her fertile cycles had begun. Not because he did not welcome them, he had assured her, but because as the only female past childhood in the Hetawa she needed to keep not only the substance but the appearance of propriety at all times. “You’re a daughter to me,” he had told her, “but in the upriver towns it’s not uncommon for a man my age to take a wife your age. Others will remember that, even if you and I never think it.”
She had never thought of him this way before or since. She had never had such thoughts about any of her Hetawa brethren, not once in all the years she had lived among them.
But now the taste of the Prince was on her lips.
Hanani shuddered, hating the memory of the kiss, yet seeing it in her mind, feeling it, again and again. The Prince was using her. That was obvious even to her untutored eyes. He hated her and everything she valued. And yet she still felt his fingers tucking her hair behind one ear.
She closed her eyes and wished with all her heart that she had said no to Nijiri’s test. She wished that she could go back in her small cell in the Hetawa, where she had been safe from the world’s chaos.
A hand fell on her hair and stroked it lightly, making the gold ornaments clack together. “We’ll be able to go home soon,” Mni-inh said. He had always been good at intuiting her moods. She closed her eyes and fought not to cry, because that was not something Servants of Hananja did.
He sighed, still stroking her hair. “Would it help you to know I have been talking with Nijiri?”
“What?”
“In dreams,” he said. “It’s a simple technique. We agree upon a meeting place in Ina-Karekh—some singularly powerful image, important to both for similar reasons—and then specify a time when we will both travel to it. In this case, the Hall of Blessings. Dreamer-rise, on the eve of a new Waking Moon.”
Hanani frowned. “Gatherer Nijiri told you ahead of time to meet him?”
“Yes.” Mni-inh’s smile turned sour. “He didn’t tell me why we needed to arrange a meeting, just that it would be necessary. I gave him a piece of my mind when he got there, that I can tell you.”
Hanani sat up, though not so quickly as to dislodge his hand. “Why did he do this to us, Mni-inh-brother? These people could kill us. They have no peace in them at all—”
“I know,” he said. “But we’re doing all right thus far, aren’t we? Honestly, from what Nijiri’s told me, we might even be safer here than back in Gujaareh.”
Hanani frowned. “Has the nightmare affected more people?”
“Yes, there are thirty sick with it now, the Hall of Respite is filled with them, but that isn’t what I meant. Yesterday, the Gatherers themselves commissioned, and collected, the tithes of the two Kisuati soldiers who threatened you.”
Hanani caught her breath, her mind filling with images of the Hetawa in flames. “Th-the Kisuati,” she whispered. “They warned in the conquest that any harm to their soldiers would be returned fourfold. If they attack the Hetawa—”
“No, Hanani. They aren’t foolish enough to jeopardize their occupation of Gujaareh over such corrupt men. The soldiers accosted a Sister before the Gatherer judged them: tensions are high in the city as a result. Nijiri thinks the Kisuati will wait until people have calmed a little before they act.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “And when they do act, who can say what might happen? So I hope to the gods our young princely friend is ready to retake the city soon, and that he succeeds when he finally begins.”
The mention of the Prince reminded Hanani of the afternoon’s healing, and what had followed. She lowered her eyes and pushed the memory aside, concentrating on the more important matter. “Brother, there’s something you should know. I healed the Prince this afternoon. He had a shallow wound to his belly; I think it was done with a knife. But that was not what troubled me.” She shook her head. “Mni-inh-brother, he has the dreaming gift.”
“He wh—” Abruptly Mni-inh frowned, thoughtful. “It does run in that lineage. Gatherer Ehiru was his uncle. How strong is he, would you say?”
Hanani swallowed, remembering the healing dream. She had tried to impose a simple construct on his dreamscape—a Banbarra tent with a tear in one camelhide wall. But before she could coax his mind to repair the tear, he had wrenched control of the dream from her, hurtling her into a shadow-Gujaareh over which a monstrous cloud, like a devouring mouth, churned in the sky.
“I couldn’t direct his dreaming,” she said. “He took me where he pleased within Ina-Karekh. He has no control; I don’t believe he meant to do it. But if he had been trained—if he had tried—I think he could have held me there for as long as he wished.”
But she had felt it the moment the dark Gujaareh manifested: the Prince hadn’t wanted to be there either. Something about that dreamscape frightened him—him, a man so full of anger that she marveled there was room for fear in him at all. Yet because of that fear he had allowed her to pull him back to her gentler, simpler dream of the desert and a quiet morning sky, and the torn tent. He had repaired it almost as an afterthought.
“I’ve never felt such strength except with Gatherer Nijiri,” she said finally. And in truth, she was not certain Gatherer Nijiri was as strong.
“A gift like that. Holiest Goddess. But we’ve always been careful with the Sunset Lineage. Too many damned madmen among them as it is. I can’t believe we missed this one.” He sobered abruptly. “Then again, the Prince—er, King, I mean, Wanahomen’s father—schemed against the Hetawa for decades. If Wanahomen was tested, doubtless the Prince found some way to bribe or otherwise subvert the examiners.”
