The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2

by N. K. Jemisin

  Seething quietly, he obeyed, kneeling on the cushion farthest from her. Seeing this, Hendet sighed and rubbed her eyes.

  “I don’t blame you for your anger,” she said finally. She looked at him and some of the anger in his belly unknotted at the pain in her face. “The priest who tested you told us that with the strength of your gift, there was an equal chance that you would grow up a madman, or suffer no ill effects at all. It seemed worth the risk.”

  “An equal chance.” He clenched his fists in his lap. “I could become a raging lunatic at any shadows-damned moment, and you thought it worth the risk?”

  “Your father thought so, yes,” Hendet said quietly.

  He stared back at her and finally asked aloud the question that he had wondered—and resisted—for ten years. “And was he mad?”

  It jarred him badly that she did not immediately say no.

  “I don’t know,” she said after a long silence. She looked away, rubbing her palms on her lap. She had been trained never to show nervousness. “Certainly he knew dream from daylight. With me he was always kind, always so clever. But the things he did toward the end—Those things—” Her jaw flexed; she fell silent.

  Then perhaps the Gatherers were right to claim him, came the thought to Wanahomen’s mind before he could habitually reject it.

  No. The Hetawa had abused his father, abused all his forefathers. Any crimes Eninket had committed were done only in response to that.

  “You must understand,” said Hendet, her voice softer than usual. “If the priests had tried to claim any other of his children he might have yielded, but not you. So your father took the chance, and bribed the priest to say that you lacked the gift.”

  “That was all well and fine,” Wanahomen said tightly, “but you could have told me.”

  Silence fell, Wanahomen’s taut and Hendet’s heavy with guilt.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered at last. “You’re right, of course. I just … You had so many other troubles to deal with. And the longer I kept the truth from you, the harder it became to tell.”

  In the wake of that, there was nothing else Wanahomen could think to say. He shook his head, sighed, and finally got to his feet. Hendet sat forward, anxious. “Where are you going?”

  “To prepare for our patrol. And to find the Sharers.”

  “Wana—”

  He held up a hand to silence her, unwilling to hear any more of her half-truths. “We can speak again when I return.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again as he stepped through the tent-flap. He looked back at her and could not muster a farewell as the flap fell shut.

  It did not take long to find the templewoman. “She looks for you,” said one of the tribe’s elders when he asked. “That way.” Thus he found her near the an-sherrat of Shatyrria, mother of Wutir and grandmother of Wujjeg, looking about. By the unease in Hanani’s face, he knew she had noticed the hostile looks from Wutir’s relatives. The looks they gave Wanahomen were worse; he ignored them.

  “Prince.” There was a note of relief in her voice when she saw him. On another day he might have found irony in that. “Please forgive my mentor. He’s still angry—”

  “I know,” Wanahomen said. “Come with me.”

  He got three steps before he realized she was not following. When he looked back, she studied his face, and he realized she had taken that time to consider whether it was safe to go with him. That the Azima incident had made her more cautious was good; that she felt the need to be cautious with him was sobering.

  But do I not deserve it? whispered his conscience as she finally moved to follow.

  Yes. He did. Which was why, in the end, he would forgive his mother. He could not fault her when he too had committed shameful acts.

  Hanani threw glances at him as they walked through the camp, but she said nothing to break the silence, for which Wanahomen was grateful. Only when they reached Yanassa’s an-sherrat did she make a sound, understanding. “Your son.”

  He stopped and turned to face her. He did not hate her anymore, not after seeing her face on the night she’d killed Azima. Did she hate him? He prayed she would be true enough to her vows to help him, even if she did.

  “I need to know,” he said. “Tassa needs to know.”

  She nodded slowly. “I can administer the fourth-year test. But the gift passes most often and most powerfully through the fatherline, from male to male. If he has the gift—”

  “It doesn’t guarantee he’ll go mad.”

  “No. But what will happen if he does? How do the Banbarra care for their mad ones?”

  “They take them into the desert and leave them to die.”

  She stiffened. When she finally spoke, there was a level of contempt in her voice that he had never heard before. “‘A people shall be judged civilized by how the least among them are succored.’”

