“I greet you, Prince of the Sunset, Avatar of our Goddess,” she said. Her voice was low and rich like dark sweet wine, tightening everything from his throat to his belly and below as well. But then she knelt before him, startling him out of the spell. Gujaareen women did not kneel. They were goddesses; it was wrong. Wanahomen opened his mouth to protest but then stopped as Tiaanet raised her arms, crossing them before her face with her fists closed and turned outward. A manuflection, the highest display of respect that one could offer to mortals favored by the gods. The last time Wanahomen had seen a manuflection performed had been at Yanya-iyan a lifetime ago, as he watched supplicants approach his father.
But I am Prince now, not my father. And when was it appropriate for a goddess to kneel? Only when a higher god stood before her.
Sanfi put a hand on Wanahomen’s shoulder, and he flinched out of staring at the woman. “Ten families of the shunha, and eighteen of the zhinha, have agreed to support our cause,” he said. “For the Prince’s son—for you, my Prince, they will commit their troops and resources. Between them and your Banbarra allies, the total will be small compared to the Kisuati army … but a small force can be effective under the right circumstances. The Sunset Throne could be yours again.”
Then you could have a woman like this. The words were not spoken, but hung in the air between them, an implicit promise. And as Wanahomen gazed down at Tiaanet’s bent head, he heard again her dark-wine voice naming him Prince, and saw himself seated on the oxbow throne with the Aureole of the Setting Sun behind his head. Tiaanet would sit beside him as his firstwife, and their children would cover the steps below, living ornaments to his glory and her perfection. It was the sweetest vision he’d ever experienced outside Ina-Karekh.
“There is an old, old tradition in guest-custom, my Prince,” Sanfi said, his voice soft at Wanahomen’s shoulder. “It has long fallen into disuse even in Kisua, but it seems fitting to revive it now. Once, long ago, a pact between men was sealed by more than hands.”
Tiaanet lifted her eyes, gazing into what Wanahomen feared was his soul. She reached for his hand and took it—the softness of her skin was almost a painful shock—and got to her feet.
“We can discuss the details later,” Sanfi said. He released Wanahomen’s shoulder as Tiaanet stepped back, pulling Wanahomen with her. “In the morning. Rest well, my Prince.”
What—? Wanahomen mustered enough wit to throw a look back at Sanfi, certain he had misunderstood. But Sanfi was smiling, and now Tiaanet’s hand was on his cheek, pulling his face back to her. When she saw that his attention was once again hers, she nodded and resumed backing away, leading him along.
They reached her room and shut the hanging, and in her arms Wanahomen was Prince again, if only for a single night.
7
The Shadow
Hanani was still trembling when she reached the Hetawa. The sun had set by that time, for she had detoured through two markets rather than take the faster route through the artisans’ district. Most artisans worked nights when it was cooler, which made the district relatively quiet—they would be just waking—but Kisuati soldiers would be on patrol there nevertheless: they were everywhere in the city. She was safer on the market streets, where there were more people around as the stalls began to shut down for the night.
She was glad that Anarim was no longer on duty as she trotted up the Hetawa’s steps. His replacement barely gave her a glance. Had Anarim known that Kisuati soldiers were openly assaulting people in the city? No, if so he would have commanded, not suggested, the escort. She had heard rumors—they all had—but she’d thought that the Kisuati were at least trying to maintain a discreet semblance of respect for the Law and Wisdom that governed Gujaareen society. If the Sentinels did not know things had changed, then perhaps the Gatherers did not know either.
It was her duty to tell them.
She stopped in the shadow of one of the Hall’s pillars, putting her hand to her breast as if that might slow her racing heart. She did not want to tell the Gatherers. Her reluctance was irrational, irresponsible—but just thinking of those moments brought back the sound of blows striking the merchant’s flesh, the cruel eyes of the soldiers, the sour taste of her own fear. It had been her duty to intervene. Yet she understood, now, that if there had been fewer people on the street, the soldiers would have beaten her as well—or done worse. What should she have done, what could she have said, to stop them? Even now she could think of nothing, and somehow that was the worst of it. She was sworn to uphold the Law, yet she could think of no peaceful resolution to such an impasse. A Sharer should have known a way.
