The Shadowed Sun

by N. K. Jemisin

  “Why did you not inform me of this?” In spite of Sunandi’s horror, her mind was racing to the implications. The Protectors would seize upon this chance to blame the Hetawa for Gujaareh’s ills. At the least they might ban magic; at worst they could close the Hetawa, demand the arrest or execution of all its priests, and do their best to eradicate this branch of the Hananjan faith.

  “We concealed it because the problem was contained,” Rabbaneh replied. Bleakness, Sunandi realized. That was the look in his eyes as he looked around the chamber at his dying brethren. He had no hope for them. “Or so we thought. Two fourdays ago we collected all the sufferers of the dream, and anyone else who might have been exposed. Fifty or so in all. We kept them isolated, studying them, but aware that there was one hope if we failed to find a cure: they would be the last.” He gazed down at one boy, a slim youth near or just beyond the age of adulthood, and closed his eyes as if in pain. “But two nights ago, we were attacked by the wielders of the dream.”

  All thoughts of the Protectorate gone now, Sunandi stared at him. “Attacked?”

  “That’s what we believe,” said a new voice behind her—the voice she had been dreading. She turned, steeling herself, to face Nijiri. But she saw at once from his expression that he knew why she had come and did not hate her for it. That was when she recalled his last words to her: I’ll forgive you, no matter what the Protectors make you do.

  It surprised Sunandi how much that relieved her.

  “The source of the dream is a child,” Nijiri said. “Sonta-i found out that much for us. I don’t know how any child could have such power, but the fact remains that someone is using the child as a weapon. I and my brother Inmu witnessed it ourselves.” He gestured at the sleeping figures. “They did this to us.”

  “Worse,” said Rabbaneh, “we’ve found that some people ‘carry’ the dream, without actually falling into unending sleep, for several days. They are as doomed as those who fall asleep at once, but in the meantime they spread the dream to others.”

  Sunandi shivered, folding her arms over her breasts. “A plague of nightmares. Shadows indeed.” Then she paused, something in her own words tickling a memory. “Has this ever happened before? Dreams with such power?”

  The Superior looked at her oddly. “No. There are many unusual variations on the magic we use, but none are inherently harmful. In spite of what your people say.”

  “The Wild Dreamer,” Rabbaneh said. He’d crouched beside the slim youth, gazing down at the boy with unmistakable tenderness. “That was what Sonta-i called it, at the end. But we’ve searched the archives and found no mention of such a thing.”

  Sonta-i. Announcements of his death had been posted all over the city; several prominent artisans and crafters who specialized in mourning had created tribute works in his honor. The death of a Gatherer in and of itself was not a cause for grief in the city, for most Gatherers chose their time and went gladly. Now, though, seeing the anguish in Rabbaneh and Nijiri, Sunandi understood what else they had hidden from the public.

  But Sonta-i’s last words stirred Sunandi’s memory further still. Wild Dreamer.

  “You haven’t consulted the archives at Yanya-iyan,” she murmured, trying to think. Trying to tease out that niggling bit of memory. “All the material Eninket assembled while trying to uncover the secrets of Reapers. It’s taken us years to sort it all out, but I recall seeing something there regarding this plague of nightmares. And a Wild Dreamer.”

  The Superior stiffened. Rabbaneh and Nijiri looked at each other, then at her. Rabbaneh got to his feet.

  “You must arrest me,” Rabbaneh said. “Yes?”

  Sunandi lowered her eyes. “Yes.”

  He rose and came to stand before her, holding his arms forth. “Take care to wrap my hands; you know what we can do with a touch.”

  She stared at him. On some level she had expected this. Even so—She waved Dirakha forward, and stepped aside as his men bound Rabbaneh’s arms.

  Nijiri came forward as well. Beyond him the third Gatherer, a tall, lanky young man, was walking down the aisle toward them. “And I,” Nijiri said. “And Inmu.”

  “And I,” said the Superior, stepping forward. He gave Sunandi a faint wry smile. “I’m only a Teacher, but unfortunately with one Gatherer gone, I would be the best substitute.”