Hanani only shook her head, too hollowed out by the day’s events to think any longer. Night had fallen: Mni-inh’s tent was almost dark inside, illuminated by the single lantern he must have lit before his prayer. Outside somewhere, a musician played a lively tune on some sort of lute. She could hear people clapping and singing in time with it. The Banbarra’s solstice festival had begun.
“He’s not mad,” she said.
“No, I don’t imagine these barbarians would harbor him if he were. Though if his gift is that powerful, it may only be a matter of time.”
Hanani shook her head and got to her feet, struggling a little within the unfamiliar constriction of the skirts. “I need to rest, Brother.” The Banbarra’s strangeness, the unchecked chaos of their customs and ways of thinking, had exhausted her. She would not tell Mni-inh about the kiss; she didn’t understand it herself. The Prince had probably done it just to torment her in any case.
Mni-inh watched her rise, a faint worry-line visible between his brows. “All right. But just remember, this will be over soon. It won’t be long before you’re regaling the House of Children with tales of your exploits, and convincing them to come join the Sharers in droves.”
Hanani nodded, mustering a smile at his attempt to cheer her. “Rest well, Brother.”
“Go in Her peace, Hanani.”
She braced
herself before stepping out of his tent, yet she was still unprepared for the riot of sensation that greeted her. Nearby, a crowd of people stood around a blazing fire, cheering as dancers stomped and leaped near the flames. A cluster of children ran past, three of them carrying some sort of toy festooned with long ribbons; she had to stop or be run down. The air was thick with good smells: wood smoke, charred meat, incense, tea. Farther away, a smaller crowd had gathered around another fire, where two musicians sang something ululating and discordant. By the rapt attention of their Banbarra audience Hanani could see that they loved the music, but to her Gujaareen ears it was just noise.
She turned toward her tent and stopped as someone resolved out of the crowd in front of her. Charris.
“Where have you been?” he asked, with a hint of command in his voice. She’d heard he was the Prince’s slave—though the notion of a Gujaareen keeping a slave was abhorrent in and of itself—but this was not the first time she’d seen hints that Charris had held higher status in his pre-Banbarra life. He might even be zhinha, which meant that she should accord him more respect … but she was too tired to care.
Hanani wordlessly pointed toward her mentor’s tent. His eyes widened. He took her by the arm and steered her sharply away.
“In this tribe, unrelated men and women do not mingle,” he said into her ear, “except for one purpose. If you want the tribe to treat you like a whore who is willing to receive any man who wants you, then by all means continue to spend time in private with your priest friend!”
It was too much. She jerked her arm out of his grip. “Do these people think of nothing else? Can women have no other purpose? Is the whole world beyond Gujaareh nothing but violence and pleasure and money and—” She shook her head. “No wonder King Eninket wanted to conquer all of it. I almost wish he’d succeeded!”
She walked away from him, and to her great relief he did not come after her.
Her tent, thankfully, was on the opposite side of Mni-inh’s, facing away from the loudest music and dancing. Inside it was dark. She stumbled on the unfamiliar rugs and cushions, finally falling onto the pile of pallets and blankets that was somehow hers. Bought and paid for with the apprentice-collar she had spent her life earning. She laughed bitterly at the thought, and wrapped her arms around a pillow for what paltry comfort it could offer.
When the flap of her tent opened, spilling firelight across her face, she raised the pillow to block the light. “Please leave me alone.”
“Elin aanta?” The voice was deep, and not Charris’s. She lifted her head, frowning, as the man said something else, a long string of Chakti. Amid the jumble of words she thought she caught the name Wanahomen.
“I don’t understand you,” she said. “Do you have some message from the Prince?” It felt wrong to use Wanahomen’s given name. While the Prince of Gujaareh inhabited the waking realm he had no name; only after death did he become more than his office. Still, it was the name these barbarians knew—“From Wanahomen?”
She could see a large man’s frame silhouetted against the light. He watched her for a moment and then nodded to himself, though if he spoke no Gujaareen he couldn’t have understood her. But why—
The man stepped into her tent, letting the flap fall shut behind him.
Hanani sat up, alarmed. “What are you doing?” She could hear him approaching in the dark, though the tent’s shadows were too deep for her to see. “Charris said men here don’t—”
He snapped something then, so close by that she gasped: he was right in front of her. Her heart pounding, she tried to scramble away, but a callused hand caught hold of her ankle. It jerked her toward him, throwing her onto her back. She cried out and another hand was clapped over her mouth, the fingers fumbling a moment in the dark before securing their grip. The man’s weight fell on her then, so heavy that she could barely breathe.
She was back in Gujaareh, standing before the Kisuati soldiers. One of them leaned close, radiating menace. “If you were prettier, do you know what I would do to you?”
The man was yanking at her clothing. She heard cloth tear and suddenly one of her legs was free. She kicked with it, blind, panicked, but it was like kicking stone. He only grunted and shifted his weight in some way, and suddenly he was between her legs—
You aren’t without defenses, Hanani, even now, Mni-inh’s voice whispered in her mind.