Perhaps Teacher Yehamwy is right about me. Perhaps that man was right—I’m not strong enough to serve Her.
But that thought filled her with anguish and shame, and such feelings were inappropriate in the sight of the Goddess. So with a deep breath she straightened, intending to return to her cell where she might pray and regain peace—
“Sister?” An acolyte came ’round the pillar and squinted at her in the dimness, then caught his breath as he got a good look. “Oh—forgive me, Sharer-Apprentice. I thought … well.” He shifted from foot to foot in embarrassment. “They were looking for you earlier.”
Hanani blinked in surprise. “They?”
“The Superior and his guests. He sent some of us around to find you, but no one knew where you’d gone.”
Hanani’s belly tightened in a new kind of unease. “How long ago?”
“Just after sunset, not long.” The boy squinted harder at her face. “Are you all right?”
Hanani realized that she had wrapped her arms around herself, as if cold. She unfolded her arms and straightened. “Yes. Yes. I’ll go now.”
She hurried away, from the boy’s curiosity as much as anything else.
The Superior’s office was on the fourth level of the administrative wing that abutted the Hall of Blessings. She reached the office winded from the stairs and had only a moment to compose herself before one of the voices murmuring within came closer, and the heavy curtain opened. “Ah, here she is.”
The Superior stood before her, smiling. He stepped aside and gestured for her to enter the office, which she did with some trepidation as she saw who else was present: two figures in cloaks and veils dyed a soft yellow, and a man in a sleeveless hooded robe. The first two were Sisters of Hananja, though because of the veils Hanani could distinguish little about them save that one was very tall. The hooded man Hanani recognized less by his face than by the blue lotus tattoo on his nearer shoulder: Nijiri, third-ranked of the Gatherers. Because they were in the Superior’s private office, Nijiri lowered his hood as Hanani came in, revealing close-cropped hair and a face that was both lowcaste-pale and beautiful in a fey, untouchable sort of way. He stood against the wall with his arms folded, his expression closed.
“Please sit down, Sharer-Apprentice,” the Superior said, gesturing toward the guest table. Hanani swallowed and took the open cushion, where she tried very hard to concentrate on the barley-sheaf inlays along the table’s edge. Why had the Superior called her here? Why were a Gatherer and two Sisters present? She dared not speculate.
The Superior folded himself down on another cushion with a grunt. “Well. Hanani, these are Sisters Ni-imeh and Ahmanat; I believe you know Gatherer Nijiri.”
Hanani swallowed and bobbed her head at the Sisters, giving the Gatherer a more careful bow over two hands. Nijiri returned the bow solemnly, as did Ni-imeh, but Ahmanat reached over and took Hanani by the chin. This startled Hanani so much that she froze as the Sister turned her face gently from one side to the other.
“Pretty,” the Sister said in a surprisingly deep voice. This then was one of the rare male Sisters; Hanani had never seen one in person. She could make out nothing of his face behind the veil, but she thought he smiled at her. “Though Sharer attire does not suit you at all. Farmcaste, were you? So was I, though you’d never guess it now.”
Before Hanani could gather some
response, the Superior tsked. “We in the Hetawa don’t speak of the past, Sister Ahmanat.”
“We of the Sisterhood do, Superior,” Ni-imeh said. Her voice was female, with an elderly quaver, as cool as her companion’s was friendly. She turned to examine Hanani as well. “But we shall preach the merits of our perspective at some other time. I must admit, I’m surprised to see how well she’s done. I had expected her to be sent to us long ago.”
Hanani resisted the urge to flinch at this. She turned her gaze back to the table edge, as it was clear the Sister was not speaking to her.
“Yes, doing well, apart from the recent unfortunate incident,” the Superior said, “and even that is an indirect blemish on an otherwise spotless record. The consensus among her Sharer brethren is that she’s a fine healer—and that is indeed a difficult admission for some of them.” He chuckled.
