The Shadowed Sun

by N. K. Jemisin

  Hanani was hard-pressed not to hate them all.

  But hate was an emotion, and she could not let herself feel that any more than she could grief, or it would all fall apart. So at last she retreated to her tent, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

  Toward evening someone drummed on the flap of her tent. She did not want visitors, but she rose and untied the flaps anyhow.

  Wanahomen stepped into the tent, leaving the flap wide open so that others could see inside. He, unlike everyone else she’d seen that day, looked grim and grimy, and anything but celebratory in mood. Then Hanani spied the earthenware urn he carried under one arm, and understood why.

  He offered her the urn. “It’s sealed. You should be able to carry it back to the Hetawa like this.”

  She looked at the urn and felt the first crack in her defenses. Mni-inh, he of the laughing eyes and gentle voice, reduced to this. She looked away from it and closed her eyes. “Thank you, Prince. Could you put it elsewhere for me?”

  She heard him move over to the side of the tent; leather and cloth shifted. “In one of your saddlebags. I’ve wrapped it in a sash, to cushion it.”

  She nodded and moved back to the cushions to sit down, not trusting herself to speak because a knot was forming in her throat. No feeling, no feeling. She repeated the thought until it became real. When the knot had loosened enough that she could speak, she said, “Will the vote take place soon?”

  “Tomorrow. The day after at the latest. If it goes in my favor, the troops will assemble and be ready to march within a day. The Banbarra are indeed barbarians, but in military efficiency they put all civilized lands to shame.”

  “And if the vote does not go in your favor?”

  “That’s not likely anymore.” Yes, here was someone who understood that war was coming. She heard it in the weight of his voice: he did not sound happy for his achievement. “The Shadoun woman has outdone all my scheming; the leaders are united in their anger now. No doubt if we’re successful, they’ll ask for Gujaareh’s help in wiping out the Shadoun.”

  “The Shadoun have already suffered, if the nightmare plague is among them.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” His voice was flat. “Gujaareh will need allies until we’re strong again. And I must pay my debts.”

  Hanani sighed. “You speak as if it’s a given that you’ll win the city back.”

  He’d gone to stand near the open tent flap, gazing out at the camp, or perhaps just letting others see that he was doing nothing untoward with her. He had not removed his veil, but she knew him well enough now to sense his bitter smile. “What else is there for me? If I fail, no army or ally will ever follow me again. I’ll have to flee north into exile—that’s if the Kisuati don’t capture me and make a public spectacle of my execution.” He shrugged. “Optimism is easier.”

  Hanani could only agree. But—“The people will rally around you. You are Her Avatar. Perhaps it is a given you’ll win.”

  “Nothing is a given. The Banbarra army—” He paused and sighed. “My father would laugh at even calling them an army. If all the tribes’ war troops join together, the total will be a little over sixteen hundred. They fight like demons, but the Kisuati are four thousand, with another four who can come up from Kisua in an eightday. The nobles’ troops will add perhaps two thousand to my side … but those are soldiers I dare not trust. Not all of my allies are as honorable as the Hetawa and the Banbarra, I’m afraid.”

  He was afraid. She could see that in the set of his shoulders and his folded arms, and the way his eyes saw but did not see the gathering revelry outside. But she had no words of comfort to offer him. There were Hetawa proverbs she could have recited, wisdom from her Teachers that she could have shared, but all of it felt meaningless now.

  He sighed. “Well. I’ve stayed too long. Don’t want tongues to start wagging.” Then he glanced back at her, his expression unreadable. “I understand what you’re trying to do,” he said at last. “I did it too, after … after Mother and I left Gujaareh. But don’t stay in here tonight, Hanani. The silence. It cuts you to pieces.”

  He thought he understood, because his father was dead. But his father had been a monster, while Mni-inh had been good and wise and kind. She looked away from Wanahomen lest she hate him too, and made her voice very cold. “I’ll be fine, Prince.”

