The Killing Moon (Dreamblood) (34 page)

“You’re still a meddling old bat,” Sunandi said back.

Gehanu gave a rusty chuckle and shook her head. “Kinja never could tame you, wild child. Go on now.”

Reluctantly, Sunandi turned away. Not far off, Ehiru had mounted his horse, and Nijiri stood near his. Another horse had been saddled for her and she pulled herself onto it now, feeling a moment’s pang as she gazed southward. That way lay home, and a storm of trouble when the Protectors learned of Gujaareh’s plotting.

Trouble? Say “war” and be truer.

She glanced over at Nijiri. It took him a moment to notice her gaze; he was staring at his mentor. When he finally did turn she was stunned at the bleak despair in his face. Then he noticed her gaze and his expression became a cool professional mask.

“We must see this through, Jeh Kalawe,” he said.

Sunandi frowned, wondering what troubled him. The soldier he’d killed? He was trained to kill, but not so brutally. Then she looked beyond him at the slumped, hooded, too-still frame of Ehiru, and guessed.

Well. At least we won’t have to waste time going to the hospital now.

After the long, bloody day, and facing a far uglier future, that was the most comforting thought her tired mind could dredge up.

The captain called the march, and they spurred their horses toward Kisua.

Yanya-iyan’s audience chamber was nearly empty when Charris entered through its bronze doors. The dais at the far end, a mounting series of steps leading up to the throne, was normally thronged with courtiers and worshippers. Now it held only the Prince, who stood with arms extended as two of his attendants dressed him in the full-torso armor that was the Sunset’s traditional wartime garb. A third servant held the Aureole in place behind him, shifting it as he turned. “Ah, Charris. Please report.”

Charris knelt at the foot of the steps. “No word from the south yet, my lord. The attack would only have occurred yesterday evening. It would take time for the troops to return and send a bird or runner.”

“Hmm. Well, whether the woman is dead or not, she may have sent a message. We shall have to assume the Kisuati forewarned.” He turned, the bronze scales of his breastplate gleaming,
his arms still held out from his sides. “Do I look suitably martial, Charris? Not military-caste, of course, but acceptable?”

“More than acceptable, my lord. You will inspire our soldiers to fight to their utmost.”

“Spoken like a true highcaste.” The Prince lowered his arms, gave himself one final look before the mirror that a fourth attendant held, and nodded in satisfaction. Dismissed, the servants quickly left the chamber, save the Aureole-holder. “I have no need of flattery, Charris. Niyes understood that. In time I hope you will as well.”

Charris took a deep breath to school his churning emotions. “Yes, my lord.”

“Of course, there are benefits to having a general like you, too, Charris. You ask no awkward questions, give me no disapproving looks. I suppose that’s refreshing.” Walking down the steps with the Aureole-holder in tow, the Prince gave a curt signal for Charris to rise and follow. They passed through the back of the hall, Charris nodding to the Sunset Guardsmen who fell in behind them as the Prince left the chamber.

“In the end, loyalty is what matters most,” the Prince continued. “Take our mad, murderous friend, who is currently chained and resting in the catacombs beneath the palace. He doesn’t think—not anymore. He doesn’t act unless I tell him to, or unless he’s hungry and prey comes near. In many ways this limits his usefulness, but at the same time I never need fear his betrayal. There are kings who struggle all their lives to earn that kind of loyalty, and here I have created it at will.” He chuckled. “True power, Charris. My father and all the Princes before me never had it, but I shall.”

The audience chamber was on the highest story of Yanya-iyan. When the Prince led him onto the royal family’s private balcony, Charris caught his breath at the sight of the whole city spread before them, the ground so far below that the people milling in the market plaza seemed small as dolls. To the west was the river and the fertile greenlands, source of Gujaareh’s prosperity. Northward, Charris could even see the river delta and the coastal edge of the Sea of Glory. It was the whole of the Prince’s kingdom, laid out as far as the eye could see.

Then he looked to the east, and stiffened.

“You must forgive me for not telling you about this,” the Prince said. Charris could feel the Prince’s eyes on his face, drinking in his reaction. “Admiral Akolil scorns the landed military, and I generally try to keep him appeased. But the time has come for you to know.”

Ships
, Charris thought in a daze. From their vantage he could see the eastern port, which opened to the Narrow Sea and allowed Gujaareh to trade down the continental coast as far as Kisua. The port was full of ships—
warships—
crowding in to reach the loading docks. Beyond that, he could see the expanse of the Narrow Sea spreading from Gujaareh’s coast all the way to the horizon. And there he saw more ships, neatly anchored rows of them.
Hundreds
of them. They dotted the water like a pox.

“The shipbuilding five years ago on the Sea of Glory,” Charris whispered. “The provisioning levies for more troops than we actually have.”

“Indeed.” Charris heard pride in the Prince’s voice. “With aid from our allies, these ships have all made the long journey ’round
the northern continent, through oceans of floating ice and other hazards too fantastic to name. We lost many, but more survived. And now nearly every one has arrived with a bellyful of fierce barbarian warriors. The Kisuati will be most surprised.”