She caught hold of arms as solid as the pillars of the Hall of Blessings, clawing. He hissed and sat up, and suddenly the tent went bright as a blow stunned her—for how long she could not say. But as she recovered her senses she could feel that her breechcloth was gone and the man was busy removing his own pants and underclothes. It seemed to take a great effort, but she tried to wriggle free of him. He simply pulled her back into place.
She whimpered as she realized she lacked the strength to stop him—
Those who heal can harm just as easily.
In her mind, tents tore. Insects chewed. Pillars shattered.
Twisting, Hanani planted one hand on the man’s chest. All the fear and horror and pain and anger that she’d felt—yes, anger, every terrible thing she had ever felt in all her life, all of it gathered into a knot within her and then
shattered
And the man flew backward off her as if the hand of the goddess Herself had struck him a blow.
An interminable time later, the flap of Hanani’s tent was flung open again and another man entered, this one with a lantern. He spoke, but the words were meaningless, a jumble that her mind would not interpret. Her eyes had fixed on the motionless shape in the dark, which resolved into an unknown Banbarra man as the light came near. His headcloth and veil had fallen away; his robes were clumsily hitched up and pants down; his eyes and tongue bulged from his face.
The man who had entered—Charris, was his name Charris?—stared at her, then down at the corpse for a long moment. Without a word he reached into his robes, drew a knife from a hidden fold, and knelt to plunge it into the dead man’s chest.
Hanani screamed.
22
Recoil
Wanahomen was laughing, watching Tassa try to out-jest the other children by standing on his head, when Charris came and touched his elbow. “Azima has disappeared,” Charris murmured in his ear. “I last saw him lurking near your mother’s an-sherrat.”
So the trap had drawn prey already. Wanahomen kept smiling, though he rose and winked at Tassa in lieu of farewell. Tassa tumbled to the ground, righted himself, and waved dizzily at Wanahomen before another boy tackled him in good-natured wrestling.
“I thought he would send a proxy,” Wanahomen said as they strolled away. Another child, this one older, approached with a tray of spiced meat-and-vegetable skewers. Wanahomen accepted one with polite thanks and the child moved on. He lifted his veil to eat it. “Keep his own hands clean.”
“Then it would be one of his men who earns your challenge, and possibly the privilege of killing you.” Charris glanced toward the an-sherrat of Wanahomen’s mother, where the Sharers’ tents were pitched. “I should check on her—”
“Yes, yes. Go.”
Charris slipped away, and Wanahomen continued his stroll through the camp, nodding as friends or warriors greeted him in passing. As he’d expected, Unte’s Yusir-Banbarra were in high spirits, taking the early arrival of the Dzikeh as a good omen for the coming year. He spotted Unte amid a knot of Dzikeh warriors, gesturing broadly as he regaled them with some tale of his youthful exploits. It was no great surprise to Wanahomen that a full four of Yusir women lingered near this gathering, one of them pretending to tune an instrument but the rest blatantly looking over the new arrivals with speculative, greedy eyes. He stifled a snort of amusement at the predictability of women, then paused as an even better sight greeted his eyes.
Hendet sat in a small group near one of the fires, listening while another woman sang a song. She looked up and smiled when Wanahomen went to touch her shoulder.
“Don’t scold me,” sh
e said in Chakti. The women around her smiled.
“I would never dream of such a thing,” he said. She even smelled healthier. He had to fight the impulse to hug her in front of the others. “As long as you feel all right.”
She opened her mouth to reassure him and started as they both heard the templewoman’s scream.
Even though he was ready for it, the scream caught Wanahomen off guard, for it went on and on, longer than any woman should have had the breath to manage. And there was no fear in her voice, or outrage, as he had expected. There was no sanity in her voice at all.
The singer faltered to a halt, along with the dancers near the largest fire, and Unte in the middle of his tale.
Damnation! Drawing his knife, Wanahomen sprinted toward the sound, from the corner of his eyes noticing several other warriors reacting in kind. Three of them reached the tent just as the scream finally ended, and Charris threw open the tent flap from within. All of them stopped, even Wanahomen drawing his breath in shock.
The woman sat amid the scattered cushions of her bed, clutching her head with her hands, her eyes wide and wild. One of her eyes, in any case; the other was already swollen nearly shut, that whole side of her face purpled and ugly. Her overskirts were torn, her underskirt slit and ruined, leaving her legs indecently bare from the thighs down. At her feet, sprawled and exposed and most definitely dead, lay the Dzikeh tribe’s hunt leader Azima. A Banbarra knife-hilt stood up from his chest.
“What—” In all his plans, Wanahomen had never expected this outcome. He faltered, tried again. “What in the names of the gods …”
Charris dropped to one knee before him. It was not the usual posture that a slave gave his master among the Banbarra, but Charris had always made it clear that he considered himself a slave only to Wanahomen. “My Prince, I entered the tent because I saw this man come in first,” he said in Gujaareen, “and I thought I heard a struggle when I came near. The woman is of the Hetawa; she would not have invited him.”
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