“She’s implicated, then.” Ni-imeh seemed unsurprised by this. “To what degree?”
“That, the investigation will determine,” the Superior replied. He reached for the water service and began pouring cups for everyone, serving the elder Sister first. “From the bodies, the Sharers ascertained that both the tithebearer and the acolyte died in a state of severe humoric imbalance, specifically an overabundance of dreambile. This is a symptom, of course; we do not know what in dreaming might have caused such an imbalance. But the physical result is that healthy function of the heart and brain ceased entirely.” He sighed. “And there are certain other anomalies that still must be considered.”
“Anomalies consistent with the reports we’ve given you?” There was a sharp note in Ahmanat’s voice, much to Hanani’s surprise. She had no idea of his rank within the Sisterhood, but surely if he had taken a woman’s role it was inappropriate for him to address the Superior in such a tone. Women were supposed to create peace, not disturb it.
“Who can say?” The Superior offered a cup to the Gatherer, who quietly shook his head, as did Ahmanat. He set the cup in front of Hanani instead, not asking first. “You’ve brought us very little from which to draw conclusions. The people of Gujaareh have been under great strain for the past few years, and now with these desert bandit attacks …” He shrugged. “I would be surprised if there weren’t a few more nightmares in the city these days.”
“There is more to this than a few nightmares,” Ahmanat said sternly. “There have been deaths, Superior.”
“Deaths that even you admit have no clear connection to the dreams.”
Hanani caught her breath as understanding dawned. There had been others like Bahenamin? But that meant—
“Sharer-Apprentice Hanani.” Hanani looked up in reflex, and quailed inwardly as she met the Gatherer Nijiri’s gaze. They were a strange color, his eyes: something of green, but mostly a pale brown that seemed reddish in the light from the office lanterns. The color reminded her of bricks, sharp-edged and unyielding.
“You look as though you have something to contribute,” the Gatherer said.
The others had fallen silent when he spoke; now they all focused on Hanani. Hanani swallowed.
“Th-the tithebearer,” she said. That damnable stammer! She took a deep breath and tried again, praying silently for calm. “Bahenamin, of the merchant caste. I visited his widow today. She said—” Her mouth was dry; she swallowed again. “She said that her husband s-suffered from bad dreams as well. He came that day to give them to the Goddess in tithe.”
And Dayu, sweet Dayu, had tried to collect that tithe. Her eyes stung again, but the Goddess must have heard her prayers. She clenched her fists beneath the table and the feeling passed.
The Sisters looked at each other. “Like the others,” the Superior said. For the first time since the conversation had begun, he seemed nonplussed.
Gatherer Nijiri abruptly stepped forward, coming around the table and crouching at Hanani’s side. Hanani resisted the urge to draw back from his bricks-and-jade gaze.
He lifted a hand before her face, forefinger and middle finger curved gracefully apart. His other hand slipped into his robe, and from somewhere within it they all heard the soft hum of his jungissa stone. “May I, Apprentice?”
Hanani nodded, too intimidated to question a Gatherer even though she had no clue of what he wanted. Almost before her nod had finished, his hand flashed forward, and she had only an instant to wonder if he frightened tithebearers this much before a great wave of drowsiness swept over her.
There was no gentleness to his magic. He found her soul right away and, in a fraction of the time that it ordinarily took Hanani to do the same, had her out of her body and in Ina-Karekh. Then he steered her through Ina-Karekh with such strength and speed that it blurred around her—before resolving into a city street bathed in golden afternoon sunlight. Butterflies danced in air laden with a garden’s perfume.
A memory dream. In spite of herself Hanani observed in fascination as another Hanani, herself but not her self, appeared on the street. She shimmered and reappeared in front of a tall northern-style house. The servant appeared, they both vanished through the door, and then the dreamscape blurred into the atrium where the widow Danneh sat waiting beneath a palm tree.
But there was something wrong. In spite of the Gatherer’s control, elements of the dream had begun to slip out of true. Danneh’s ample body was curiously doubled, her possible-self overlapping and blurring with another form, like a shadow, though this shadow seemed somehow a part of her rather than a separate thing.