  It startled him to hear one of Mahanasset’s proverbs in her mouth—but then, the Hetawa stinted nothing on its adoptees’ education. “There’s some truth in that,” he said. “But even in Gujaareh, no one is expected to slice the throats of his own ailing parents, or drown his own malformed children. There are no Gatherers here to do such things.”

  “The mad are neither dying nor malformed! These barbarians—” She trailed off, probably struggling to remain polite. He almost smiled at the pure Gujaareen arrogance in her tone. He hadn’t known she had it in her.

  “Life in the desert is difficult, Sharer-Apprentice. The Banbarra are not wealthy like Gujaareh; they have few resources to spare on ‘the least among them.’ And remember: the mad can be dangerous.”

  She made a dismissive gesture, quick and angry. “Then tell them to bring their mad to Gujaareh! We can help them have good long lives. Or if they’re brought young, they can help others as Sharers or Gatherers. Tassa’s age, or younger.”

  Wanahomen stiffened, but reminded himself that the woman had not specifically mentioned claiming Tassa.

  “When I return to Gujaareh, I will lose my son,” he said. He kept his voice soft and neutral, but some hint of anguish must have filtered through his efforts. She fell silent, some of the righteous anger fading from her face. “He is my firstborn, but he’ll never sit on the Sunset Throne. In blood, Tassa is only half Banbarra—but in spirit he’s wholly so. Taking him from the life and clan he loves, forcing him to live under a permanent roof, chaining him to people he holds in contempt … These things would destroy him. Do you understand?”

  She spoke gently too, perhaps meaning to be kind. “Madness would destroy him too, Prince. There’s only one certain way to ensure it won’t, if his soul ever begins to wander in earnest.”

  “I won’t have him enslaved with dreamblood, either.”

  She allowed a moment’s silence, to cushion her next words, and so that he could brace for them. “Then if he goes mad, will you take him to the Gatherers?”

  “They won’t have another of my line.”

  “Then …”

  “If he goes mad, I’ll kill him myself.”

  It did not hurt to say the words, only to think about them. And because she was Gujaareen, her face filled with compassion, rather than horror.

  “That choice should be his,” she said.

  He nodded curtly. “Yes. And should the need come, I’ll ask him. But if he is already gone into visions and gibbering, if the choice has been taken from him by this curse you call a gift—” He shook his head. “I won’t let him suffer.”

  She sighed, but did not protest his words. “I’ll check him now.”

  Tassa was inside, playing with the toy sword Wanahomen had given him after one of his trips into Gujaareh. The boy opened the flap to invite them in with an eagerness that spoke of long boredom. “Mama told me to stay inside today,” he said. “Dasheuri found a scorpion and dared me to pick it up, and I did. Mama saw and got mad.”

  “As she should have,” Wanahomen said, scowling. “Those creatures can kill a child your size.”

  “I knew wh
at I was doing,” Tassa replied, with not a little arrogance of his own. Then he turned his bright, curious gaze on the woman. “She’s the one Mama’s been helping.”

  “She’s a healer,” Wanahomen said. The woman looked at both of them, obviously sensing that they were talking about her. “From the land where I was born. She wants to read your dreams to check your health.”

  Tassa beckoned them over to the cushions set up for guests around a small square rug. “She can look into my dreams?” His voice held fascination rather than the unease that an adult might have felt. “How?”

  “Lie down, and she’ll show you,” Wanahomen said. When Tassa eagerly flopped down on two cushions, Wanahomen nodded to the woman, who knelt beside the boy.

  “Dream—remember I?” Tassa asked her in halting, awful Gujaareen. Wanahomen blinked in surprise, then suddenly understood: Yanassa. She must have decided to teach Tassa Gujaareen, even though traditionally Banbarra boys were not taught women’s skills. For a moment he felt tears sting his eyes before he quickly blinked them away. He would have to thank Yanassa later.

  The templewoman looked surprised as well, but smiled. “I can make you remember, if you wish,” she said. When Tassa frowned in incomprehension, she simplified. “Yes. You will remember.”