  Sunandi frowned. “I was sent only for Rabbaneh.”

  “Your rule was that any harm done to a Kisuati would be repaid fourfold, yes?” Nijiri said. He glanced at his brothers and the Superior. “We’re only four and not eight, but perhaps the Protectors will forgive our small numbers given who we are.”

  “I can’t take all of you,” Sunandi said, wondering. She looked at Nijiri especially; he would know what her next words cost her. “The city needs its Gatherers.”

  Nijiri raised an eyebrow, a slow smile crossing his face. “This is true, Jeh Kalawe,” he said. “But we can do nothing else for Gujaareh right now. You’ve felt the mood in the city these past few days. The last thing our people want is peace.”

  And with you and your brethren in our custody, the city’s anger will burn that much hotter. Oh, yes. She could see it in Nijiri’s eyes. He knew full well how the people of Gujaareh would likely react when word spread that Kisua had arrested the Gatherers. All talk of the Hetawa inflicting nightmares on the populace would end; the people’s unease would sharpen to a fine, hot focus. Kisua, not the Hetawa, would be the target of all that anger.

  The swiftest and surest path to stability. That was what Nijiri had warned her the Hetawa would choose.

  Looking into Nijiri’s eyes, she said, “I’ll search the archives in the palace, and share any relevant material.”

  “Anything will help at this point,” he said. Then he gave her a faint, fond smile. “We’re a bad influence on you, Jeh Kalawe. Your behavior seems suspiciously Gujaareen these days.”

  She returned the smile, less insulted than she should have been. “You know I use whatever tactics work best. Hopefully my actions will bring peace to both our peoples, with a minimum of suffering.”

  “So we must pray.” Then he held his arms out as two of Dirakha’s men came to tie him. Dirakha had them wrap the twine over and around the Gatherers’ closed fists as well to bind the fingers, and then they tied all four men to one another in a linked chain.

  That done, the soldiers herded them into a single file and marched them out of the temple, through the furious crowds, to Yanya-iyan.

  30

  Soulname

  Wanahomen came out of Unte’s tent and instantly spotted the templewoman, ten paces away and coming on like a storm. Her fists were tight, her eyes black as cabochons, her sashes and sleeves whipping around her.

  Under other circumstances Wanahomen would have admired the sight. Hanani was no beauty like Tiaanet, and she had none of Yanassa’s bold allure, but there was something appealing about her nevertheless—especially whenever she shed her shyness and allowed this side of herself to appear. In another time and place, had she been anything other than a Servant of Hananja, Wanahomen might have happily courted her; it was expected that a Prince count some common women among his two hundred and fifty-six wives. Now, though, he had to stop her before she did something stupid.

  He intercepted her at five paces and caught her arm. “Come with me.”

  She looked up at him, startled and angry—too angry, he suspected, to react to his grip with terror as she had before. He wasn’t certain whether that was a blessing. “What? Let go of me!”

  “Come with me, damn you, unless you want to touch off a storm of violence like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

  That broke the back of her anger. Stumbling in her confusion, she finally let him draw her away from the tent. He kept hold of her arm all the way back to his mother’s an-sherrat, where he brought her into the fire circle between the tents and sat her down.

  “I cannot stand idle while they abuse that woman,” Hanani said at once.

  “Indeed you ca
nnot,” Wanahomen replied, sitting down across from her. “For once, I’m in agreement with the Hetawa’s way of thinking on this.”

  She blinked, having clearly expected an argument. “Then why—”

  “If you had walked in there just now and told two Banbarra tribe leaders how to treat their prisoner, they would have thrown you out and given the prisoner the slowest, most painful death they could dream up between them. If you had offended them enough, they would have made you watch.”

  She flinched, her face actually becoming paler, which Wanahomen had not thought possible. “That’s barbaric!”