  “No, you won’t be,” he said, sounding annoyed. “But you’re as stubborn and arrogant as any other woman—Gods. I shouldn’t have even tried. Do as you please, then.” He left, flicking the flap closed as he did so.

  She retied the flaps behind him and then sat still in the darkness and silence of her tent, wishing that she could feel something of Mni-inh in the ashes he had left behind.

  By nightfall, Hanani knew she was going to break.

  Wanahomen had been right about the silence. She had sat in her tent for another hour, staring at the saddlebag and fighting the urge to fetch the urn, unwrap it, curl herself ’round it and open it to see whether it smelled like her mentor, knowing full well that to do so would leave her gibbering. Finally she had no choice; she might hate the Banbarra for rejoicing when Mni-inh was dead, but hating them was better than missing him. So finally she emerged from the tent and looked around.

  All was as it had been on the first night of the eight-day solstice celebration: both ledges of the Banbarra camp—and several other nearby ledges within Merik-ren-aferu, made habitable just for their guests—were teeming with people. The walkways between tents were brighter than usual thanks to dozens of lanterns hanging from rope-lines; the whole canyon was louder than usual, the air filled with voices and music and clapping and laughter. She could even see the slaves celebrating, at a bonfire down on the ground level. High above, the Dreaming Moon was not as fat as usual, its four-banded face truncated on the right side by encroaching shadows said to herald the time of sharpest cold in northern lands. For the first time in several months the bright, winking star called Myani in Old Sua, or Beautiful Boy, had become visible just beneath the Moon’s darkened curve. A new year had begun.

  Wandering through the camp was like wandering through a dream. No one seemed to notice Hanani—not the knots of men and women, not the children who ran past her in their play. She was a river stone, unmoving while the life of the camp coursed around her. She stood among a thousand other souls and felt utterly alone.

  “Hanani!” A familiar voice. She turned and saw Yanassa, sitting with Hendet and several other women near one of the fires. Yanassa rose and came over to her, smiling and taking her hands. “You came out—good! I didn’t put all that work into your hair for you to hide it indoors. Come, come.”

  It was easier to give in than to resist, and so she went with Yanassa to sit by the fire.

  “Here,” said one of the women, thrusting something at her in a hollowed gourd. She took it and drank without looking, and only realized what it was when her throat seemed to catch fire. Choking and coughing, she nearly dropped the gourd, but someone took it from her. Good-natured laughter surrounded her; someone rubbed her back to help her recover. “Sipri,” said the same woman who had given her the drink. “From the tea, yes?”

  “Wh-what?” Hanani was still trying to breathe.

  “It’s made from the same plant as the cold tea you like so much,” said Yanassa. She was the one rubbing Hanani’s back. “You want more?”

  Liquor of some sort. Sharers were never supposed to drink, since narcomancy required an unimpaired will. She took the gourd back and drank another few swallows, grimacing while it burned its way down.

  Hendet, who had been watching Hanani from across the fire with narrowed eyes, said, “You aren’t well, Sharer-Apprentice.”

  Hanani looked up at her. Yanassa leaned forward to search Hanani’s face as well, her own mirth fading.

  “No,” Hanani said to Gujaareh’s queen. “I’m not.”

  Yanassa gave Hanani a pained smile, and deftly took the gourd of sipri from her hands. “You will be. We’ll care for
you. Don’t worry.”

  Hanani was not worried. She simply did not care.

  “Well, well,” said one of the other women. They followed her gaze. Over at another fire, a young woman of perhaps sixteen or seventeen floods sauntered toward one of the Issayir warriors who sat amid a knot of men. His gaze sharpened with interest; he continued his conversation with the other men, but it was obvious as daylight that he was paying no real attention to them. The girl had a bit of jewelry in one hand; it was difficult for Hanani to see exactly what it was. But as the girl passed the warrior, she looked him in the eye and dropped the item as if by accident. With an innocent look that fooled no one, she moved on toward another of the women’s fires.

  The warrior grinned and snatched up the item. The men around him elbowed and jostled him good-naturedly, trying to make him drop the thing, but he held on tight.

