The Shadowed Sun

by N. K. Jemisin

  “I don’t love you, Prince,” she said, looking troubled. “Do you understand that? I want to, but there is a part of me that withdraws. I’ve lost everyone I loved, lately. It’s easier—safer—not to love you.”

  Taken aback, Wanahomen sat up on one elbow, and considered this. In a way, it was only to be expected. She had coupled with him in the midst of mourning, to ease her heart. Would she have wanted him at all if not for that? Impossible to say. The waking realm was not like dreams; one could not will it to change as one wished. He could only accept, or reject, what was given to him.

  And he did not want to reject her. That much, if nothing else, was clear.

  “I won’t pretend I like that,” he said. But as he said it, he put a hand on her belly. “I’m vain enough to want every woman I lie with to love me. But I’m a prince: love is not a necessity.” He hesitated. “I suppose I owe you honesty too, though: I had thought to marry you. But I’ve learned from Yanassa that it’s a poor idea to propose to a woman too quickly, and without settling certain matters first.” He pretended lofty consideration. “I can wait a fourday, perhaps.”

  He was glad to see her smile return. “You asked once if you were nothing to me. I want you to know … that isn’t true. You are my friend, Wanahomen. One of the only people I have ever called that.” She sighed. “That’s part of it, I suppose. I, I don’t know how to have friends, Prince. I don’t know how to be a lover, let alone a wife. I don’t know what I want.”

  He leaned down and kissed her broad forehead. “Then stay until you do.”

  She said nothing at first, and that troubled him.

  “You want children too.” Hanani’s face was solemn. “If you want me as a wife.”

  “Of course. You’ll make a fine mother …” But he trailed off at the look on her face.

  “We can never make children together, Prince,” she said. “The dreaming gift is a chancy thing; the Goddess’s will can never be predicted. But I’ve told you before that you could be a Gatherer—and there has never been a child made between Gatherer and Sharer. There never should be such a child. At best we might only strengthen the dreaming gift that runs in your lineage—and that alone would be a dangerous thing. At worst … we could make another Wild Dreamer, between us.”

  That shocked Wanahomen into silence for a full minute. He sat up, troubled on so many levels that he could not put his feelings to words.

  With a heavy sigh, Hanani sat up, leaning against his back. Her breath tickled the nape of his neck. “I’m sorry. But I will never lie, Prince. Perhaps that’s something proper lovers do, but—I am who I am.”

  Was he glad of that? She could easily have kept silent, lain with him for years and pretended to simply be barren. She was a healer: she could prevent anything she didn’t want. It was better, wasn’t it, to know why?

  Still, she did not love him. She did not want his seed for children. She did not need his wealth, for she could return to the Hetawa; she did not need his strength, for she had plenty of her own. What, then, could he offer her? He was not used to feeling so at a loss.

  “If you want me to leave,” she began.

  “No.”

  “Prince—”

  He turned and lay down with her again, stroking the curls back from her farm-girl face, wondering what was wrong with him. Was it Yanassa’s rejection that had made him want this woman so much? Tiaanet’s falsehood? The looming fact that he was unlikely to love or even like his other wives, whom he would marry for duty? He yearned to have one woman who would love him back. It was not so impossible a dream; his father had had that much in his mother. But apparently Wanahomen’s heart had chosen this woman.

  So he said, “I am certain of nothing else between us, Hanani, than that I do not want you to leave.”

  The unease faded from her expression, and she relaxed. “Thank you.” She shifted closer then, and put a hand on his. She seemed to like his hands more than any other part of him. He let her open his left, parting the fingers, stroking the palm with her thumb. When she lifted his hand to her lips for a kiss, however, her collar shifted, the stones clacking together, and he realized there was something else he felt sure about.

  He took a deep breath. “Well. Whether we make a child or not is a matter for your healer’s judgment,” he said, reaching up to finger the collar’s stones. They were beautiful, high-quality rubies, easily the rival of jewels he’d seen in the palace collection. The Hetawa had accorded her proper value at last. “I’ll have servants fetch the necessary sheaths and unguents, if you’d rather not waste magic, or there are other ways we can please each other. But it is you I want, Hanani, not the Hetawa. Choose me or not; I will live with either. At least choose something regarding them.”