Charris struggled to make his mouth work. “When?”

“They set sail tomorrow. I’m having their resupply rushed as much as possible. Akolil assures me they can make the Iyete Straits in a single day, and be at Kisua’s northeastern coast in an eightday, or perhaps a few days beyond. Much earlier than I’d intended, of course, thanks to Niyes and Kinja and lovely, treacherous Sunandi. And I’d meant to have twenty thousand troops instead of just ten; the rest won’t arrive for weeks or months. But ten should be sufficient for the first wave. Kisua isn’t ready either, after all.”

Charris turned to stare at him, too stunned to censor himself as he normally did. “You really intend to do it. Kisua is twice our size—”

“But we have twice the wealth. And Kisua’s isolationism has earned her enemies among the northern tribes, who resent the way Kisua hoards trade to the south. The northerners became eager to fight once I promised them control of that trade.” The Prince smiled, turning to gaze eastward. “Though I’m not sure I’ll hold to that agreement. All of their troops are going to die, after all. It will be Gujaareh’s swords which ultimately subdue the Kisuati beast.”

“Going to die?” Charris blurted it, trying to think through the numbness of his thoughts. War. On such a scale, war to engulf the whole eastern half of the continent and the northlands as well. Only an eightday away.

“Of course. Our mad friend has developed even faster than I expected, which is fortunate as my hand’s been forced early. Everything hinges on the Reaper.”

And then, suddenly, Charris knew what the Prince was going to do.

He must have gasped, because the Prince gave him a sharp look. Then smiled at his horror.

“Dreamblood,” said the Prince. He clapped Charris on the shoulder, companionably. “In the end, it all comes down to that. No longer will my lineage be slave to the Hetawa. And no longer will Gujaareh be a mere crossroads for trade. We can become the center of a civilization that spans continents, bringing peace and prosperity to all. And I shall give the people a
living
god, one of flesh and not mere dreams, to worship. Do you understand?”

Charris did. And for an eternal instant as he stood there, Niyes’s treachery paled before his own hunger to draw his sword and strike the Prince down.

But then the urge passed. He was zhinha, a true son of Gujaareh, and the Prince was the Avatar of Hananja. To attack him was more than treason; it was blasphemy. And so he knelt, raising his arms in proper manuflection.

“I understand, my Prince,” he said. “My life is yours.”

“As it has always been,” said the Prince. He turned back, then, to admire the view.

Kisua.

The capital city seemed as unending as the ocean. It was easy to see the shared history with Gujaareh in Kisua’s sun-baked white walls and narrow brick-paved streets, but there the resemblance ended. There were also great sprawling edifices, some four or five stories high. There were gold-leaf lintels, brightly colored tile inlays, and sturdy locked, ornately carved darkwood doors. Vines grew wild over most of the buildings, their flowers scenting the warm, humid air with perfumes so heavy that Nijiri could breathe them blocks away. With the scents mingled strange sounds: raucous laughter and furious arguments, the calls of merchants hawking their wares, lullabies and love songs long since forgotten in Gujaareh. He could taste the city’s three thousand years on his tongue, rich and thick as an elder’s dreams.

Behind him in the curtained chamber, Ehiru slept. He had not spoken since the incident in the desert; he acted only when Nijiri guided him; his eyes tracked nothing, lost in some other realm. On the way into the city, Nijiri had been able to keep Ehiru’s condition hidden from the soldiers, though he suspected Sunandi had noticed. She’d made no protest when he insisted upon sharing quarters with Ehiru, even though her house was large enough to have many guest chambers. The servants had brought food and fresh clothing, then left them undisturbed, giving Nijiri the time and privacy to bathe Ehiru and attend to his own toilette.

So at sunset Nijiri had knelt on the balcony to pray and seek peace within himself. He meditated until the Dreamer rose fully, its four-hued light a comforting and familiar companion. Finally he went into the guest chamber’s bedroom. Ehiru lay amid the translucent hangings, restless despite Nijiri’s dragonfly jungissa on his forehead. Nijiri parted the hangings and sat down beside him, reaching up to remove the jungissa. With his fingertips he traced the frown etched into his mentor’s brow. It seemed there was no peace for Hananja’s favorite even in sleep. There was only one way Ehiru would have peace ever again.

Nijiri shifted his hand to lay a finger on each of Ehiru’s eyelids.

Ehiru had failed the pranje’s test. To Gather him now would be a kindness—far kinder than letting him wake to face the enormity of his crime. It was Nijiri’s duty as Ehiru’s apprentice, his duty as a Servant of Hananja. In the Hetawa Ehiru would have been sent onward already. And yet…

Nijiri’s hand trembled.

In the Hetawa Ehiru would not have faced the test in the midst of a battle, surrounded by chaos and enemies. How could the test truly measure his control under such circumstances? Even Nijiri had killed—not with narcomancy, but murder was murder. And because of that, because he had been off protecting a tithebearer-in-abeyance and not attending Ehiru as he should have done, Ehiru had faced his moment of greatest trial with no one to help him. The failure was as much Nijiri’s as his.