  “So Teniant has made her choice at last!” Yanassa sounded pleased. “That one is the Issayir’s hunt leader. A good choice.”

  “I disagree,” said another woman, scowling. “A man readying himself for war may be too rough for such a young girl.”

  “I’m sure he can quiet his warrior nature for a single night,” Yanassa said dismissively. “I can’t see a man becoming hunt leader under Unte’s brother if he has a taste for brutalizing decent women. The Issayir are not the Dzikeh.”

  Another woman quickly shushed Yanassa, darting a glance about to see whether there were any Dzikeh nearby, but Hanani ignored them, staring at the Issayir warrior. An urge developed in her heart, neither fully formed nor logical. She would have called it instinct if she had bothered to think about it at all. But she had no desire to think.

  And so while Yanassa and the other woman continued to bicker, Hanani rose. Yanassa had given her a beautiful, elaborate earring that clipped around the edge of one ear in three places. She reached up to remove it.

  “Sharer-Apprentice?” Hendet’s voice, full of surprise and a hint of suspicion. Ignoring her, Hanani walked away from the fire.

  She found who she wanted at a fire near the edge of camp, talking quietly with some of his men. Charris stood against the rocky wall nearby, subtly at guard. He saw Hanani coming before anyone else, and frowned in puzzlement as she approached. Then someone nudged Wanahomen, who turned to look at her, curious.

  The earring felt cold in Hanani’s hand. She clutched it so tightly that its sharper parts threatened to draw blood. But she came forward anyhow, meeting Wanahomen’s gaze as steadily as she could, and dropped the earring at his feet.

  The men fell silent. She did not look at them; she did not want them. Wanahomen stared down at the earring, his eyes widening. He looked up at her in wordless disbelief.

  Silent, empty, Hanani went back to her tent to wait.

  34

  Dirge

  The easternese told tales of souls that could not make the journey to Ina-Karekh for whatever reason, and were doomed to walk the waking realm forever as mist and sorrow. The templewoman had looked like one of these.

  Wanahomen stared after her as she drifted away, and then looked down at the earring at his feet. “She can’t have intended this,” he murmured. He picked it up; it was so plainly meant for him that none of the other men were even pretending to claim it. “She can’t know what it means.”

  “Looked to me she knew exactly what it meant,” said Ezack. Even he sounded uneasy, despite his smile.

  “Stubborn, arrogant woman,” he said, closing his hand around the earring. It was cold, though it had just been clutched in her hand; one of the pendants had broken loose when she dropped it. Cold and broken, just like her. “Thoughtless, stupid woman—”

  He stood and stormed after her, not allowing himself to question his own fury. Reaching her tent, he went inside, yanked away his face-veil, and threw the earring back at her feet. “You are out of your mind,” he snarled.

  The tent was lit by a single lantern hanging from the central tentpole. Hanani stood away from it, half in shadow with her back to him. Abruptly Wanahomen’s anger chilled as he realized she was staring at the saddlebag he’d put Sharer Mni-inh’s ashes into.

  “I do not dispute that,” she said in a near-whisper. Then she uttered a weak, unsteady laugh that unnerved him even further.

  He sighed, pulling off his headcloth and rubbing a hand over his braids, out of habit. “This isn’t what you need, Hanani. You need—Gods, I don’t know what you need. But not this.”

  “That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?”

  He stared at her, incredulous. “When it involves my body?”

  Her unadorned ear tilted toward him. “You wanted me yesterday.”

  “That doesn’t mean I want you now!”

  To his alarm, she began to tremble all over, so violently that her hair ornaments jingled. The contrast between this and her too-calm, too-flat voice was truly astonishing. “I see. Forgive me, then; I misunderstood. I’ll choose someone else.”

  “You’ll what?” He went to her and took hold of her shoulders, turning her around to face him. It was like grabbing a wild animal; she went taut, her eyes wide and mindless with panic. She did not scream, but he suspected that was a near thing.

  “Hanani—” He shook his head, though he loosened his grip at once. “Dearest Goddess, look at you. You don’t want a man. Why are you doing this?”