  She touched the collar for a moment, thinking, for longer than his held breath. It was not a fair thing he had asked of her, and he knew it. The Hetawa was more than a power of Gujaareh, to her; it was her family. But her eyes were clear as she gazed at him. Whatever her decision, she’d already made it.

  When she sat up to unfasten the collar, he stifled triumph. He knew better. Still, it was difficult not to smile when she folded the collar neatly, laid it aside, and lay back down with him.

  “I’ve given Her enough,” she said, lifting her chin. There was a resolute, hard-edged note in her voice. “I’ve given everyone enough. It’s time I had something for myself.”

  So Wanahomen tried to give her what she wanted. He moved slowly when he touched her, allowing her time to think, ready to stop if she changed her mind. But she only sighed while he caressed her and tasted her soft flesh, and when he moved between her legs to make her ready, she made a sound of delight that he would hear in his best dreams ever after.

  So he joined himself to her, carefully, reverently—for were not women goddesses? He lavished effort on her pleasure even as he gratified himself, aware that this might be his one chance to win her. She seemed satisfied when the fires had cooled, so he wrapped his arms around her—loosely, bearing Yanassa’s scold in mind—and finally allowed himself to rest.

  But in the morning when he awoke, Hanani was gone.

  47

  A Servant of Peace

  When the Hetawa of Ina-Karekh formed around Hanani, she was unsurprised to find Nijiri waiting for her. “Greetings, Gatherer.”

  He stood and turned to face her on the dais, where he had been praying, and examined her face for a moment. “You’ve made your decision, then.”

  She nodded and came to stand before him. In the dream she wore a Sharer’s garb; now she reached up to remove the ruby collar. She held it forward, and after a long silent moment he took it.

  “I can return it in waking as well—” she began.

  “No. Dreaming matters more.” The collar vanished from his hands. “I’m sorry, Hanani. I never meant for this trial to do you such harm.”

  The lines in Nijiri’s face were deeper, his eyes older than the last time she had shared a dream with him. They had told her of Gatherer Rabbaneh’s death. In waking she would have kept her thoughts to herself, but in dreaming there was no point. “You’ve been harmed just as much, Gatherer.”

  He did not bother to deny it. “Will you find peace with him?”

  “Peace? With Wanahomen?” In a lighter moment she might have laughed. “No. I don’t know. Perhaps. There’s an emptiness in me, Gatherer, that nothing will ever fill. I don’t know what to do about it. Dreamblood—” She shook her head. She could not find the words to explain, but she felt with an instinctive certainty that dreamblood would do her no good.

  Nijiri sighed in agreement. “Time and friends will fill the void, Hanani. But …” He looked away. “The loss will never go away, not completely. At least, it hasn’t for me.”

  There was comfort in his words, to her very great surprise. It helped, somehow, to know that she would not stop missing the people she loved. It felt—not good, but right, that the loss of her faith should leave a lasting scar.

  Hanani turn
ed to face the bronze doors at the far end of the Hall. He stepped away from the statue; they began to walk together down the pathway between the pillars.

  “Inmu and I have begun to find souls adrift in the realms between waking and dreaming,” he said. “Many do not remember themselves fully; sharing the Wild Dreamer’s pain was too much for them. But they are intact enough to be sent to Ina-Karekh, and left there in peace.”

  She caught her breath, stopping in her tracks. “Mni-inh? Dayuhotem?”

  “Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling tears prick the lids—and, too, feeling the great emptiness inside her ease, just a little. It was as though someone had lit a lantern within her. Just a small warmth, useless in true darkness, but even that was better than nothing. “I wish I could see them again.”

  He said nothing. It was custom to reassure a grieving person that she would see her loved ones again someday. But Ina-Karekh was infinite. Hanani might search lifetimes and never find the single soul she sought, much less two. Nijiri’s silence was honesty, and she was grateful for it.