  “They’re barbarians.” Wanahomen reached up to pull off his veil and headcloth; he ran a hand over his braids, abruptly weary. He had been a-horse all day, and this after sleeping poorly the night before. The templewoman’s visit had left his conscience raw and his thoughts restless. “And they’re men, and elders, and the leaders of a people who considered Gujaareh the enemy until recently. You’re a guest in their home, for peace’s sake; how do you think they’ll react if you disrespect them? Imagine you let a foreigner into the Hall of Blessings, and he first tried to tell you how to pray, then pissed on the statue of Hananja. How inclined would you be to listen to anything he had to say, after that?”

  She looked affronted by the very idea of his imaginary offender, but then her face tightened again. “But this is not mere rudeness that we speak of, Prince; this is murder and torture. Some things are wrong in the eyes of all peoples—”

  “That isn’t true.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “In Gujaareh, Gatherers kill over what would merely be bad manners here. A Banbarra slave may buy or earn her way free; in Gujaareh, our servants have no hope of escaping their lot. And consider this: to Unte and the others, what has been done to you is cruelty, a lifelong torment.”

  “That’s—” she blurted, but he cut her off with a sharp gesture.

  “I know. But this is how they see it. A woman, taken from her family as a child, forced to dress and act as a man, made to be humble where she should be proud, never permitted lovers or children or property or any of the things that constitute a good life in their eyes? Anyone who proposed to do such a thing to a girl-child here would be called a monster and thrown out of the tribe.”

  She looked astounded by this characterization of her life. Seeing that he was at last getting through to her, Wanahomen pressed the advantage. “The Banbarra are the elders between our two races, Sharer-Apprentice, and like all elders, they’re proud and set in their ways. We cannot demand things of them, we can only ask—and if they refuse, accept that. Press the issue, and you’ll only make things worse.”

  She frowned all of a sudden, her eyes roving his face entirely too keenly now that he had removed his veil. “You speak from experience.”

  Wanahomen considered, then decided on brutal honesty. “Sometimes a new slave objects to his condition and must be broken. They begin with beatings for days. Then they progress to burning, amputations of anything deemed unimportant …” She had gone rigid. He lowered his eyes, looking at his own clasped hands. It was easy, frighteningly easy, to remember a time when there had been manacles around his own wrists. “When I was new here, I too protested such cruelty. But as I said, it is possible to make things worse.”

  She made a little sound, rising and beginning to pace around the fire to vent her frustration. It was an amazingly unpeaceful thing to do, for a Servant of Hananja; physical expression of distress was simply not done among polite Gujaareen. He watched her warily, wondering if he had somehow done her more harm. When she stopped, her hands kept moving, fidgeting, rubbing one another as if to scrub away some contaminant. But her voice was calm when she spoke.

  “I will ask them to reconsider cruelty,” she said. “But what can I do if they refuse? I couldn’t bear it. I don’t know the way back to Gujaareh, even if it were possible to rescue her—”

  Wanahomen groaned. “Are you a complete fool? Leaving aside the fact that Unte himself would hunt you down for abusing his hospitality, that woman is Shadoun. She would kill you the moment you let your guard down, even if you were trying to help her.” He let out a harsh laugh. “Especially if you were trying to help her. She’s of the desert and knows how to travel and survive here. You would slow her down.”

  Hanani had frozen during his scolding, her back rigid and fists clenched tight. He braced himself for further battle. Instead she suddenly bowed her head, falling silent. With some alarm, he realized she was on the brink of tears.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m a Servant of Hananja; I should know what to do. I should be able to find some peaceful means of solving problems.” She let out a short, bitter laugh. “But this would not be the first time I’ve failed in that.”

  Thrown by her sudden shift of mood, Wanahomen rose and went to stand behind her. Though he had no idea of what to say that might comfort her, he reached for her shoulder—and then caught himself, remembering in time. She was probably thinking of Azima even now, he realized belatedly, watching her fists tremble and her shoulders tighten. Her greatest failure. The Hetawa taught that true strength lay in enduring the torments of others, even if that meant pain or debasement. It was permissible to resist, but only after calm and contemplation, so that in striking back, one did not become as corrupt as the tormentor.