  Some of the panic faded from her eyes, replaced by a misery so deep that all of his remaining anger vanished. She looked away from him and made a halfhearted effort to twist out of his grasp. “It doesn’t matter. I know what I want.”

  “No, you—”

  “I know what I want!” She screamed the words, her fists clenching, her face so distorted by rage that for a moment he didn’t recognize her. Then she lunged at him, hands turning to claws, and suddenly he had to keep hold of her to prevent her from tearing his throat out. Or using her magic on him—but he could not let himself fear her, not now. “Get out! You’re no use to me, I can’t trust you anyway, you can’t help me!”

  He fought her for a moment, then realized he would have to change tactics. Instead of trying to keep her hands away, he pulled them to his chest. “Here,” he snapped, flattening her palms over his heart. “You want me gone? You know the way. Do to me what you did to Azima.”

  She froze, eyes suddenly wide with fear. “No. I won’t kill again.”

  “You don’t have to. Your mentor gave me pain once. Drove me to my knees with a touch. Do that now, and I’ll know you truly want me to leave so some other fool can come in here and be ‘useful’ to you. I’ll know you can at least protect yourself.” He braced himself in case he’d guessed wrong about her, but he did not think he was wrong. And indeed, instead of hurting him, she tried to escape again.

  “Let go!”

  “You say you know what you want! Who would you rather have besides me? Shall I send Charris in to you? Unte perhaps—he’s old, but he fathered another child just last year. Or will you have the first man who comes at you with lust instead of wits? You should have let Azima rape you, in that case!”

  She flinched, but then shook her head. “What does it matter, Prince? You hate me anyhow. Just let me go.”

  He took a deep breath. “I don’t hate you. I did once, but that was wrong. In fact—” He almost laughed; this was the last conversation he’d ever expected to have with a Hetawa priest. “You’re fine enough, and admirable enough, that I’m actually tempted. But this is wrong too, can’t you see that? There’s something wrong with you, and this will not fix it.”

  She lifted her head slowly; he could have pitied her for the confusion in her expression alone. While she seemed to grope for words, he squeezed her hands and said, “You said I couldn’t help you. Help you how, Hanani? What is it you need?”

  She said nothing, but she looked at the saddlebag again. Wanahomen found himself heartily wishing he hadn’t given her the damned urn until it was time to return to Gujaareh.

  “Your mentor is gone.” He said it as
gently as he could, and yet she still flinched as if he’d lifted a hand to her. An idea came to him. “Tell me what Mni-inh would do, Hanani, if he were here. Tell me how he would help you.”

  It was completely irrational. If Mni-inh had still been alive, she would have been fine. But those who dealt in dreams learned to think in dream-logic, so it did not surprise him at all that she frowned and blinked and seemed to focus on him, as though the words made perfect sense. “H-he would hold me.” She lowered her eyes. “No. He didn’t do that often, not anymore. But I, I wanted him to. I always wanted him to.”

  “All right.” Moving carefully—for she was still tensed, ready to bolt or worse—he let go of her hands and took hold of her shoulders again. He pulled her closer, and when she did not fight or panic again, he slid his arms around her completely. “There. Like this?”

  She quivered. Leaned her head against him. Pressed her face into his chest. He felt something in her body gather, poise itself—

  And then she howled. It was the only word he could think of to describe the sound she made, so far beyond a sob or a moan that it sounded as if it had been torn out of her soul. It was worse even than the sound she’d made after Azima’s death. This was agony, torment, and she screamed it out again and again as she clung to him, pulling his robes and shaking with the effort until he thought she would break of that alone.

  There seemed no way to deal with such pain other than to let it run its course, so he held her and let her scream.

  The flap of Hanani’s tent opened, and someone peered in. Hendet. As mistress of the an-sherrat, only she had the right to invade Hanani’s privacy. She looked them over for a moment, then inclined her head to Wanahomen before withdrawing again and flicking the flap shut. Doubtless she would reassure those outside, who might hear and misconstrue, of what was actually happening.