  But hope was honest too. As long as she was alive, she could dream—and because she was a woman, she could continue searching after death as well. So she decided: she would see them again, someday.

  “Thank you, Gatherer,” she said.

  He inclined his head. “Do you mean to keep healing?”

  “I would like to. I like helping people. But the Superior was right; no one has need of my skills here in Gujaareh. The Hetawa provides all the people need.”

  “There’s more to the world than Gujaareh,” he said cryptically, and then stopped. They had reached the bronze doors, which here in Ina-Karekh opened onto not the steps and square, but a solid, featureless expanse of brightness. The way back to the waking realm.

  “Mni-inh trained you well,” he said, “so we’ll trust your judgment in this and all other matters. Only take care to teach your Prince no more magic, if you decide to keep him. You were wise to teach him balance, but he lacks the discipline to attempt the higher narcomantic arts. After all the effort we invested in him, it would be a shame to lose him too quickly.”

  Hanani lowered her eyes in agreement. “Yes, Gatherer.”

  Nijiri nodded, then took her hands. “You will always be of the Hetawa, Hanani. Whether you serve in our way or yours, we’re still your brothers. Don’t forget us, please?”

  Hanani smiled, and then on an impulse stepped forward and put her arms around him. He seemed badly startled, for one did not hug Gatherers. But finally he shook his head, relaxed, and folded his arms around her as well.

  “Clearly,” he said into her hair, amused, “we must consult the Sisters on proper handling of women before we ever attempt it again.”

  “Clearly,” Hanani said, and closed her eyes. “Farewell, Gatherer.”

  Opening her eyes in Hona-Karekh, she lay awake in Wanahomen’s arms for many hours.

  One of the Banbarra warriors agreed to guide Hanani to Merik-ren-aferu. She had expected Unte to be reluctant, but to her surprise he agreed to nearly all her requests. Later she commented on this to Hendet, who had also chosen to remain with the Banbarra for the time being. “They’re barbarians,” Hendet said, with a shrug. “We have mostly forgotten what it means to make hard choices; they have not.”

  “And … you?” Hanani asked this with some unease; she had abandoned Hendet’s son, after all, and she did not know how the other woman felt about it.

  “I have made harder choices than you will ever know,” Hendet said, and walked away.

  Per her requests, they built Hanani a solitary camp at the far end of the canyon, on a stable ledge that was low enough not to frighten her. With Gujaareh’s rich markets open to them at last—and Wanahomen paying the hunt warriors for their guard duty besides—the tribe had chosen to forego its usual springtime journey to the western lands. This meant Hanani could rely on their protection and assistance for at least another year.

  For the price of her ruby collar she had a fine tent and ample supplies, with fresh goods and messages brought once a week by a hunt rider. Yanassa and the tribe’s women came often too, sometimes bringing other guests: a child with a twisted spine, a woman whose hair was falling out, a man with an embarrassing genital injury. Hanani sent them away healed and more came. Banbarra from other tribes began making journeys to visit her, and per Hanani’s agreement with Unte, they were welcome in Merik-ren-aferu regardless of how matters stood politically between the tribes. Her little ledge was sovereign territory within the Yusir’s, even more than any other woman’s an-sherrat, and no one who approached under flag of truce for the purpose of seeing her could be harmed—not even those from tribes at feud with the Yusir. She had not yet persuaded Unte to permit the Shadoun to come too, but she would keep pressing for that.

  In exchange for the tribe’s aid and protection, Hanani did not charge individual Yusir for her services. So even the poorest members of the tribe came, and Hanani healed them. Before long she had visitors nearly every day. Even Unte came once—to see how his tribe’s exotic prize was doing, he said, but she repaired his bad knees before he left.

