The Killing Moon (Dreamblood) (13 page)

Ehiru closed his eyes and listened. The Dreamer had risen fully, an immense four-hued eye filling the night sky. He could taste the subtle change in the air as people sought their beds and beasts settled in their stalls. Closer by, faint sounds from the other guest suites had ceased. For a moment he thought he heard whispers on the wind: a vision. Understandable, given the length of time since his last Gathering, and unimportant. He exerted his will and the illusion faded. All was still.

“Time,” he said, and Nijiri drew close behind him.

It was a simple matter to stand on the railing and reach up to the ledge above, but he moved carefully anyhow. There were surely guards a few balconies up, protecting the Prince’s quarters. Levering himself up, he settled in a crouch on his hands and toes, and peered at the balcony hanging while Nijiri swung up to join him. The chamber beyond was dark. The faintest hint of fragrance wafted out to him as a breeze stirred the silk: a woman’s perfume.

Nijiri’s bare feet padded against the stone as he landed on the balcony. Ehiru glanced at him and saw that the boy’s face was calm, focused. Excellent.

Another breeze flickered past, causing the hanging to billow
gently outward. Ehiru flicked it to widen the opening further and slipped within, pausing against a nearby wall to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Nijiri did the same, both of them rising to a half-crouch. Moving away from the wall, they picked their way among the furnishings. Past the main chamber lay the bedroom. A set of wooden chimes swayed in the window, occasionally emitting random hollow notes. He heard a rustle and murmur from the bed; she slept restlessly. Only one breather: she slept alone.

He signaled Nijiri with a nod, and together they approached the bed.

Too late Ehiru heard the whisper of movement that the woman’s stirrings had covered—shifting cloth, a careful step. In the same moment he heard the forceful release of a held breath and felt its warmth tickle the hairs on his right arm. He reacted without thinking, throwing himself forward just as something cold and sharp grazed his back, leaving a thin thread of fire along his skin.

Nijiri’s blurt—“Brother!”—broke the silence. Ehiru abandoned stealth as he sensed his attacker closing in. Off balance, he caught himself against the edge of the bed and kicked out. His foot struck flesh and shoved something backward; he heard a muffled curse and garlic-tinged breath wafted past his face. In the bed the woman jerked upright, gasping.

Then Nijiri lunged past him, a blurred silhouette batting and shoving at another silhouette half his size. Something gleamed brighter against the shadows: a knife, poised to stab Nijiri’s side. Ehiru struck first, his fist meeting bone; the knife clattered to the floor. In the same instant Nijiri made some sort of sharp
movement and the smaller silhouette fell against the bedroom hanging, ripping it in a loud snarl of cloth. Nijiri closed in swiftly—

Lantern-light flared, painful in the dimness, and shocked them all to stillness.

“What in the names of the thousand Sun-spawn is going on here?” demanded the woman.

For several seconds after being jolted out of sleep, Sunandi could not comprehend the tableau before her. Lin lay on the floor, coughing and clutching at her throat. A slim, pale Gujaareen youth not far past the age of adulthood crouched over her in a striking stance, staring at Sunandi in almost comical surprise. Another man—bigger, older, dark as a Kisuati and somehow familiar—stood in the foreground half-turned to her, his eyes wide with shock and anger.

Then the fog of sleep lifted and details struck. Lin’s knife on the floor. The intruders’ black-dyed clothing. A moontear-embossed ornament on the man’s nearer hip: the emblem of the Hetawa.

Dearest Dreamer. Niyes had been right.

“ ’Nandi—”

Lin’s croak startled her out of shock. She threw aside the
sheet, heedless of her own near-nudity—she wore only a light shift—and reached beneath the pillow to pull out the dagger she kept there. She snatched it from its sheath and leaped to her feet. “Get away from her!”

The man tensed as if to fight—and then some unidentifiable shadow crossed his face, replacing the anger with a strange, somehow detached calm. He straightened and then, shocking Sunandi nearly out of her skin, went down on one knee in formal manuflection.

“Forgive me. This should have gone peacefully.” The man’s voice was deep and so soft that she strained to hear him. He flicked some signal at the youth; the youth took Lin by the arm to help her up. Lin jerked her arm free and stumbled back to glare at both of the strangers. Her breath still wheezed alarmingly through her throat, though she seemed to be recovering. Sunandi edged over to her, knife still at the ready; with her free hand she pulled Lin’s hand away from her throat. An angry red mark spread across the girl’s larynx.

“I did not strike to kill,” the youth said, almost apologetically. He too was soft-spoken, though his voice was higher-pitched. “I meant only to silence her.”

“Nijiri,” the man said, and the youth fell silent.

Reaction set in as Sunandi’s fear eased, though anger replaced it. She shivered uncontrollably as she stepped around the bed, pulling Lin with her to put some distance between them and the strangers. The
killers
.

“Is this the piety of Gujaareh?” she demanded. Her voice sounded harsh and loud compared to theirs. “I was told the
Gatherers of Hananja had honor. I never dreamed you would allow yourselves to be used like this.”

The man flinched suddenly as if her words had been a blow. “Used?”

“Yes, damn you,
used
. Why even bother pretending to serve Hananja’s Law? Why delay? Kill me and be done with it—unless you mean to talk me to death?”