  But that made no sense. What strength could Hanani have gained by allowing herself to be brutalized when she had the means to stop it? There was fortitude, and then there was folly. Surely she could see the difference?

  Sighing, Wanahomen decided that neither women nor templefolk were anything resembling sane. He almost felt sorry for this one, doomed by sex and vocation at once.

  “Hananja does not concern Herself with the waking realm,” he said. “Isn’t that what Hananja’s Wisdom says? She leaves it to us to make our own fate.”

  “Yes, that’s true …”

  “Then don’t look for answers in Hetawa doctrine. That’s made by mortals, not gods.” And though he tried to steer his thoughts elsewhere, he could not help it. For a moment, looking at her, he saw only Nijiri, the Gatherer who had sent her into the desert—and Ehiru, the Gatherer who had trained him. And, too, he saw his father, who had died at Ehiru’s hands. “And mortals can be corrupt.”

  She turned to him, frowning at his shift of mood, and as she moved, the beads of her Banbarra hairstyle rattled together. He blinked and she was herself again—not a Gatherer, not the Hetawa. Just a Gujaareen girl in Banbarra clothes, so out of her depth that she had no inkling of what to do next.

  But her fists were still clenched tight at her sides, and there was a set to her shoulders that told him she meant to do something, if she could. He could not help thinking too: he liked this about her. She was as mad as the rest of the Hetawa’s priests, but he could at least admire her courage.

  And he’d done enough woolgathering. “I’ve done what I can,” he said. “The circumstances of the Shadoun’s capture were suspicious. She was near the rim of the canyon, in the open, making a fire for tea. It was as though she wanted to be captured.” He shook his head. “I suggested to Unte and Tajedd that we interrogate her to determine whatever secrets she might hold. That gives her some value, for now.”

  “And what may I do, to help? If you say I must ask and not demand—”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.” She opened her mouth again, predictable as the moons, and he spoke faster. “Sometimes the most useful choice is not to act, Sharer-Apprentice. If it comes to that, I would rather save your … request … as a last resort. Appeal to Unte and Tajedd’s mercy; tell them that Azima’s attack still troubles you.” She flinched, and he nodded grimly. At least there was some lingering use in what he’d done to her. “Since you are a guest, they’ll hesitate to do anything that would cause you further harm.”

  She nodded slowly. “I see. I, I will follow your advice, then.” She hesitated and added, “Thank you
, Prince. For helping that woman. I know she doesn’t serve your cause in any way.”

  He grimaced, not liking her low estimation of his morals. “It doesn’t ‘serve my cause’ to forget myself, either. I am Gujaareen, after all.” Annoyed, he folded his arms. She turned and gazed at him so long and so steadily that he began to grow uncomfortable.

  “You should sit down,” she said abruptly. “I need to make you sleep for your next lesson.”

  He started. “A lesson? Now?”

  “You said there was nothing more to be done for the woman, at least for now. Have you other duties?”

  Unte and Tajedd would summon him if they decided the Shadoun’s fate anytime soon. Until then he had been ordered to keep the troop in the canyon rather than resume patrols, in case the Shadoun were planning some assault. Ezack had charge of a group up on the heights, watching for danger; things were as peaceful as they would be for some time.

  “Very well,” he said, moving to sit on a log beside the fire. “At least I’ll get a nap out of it.”

  The woman came to stand before him, cupping the back of his head with one hand. He was surprised at this, until he felt her fingers probe the base of his skull, checking how tense he was. She had no jungissa stone, which only Gatherers used; he’d heard it could be difficult to impose sleep-spells in the daytime without that. Mindful of this, he took a deep breath to clear his thoughts, and saw her nod approvingly. Once she was satisfied that he was sufficiently relaxed, she leaned down to peer into his face. “Try to stay within yourself this time,” she said earnestly, as if that should mean something to him. “I can’t teach you if you drag me all over the realms.”

  Wanahomen sighed again. “You are the strangest woman I’ve ever met.”

  She blinked, and her lips twitched in the first smile he’d seen on her face in days. Then she lifted a hand and hummed a low note, and he closed his eyes, and a moment later he was asleep.