  Yanassa eventually coaxed her into closer contact with the Yusir, though Hanani worried this would damage her efforts to establish herself as a neutral ally rather than a member of the tribe. She could not help it, though, for the desert nights were cold and long, and Nijiri had been right: the presence of others helped keep the grief at bay. So she attended the tribe’s celebrations and rituals, and she even took a little girl—the one she’d cured of fever some while back—as a sort of apprentice. The child was a poor dreamer and would never be able to use more than basic sleep-spells to aid her herbal and surgical skills. Still, it was good to have someone to teach again.

  At Yanassa’s urging, Hanani even tried the young man who’d volunteered several times to bring her supplies. He was younger than she, shy and with a worse stammer than she’d ever had, artlessly obvious in his liking for her. She liked him too, especially given how delighted he’d been by her invitation to stay the night. This turned out to be a mistake, however. His lovemaking was pleasurable enough—he had a great deal of enthusiasm—but she had no great desire to see him again afterward. Which made his disappointment all the more painful for both of them, when he realized it. She almost took up with him again for pity, until it occurred to her that this was disrespectful. He deserved a lover who genuinely wanted him.

  And this reasoning, when Hanani finally applied it to herself, prompted her to at last send a scroll to Gujaareh via the next message-rider. A few fourdays later—nearly a year after she’d left him—Wanahomen arrived in Merik-ren-aferu.

  He did not shout. He did not demand explanations. Later Hanani would learn that Yanassa, Hendet, Ezack, and Unte were behind this. They had refused to lead Wanahomen to her camp until he promised to stay calm. He was not sufficiently angry to declare war on the six tribes, though it was a narrow thing.

  Instead he sat beside Hanani on her ledge, both of them letting legs dangle over a drop of thirty feet or so. He was resplendent in a headdress of lapis beads, fingerloop gauntlets, and a floor-length brocade waistcloak. She wore only plain beige robes; this made her feel quite the drab peahen given his bright plumage.

  Still, he kept looking at her. She didn’t know what that meant.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, at length.

  He sighed. “I pressed you too hard and too fast. The apology is mine to make.”

  This startled Hanani, because she had not expected him to apologize for anything, let alone that. At the look of open-mouthed shock on her face, Wanahomen scowled, and Hanani quickly turned away to hide her smile. She had missed his scowls, amazingly.

  “I suspected you might be here,” he said, when she had recovered. “Where else could you have gone easily? But I did not come, because I was angry.”

  “Understandable,” Hanani said.

  “And because I hoped
you would change your mind, someday, and come back to me.”

  She looked down at her sandals, which dangled over the valley, and kicked them a little. “As I have done, at least partially.”

  “What, then, would you have of me?” And he turned to look at her, his expression guarded and haughty—but he still hadn’t fully shed his Banbarra self. His tension was obvious in the way his eyes never left her face, and the strength with which his hand gripped the ledge, the knuckles going pale.

  “I, I would like to be your lover again,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat. “And your friend, and perhaps more. If you’ll have me.”

  The wariness that crossed his face hurt to see. “That depends,” he said in a too-neutral tone. “Do you love me?”

  She nodded, and saw him relax. “You were part of the empty space within me,” she said. “I didn’t realize it at first because the emptiness was so great. But Gatherer Nijiri was right: time and friends have eased it, and now I see that I am happier with you than without.”

  A muscle flexed in his jaw. “If that’s so, then I require that you marry me.” When Hanani looked at him in surprise, his jaw tightened further. She’d forgotten his stubbornness. “I feel the need of ties with you, Hanani, for some unfathomable reason.”

  She almost smiled, but the moment was too weighty for that. “I’m willing, though I know nothing of how marriage goes. Should I not meet your other wives first? To be certain of peace between us, if nothing else.”

  “I have no other wives.”

  Hanani frowned. It had been a year since Gujaareh’s liberation, and any prince had enemies. “Isn’t it … well, irresponsible, for the Prince of the Sunset to have no wives? No heirs?”

  “I have a son of my flesh already, and I have a woman who loves me and wants me, but they’re both half-wild. They flee into the desert whenever I try to love them back. If I were a less confident man, I might become concerned.”