“ ’Nandi!” Lin’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

It was not the wisest thing to say, true, but something in her words had jarred the older one; she had to keep talking. He was the greater danger, she saw at once. Not just physically; there was something else about him that set her nerves a-jangle every time their eyes met.

Perhaps the fact that he wants to kill me.

The Gatherer went still. His hand drifted away from his side, the fingers curling in an odd gesture—first and middle fingers forked, the rest folded neatly out of the way. For some reason that gesture sent a chill prickling along Sunandi’s skin.

“I was trying to put you at ease,” he said. “But I can calm you once you’re asleep, if you prefer.”

“Gods! No!” She took an involuntary step back. He did not lower his hand.

“Explain your statement, then,” he said. The youth frowned at him in sudden surprise. “That we are being used.”

“Are you mad? Get out before I shout for the guards. You’re the worst assassins I have ever seen!”

“We are not assassins.”

“You
are
. Doing it in the name of your bloodthirsty goddess
changes nothing. Are you the one who’s been killing the prisoners? Did you kill Kinja, too?”

The man’s face changed subtly—still calm, but no longer detached. She thought she read anger in his eyes.

“I have never Gathered anyone named Kinja,” he said. He began to pace around the bed, every step silent, his eyes never leaving hers. The youth followed him—less gracefully, but with the same soundless menace. “No one I have ever Gathered has been imprisoned, except within his own suffering flesh or blighted mind. I offer Her peace in exchange for pain… fear… hatred… loneliness. Death is a gift, to those who suffer in life.”

He stopped, breaking the spell of voice and movement, and with sudden, chilling clarity Sunandi saw that the Gatherer had closed the distance between them until he stood only a few feet away. His hand was still poised in that odd gesture; this time he meant to strike. And when he did, no knife or half-grown bodyguard would stop him.

The fear spiked into terror—and then receded as Kinja’s training reverberated through her mind.

“Two days ago I saw a corpse,” she said. The Gatherer paused. “A man who had died in his sleep some while before. His face… I have never seen such anguish, Gatherer. In Kisua we tell tales of your kind, you priests who bring dreams of death. They say the dreams are not always pleasant. They say that sometimes, if one of your kind loses control, the victim dies
irusham—
wearing the mask of horror. Do you still want to tell me you know nothing of that?”

The Gatherer froze, the deadly intent in his eyes giving way to something unreadable.

“I know of it,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

“Then do you truly expect me to believe,” she said, softening her own voice, “that you arrive here to kill me not even a fourday later, and it has nothing to do with the Prince’s plans for war?”

The Gatherer frowned, and she realized she’d made an incorrect assumption somewhere. There was no mistaking the confusion on his face. Just then the youth stepped forward, apparently unable to keep silent. He did not quite step in front of the man, but his stance radiated protectiveness.

“The Prince has nothing to do with who is Gathered, or why,” the youth said. “And my brother’s mistake has nothing to do with any war.”

Brother?
Ah, yes. The boy was the man’s physical opposite; it was unlikely they were related. He had to be the man’s apprentice. Snippets of gossip overheard at the Hamyan merged with the niggling sense of familiarity, and abruptly she knew who the man was.

“You are Ehiru,” she said. “The Prince’s last surviving brother.”

The Gatherer’s eyes narrowed. Yes, that was it. Each man had clearly taken after his respective mother in most ways, but the stamp of the shared sire was in their eyes. Ehiru’s were an onyx version of the Prince’s, just as lovely—though far, far colder.

“My family is the Hetawa,” the Gatherer snapped.

“But before that, you were of the Sunset. Your mother was Kisuati, a sonha noblewoman, probably some kin of mine. She gave you to the Hetawa to save your life.”

The Gatherer scowled. “Irrelevant. Once the Hetawa accepted
me, I became wholly theirs. The Prince has no brothers; I have a thousand.”

If this was his attitude, it was possible that he could be trusted. But trustworthy or not, it was clear only the truth would deter him from killing her.

Sunandi took a deep breath, straightened, then made a show of setting her knife on the bed. “Lin.”

Lin looked at her incredulously, but the girl had learned long ago not to question her in front of others. With visible reluctance she set her knife down as well. At this the youth relaxed somewhat; the Gatherer did not. He lowered his hand, however, which Sunandi took for a positive sign.

“Explain,” the Gatherer said again.

“This is not the best place for a discussion, you realize. The royal family’s quarters are on the floor directly above.”

“There are no listening-holes in this chamber. That would be foolish, since you might find and use them yourself.”

And her enemies would be far more interested in what she did
outside
the guest suite, anyhow. “Very well. Perhaps you’re not assassins—or at least, not knowingly. The end result is what matters in this case, rather than the intent.”

“Not to us.”

She resisted the urge to swallow at the menace in his tone. He still intended—no. He still
believed wholly
in the rightness of killing her.

“You say that someone named me corrupt. Who?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you know why? What evidence they gave?”

“You were accused of spying, corrupting influential citizens of
Gujaareh, and attempting to foment war. I do not know the evidence given. That was evaluated—and accepted—by the Superior of the Hetawa.”

“Hananja’s Crusty Eyes.” For a moment she was tempted to laugh, until she noted the affront on their faces and recalled her careless blasphemy. Silently she berated herself; now was not the time for amateurish mistakes. “—Apologies. I shouldn’t be surprised. I
have
been spying, of course.”

“Then you acknowledge your corruption?”