  Tassa looked pleased. “I don’t remember most of my dreams,” he said, switching back to Chakti. “I wish I could remember more.”

  “She can teach you how, if you like.”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I don’t want to learn magic. That’s a foreign thing.”

  It’s half your heritage, he almost said, but held his tongue.

  “That would be up to your mother,” he said, “but lie back and be silent for a while, or this magic will take all afternoon.”

  Tassa got comfortable. “What now?”

  “Close your eyes. She’ll lay her fingers on them, and make you sleep.”

  A hint of worry flickered across the boy’s face. “Have you done this?”

  “Yes. So has Hendet. You’ve seen that she’s better now?”

  “Yes. All right, then.” He closed his eyes, eager now.

  The woman laid her fingertips on his eyelids and uttered a soft, monotone hum. After a moment Tassa’s body relaxed into sleep, and Wanahomen sat back on his heels to wait.

  It took less time than he’d expected. Barely five minutes later she exhaled and opened her eyes. “Such gentle dreams,” she whispered. “I did not expect that of your son.”

  Unsure how to take that statement, Wanahomen decided to ignore it. “Does he have the gift or not?”

  “No. His dreams will never leave Ina-Karekh.”

  The wave of relief that passed through Wanahomen was both painful and sweet. On a completely irrational level, he had hoped to see yet another sign of his blood in the boy. That foolishness passed quickly, however, and Wanahomen closed his eyes to whisper a prayer of thanks for his son’s good fortune. When he opened his eyes, the woman was looking at him.

  “I didn’t think you prayed,” she said.

  At this he scowled. “It’s the Hetawa I hate, not the Goddess,” he said, moving over to Tassa. On impulse he gathered the boy into his arms, as Yanassa had so rarely let him do when Tassa was a baby. “If She sees fit to grant me some small blessing, I am Hers enough to be thankful for it.”

  “And yet you don’t obey Her Law.”

  Tassa sighed contentedly in his sleep, snuggling into Wanahomen’s chest; Wanahomen could not help smiling. He would be sure to tease the boy about it later.

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “In my heart I do, but in plain fact … I’m a harder man now than I was when I left Gujaareh, and I admit: sometimes that troubles me. But it’s for Gujaareh that I do such unpeaceful things. I try to make certain they’re the right things, but …” He threw her a look. The bruises had been healed and Azima was dead, but the shadow of what had happened still lurked in her solemn face. He sighed, and made his next words as much of an apology as his pride could bear. “I don’t always succeed.”

  She frowned a little—not in disapproval, he guessed, but in thought. And in particular, she watched him hold Tassa. He sensed she was considering something, or perhaps withholding something.

  “He lacks the gift,” she said, “but he’s still your son. His own children could possess it. Such things sometimes skip generations.” When Wanahomen said nothing—because he could think of nothing to say to that—she added, “You will need to tell him of this, Prince. Knowledge is a weapon; do not leave your descendants unarmed.” She paused again. “As you were.”

  He looked sharply up at her, angry—but that was pointless, because she was not the one who had withheld the truth from him. She did not flinch from his anger, either, perhaps because she knew she had the right of it. This thought made him sigh, and relent.

  “I’ll explain it all to Tassa,” he said. “Tomorrow. I’ll tell Yanassa, too, and convince—and try to convince her to let Tassa visit Gujaareh, at some point in the future. He’ll need to know how to take his children to the Hetawa to be tested, if he can.”

  Hanani frowned. “Ah, mothers control such things here. I see.” She considered for a moment. “I’ll discuss the matter with Yanassa and the women I know. I’m no mother, but perhaps if it comes from a woman, that will help.”

  “Thank you,” Wanahomen said, surprised. “Yes, that would help.” But why are you helping? he did not ask. It was an unnecessary question, really; she obviously felt that helping him served the Goddess Hananja in some way. And, too, perhaps she saw it as helping Tassa, and Wanahomen was merely a means to that end.

  But abruptly the woman sighed, and Wanahomen realized that while he’d been pondering her, she’d come to some decision.