Abruptly the Gatherer’s dreamform appeared beside Danneh. Here in Ina-Karekh where he was free to reveal his true self, Nijiri was clad in simple patterned loindrapes with no sandals or collar. Two thin locks, years in the growing, dangled from the nape of his neck over one shoulder; he swept these out of the way as he crouched to examine the shadow.
Freed for the moment from the Gatherer’s control, Hanani cautiously manifested herself in the atrium as well. “What is it, Gatherer?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “But it has a feel I don’t like.” He rose and gazed down at the memory, listening while Danneh told not-Hanani of her husband’s dreams. When he spoke again, his tone was grave. “The taint of whatever killed Bahenamin is on this woman. You realize that it killed your assistant as well?”
Hanani nodded, forcing herself not to feel the grief; too dangerous in Ina-Karekh, where pain had shape and power. “Is it—” She hesitated out of respect, for she had heard the tales of his apprenticeship trial, but the question had to be asked. “Is it a Reaper?”
To Hanani’s great relief, the Gatherer shook his head at once. “Thank the Goddess, no. This taint is subtle, and those monsters are anything but.” He fell silent for a moment in thought while the dream blurred on around them. Now not-Hanani was leaving Danneh’s house, and now self-Hanani’s heart constricted as she realized what was coming. Already the not-Hanani was turning toward Yafai Garden, intending to cut through it as a faster route back to the Hetawa. And on the other side of the garden …
Away, she willed herself silently, hoping that the Gatherer was distracted enough not to notice her tampering. The not-Hanani would detour around the garden and miss the merchant’s beating. Then the soldiers would not see her, and the angry young man in laborer’s clothes would pass her by without a second glance—
The dream began to shift in response to her suggestion. And then it froze, a swirl of afternoon light and indistinct buildings. The Gatherer turned to look at her. “What are you doing?” His voice was very soft.
Caught, Hanani fell into helpless silence. She dared not lie; he was a Gatherer. And yet, the truth—
His eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he focused on the dream again. This time Hanani could do nothing. His will was as stony as his eyes, and when he commanded her mind to remember that afternoon, she was helpless.
Almost as helpless as when the soldier had raised his hand to strike her.
She shuddered and folded her arms over her breasts while the memory resumed. The Gatherer said noth
ing as the not-Hanani confronted the soldiers, though Hanani felt him grow very still beside her. Some of the stillness passed as the soldiers turned to leave, but when Hanani risked a glance at Nijiri, she almost gasped. She had never seen such open fury on a Gatherer’s face.
Yet when he turned to her the fury vanished. “Forgive me,” he said. His voice was just as soft as before, though more comforting now. “That was difficult for you, I see, and I have not helped you by forcing you to recall it. But you should not have hidden this.”
“I’m sorry. It’s only”—she had to swallow—“th-they did me no lasting harm.”
“That’s a lie, Apprentice. But hopefully one day the Goddess will make it true for you.” He turned back to the dreamscape, which had frozen again, and walked over to the soldiers. After a long look at each man—committing their faces to memory, Hanani realized with a chill—the Gatherer nodded to himself. “What did he say to you?”
“I’m sorry, Gatherer?”
“The soldier. He whispered something in your ear before he left.”
Hanani shivered. She had hoped he would not ask that. “H-he said that I was not as pretty as those other Hetawa women. If I was, he would have taken me back to the guard-station and …” He had spoken in a mixture of Gujaareen and Sua, of which Hanani had learned only enough to carry on simple conversations. She had not been able to translate the soldier’s last words, but then, she hadn’t needed to.
Nijiri frowned. “Other Hetawa women?” Abruptly he scowled. “I see. The Sisters. They should have told us—Ah, but they’re proud.” He sighed heavily. “If it helps, Apprentice, you should know that those soldiers will never harm you or any other Gujaareen again.”
Hanani found that the idea gave her no comfort at all.
The Gatherer turned—and then paused, peering at the face of the young laborer who had come forward to help her. His eyes widened. “Well, well. So he is the one.”
The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2 Page 7