  “There’s another way for you to prevent the madness,” she said. “Dreamblood is the surest way, but since you won’t have that …” She hesitated, then sighed. “You could learn to restore the balance of your own humors when they slip out of true. It’s a skill that those of us who manipulate humors must learn. If you could master it, your sanity would be safe.”

  He frowned at her for a moment, then shifted to lay Tassa back down so that the boy could sleep away the rest of the sun-hour. “Would it be difficult, to learn this skill?”

  “It was easy for me, but I was well practiced in narcomancy at that point of my training. Much would depend on how quick to learn you are, and how patient my mentor is likely to be—”

  “No.” Let that torturing, hateful bastard into his dreams? Was she mad? “You will teach me.”

  She started. “Prince, I’m only an apprentice.”

  “I don’t care. Are you capable of teaching me?”

  She hesitated. Not from doubt, he guessed from her face, but from a sense of propriety. “Yes, but Mni-inh has many more years of experience—”

  “Then it shall be you. But tell me why.”

  Now it was her turn to stare at him as if he’d gone mad. “Because you won’t let my mentor—”

  “No. Tell me why you offered this in the first place. I’ve given you insult, Sharer-Apprentice Hanani. I’d do it again if it would win me the Banbarra vote, and I cannot apologize for it. Yet you’ve forgiven me. Why?”

  She drew back, and abruptly all expression vanished from her face, making her as cold as a statue. He was, fleetingly, reminded of Tiaanet.

  “I never said I had forgiven you,” she snapped.

  “Then why help me?”

  “Because, I now believe, this is why the Gatherers sent me. I was commanded to free Gujaareh. Helping you will accomplish that goal.”

  “You were commanded to—” He stared at her, not knowing whether to laugh. Who in their right mind could have commanded a shy, shrinking little thing like her to free her people from their conquerors? And who in all the desert would have expected her to actually try?

  And yet she was not shy or shrinking now. He would never have believed it from his first impressions of her, but there w
as stone in her eyes. Had the incident with Azima brought it out, or had it always been there, hidden beneath her demure Gujaareen manner? He did not know—but he knew to respect it.

  “Teach me this magic,” he said at last, speaking softly because that was the only humility he would permit himself to show a priest of the Hetawa. “I’ll teach it to Tassa, so he can teach his own children. When I win back our land, I’ll teach it to all of my heirs. Gujaareh need never fear a madman on its throne again.”

  She inclined her head. “We should begin at once, then. Tomorrow. I need to discuss the method with Mni-inh first.” She rose to leave.

  Wanahomen stared at her back. “I leave for the heights in the morning!”

  She had opened the tent-flap; here she paused and turned back. A light breeze, fragrant with the scent of late-season wildflowers, blew through the aperture, wafting her sashes and skirts around her in an earth-toned cloud. She looked cool and dreamlike and so quintessentially Gujaareen, even in Banbarra clothing, that Wanahomen felt homesick.

  “You’ll camp up there?” She pointed beyond the tent, toward the nearby cliffs.

  “At night, yes. By day I’ll be riding the rim with my men—”

  “Then I’ll come to you at night.” She inclined her head to him and left, the tent-flap thwaping shut behind her with a soft retort, like a hollow laugh.

  25

  The Negotiation of Pain

  Tiaanet realized the danger as soon as she entered the room where her father and three other nobles sat plotting the Kisuati overthrow.

  The woman speaking was tall, pale, haughty, and barely older than Tiaanet, though she wore a diadem on her braided hair that marked her as head of her family. Iezanem, zhinha and daughter of the Lady Zanem, recently orphaned by her parents’ mysterious deaths in sleep. Her tone was scathing as she said to Sanfi, “What good does that do us now? With one stroke the Hetawa has won the people’s hearts back as if the last ten years never happened.”

  The danger was hidden behind her father’s calm mask, Tiaanet noted, but it was there. He could not afford to antagonize Iezanem, who spoke for the handful of zhinha families that had managed to retain any real power under Kisuati rule. Still, he had never liked being spoken to in such a tone by any woman, and as Iezanem did it now, Tiaanet felt her belly clench in apprehension.