The Killing Moon (Dreamblood) (46 page)

In spite of the drumbeat of his heart, Nijiri set his jaw. “You killed the boy who served you.”

“It could have been you.” There was a manic smile on Una-une’s face; Nijiri suspected the creature meant to compliment him. “Lovely boy. For you, I would have fought the madness harder. You love Ehiru, don’t you? As he loved me…” He trailed off, confusion flickering in his face for a moment, and then he lifted his eyes. Nijiri started at the sudden lucidity in them.

“Hananja’s favorite,” Una-une said. He looked away, radiating shame, as Nijiri stared in confusion. “Everything came to his hand like a tame bird. His skill in Gathering, Hananja’s peace, and so many admirers. I loved him as a son… and hated him, too. Do you understand? That was when I knew. No peace left in my heart. Nothing but loneliness and anger. Time to go.”

From the corner of his eye Nijiri saw movement. He dared a glance to the side and saw Ehiru turning away, stiff as an elder as the Prince guided him toward the railing. What were they
doing? And why did Ehiru move like a man sleepwalking through some nightmare?

Visions of the Prince throwing Ehiru over the railing rang through his mind. “Ehiru-brother!”

For a moment it seemed as though Ehiru heard him. He stopped and began to turn back, but then the Prince murmured something and raised his other hand. A jungissa? Whatever it was, Ehiru seemed powerless to resist. He faced south again and continued to the railing.

“Even now,” said Una-une. With a chill Nijiri realized he’d forgotten his adversary. But Una-une only watched him, hollow-eyed and radiating such deep despair that Nijiri’s hatred faltered. And that reminded him of his one remaining weapon.

Swallowing, he lowered his hands to his sides, straightened, and took a step forward.

“There is still peace in you, Una-une-brother,” he said. “A Gatherer belongs to Hananja, always, even now.”

Una-une frowned at this, turning to gaze out at the horizon, but Nijiri saw that his words had been heard. Sorrow wavered in his ravaged face.

“I was ready,” Una-une said. “I told them I wanted Ehiru to come and take my Final Tithe. But they took me away, and there’s been no peace since.” He sighed, then glanced at Nijiri. “Do you think I could’ve seen Her? Just once, in Ina-Karekh?”

Nijiri took another step closer. “Yes, Brother. You served Her well.” He took a deep breath, trying to still the pounding of his heart, trying to feel the truth in his own words, trying not to think of Ehiru and whatever the Prince was doing to him.
A Gatherer’s sole duty is to bring peace; for that a Gatherer must
have peace within himself.
He tried to feel compassion for Una-une. To his own surprise, it was not difficult.

“Shall I send you to Her now, Una-une-brother?” he asked softly. “I know the way.”

Una-une blinked at him. For one breathtaking, bittersweet moment his eyes filled with longing and Nijiri thought he would say yes.

Then Una-une’s expression flickered. The confusion returned. And as it began to pass, Nijiri saw the Reaper’s madness gleaming underneath. There would be no cat-and-mouse combat this time, he understood in that instant. The Reaper—for Nijiri could see Una-une fading away like morning mist—would pierce his mind and drain him dry.

Nijiri closed his eyes. “Forgive me, great Hananja. I can’t do this properly and still be sure.”

So he set his foot to brace himself, then made a blade of his hand and drove it into the Reaper’s throat.

The Reaper staggered back. Reached up, scrabbling at the loose leather collar and the deep concavity where its larynx had been. Even as Nijiri watched the area turned bruise-dark. With that opening, Nijiri ran forward and slapped a hand against the Reaper’s chest, driving dreambile through him as he’d done to Sentinel Harakha on the day of his apprenticeship trial. He was no Sharer; he had no idea what he’d managed to paralyze, just prayed it would be something important—And in the next instant, blood gouted from the Reaper’s lips. Its mouth worked, fishlike, as it struggled to draw breath and failed. With a Gatherer’s grace, it sagged to its knees. For just a breath its eyes focused on Nijiri, and there was peace in them.

Then Una-une fell and did not move again.

Taking a deep breath and clenching his fists, Nijiri pivoted to focus on Ehiru and the Prince.
Oh Goddess!

Ehiru stood facing south. His hands quivered, each lifted before him with fingers forked. His body shook as well, harder than that of the afflicted child in Kisua; every muscle stood out like ropes beneath his skin. In profile Nijiri could see his mentor’s face frozen in a hideous rictus of lust and ecstasy and desperate, terrified denial. His eyes were shut tight. Over the sound of the wind Nijiri could hear Ehiru’s voice straining to utter a sound that might have been an animal’s death-cry or the groan of an overstressed timber. It was the sound of nothing human.

“Uuuuuuuh…”

And through it all the Prince stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, clinging to his back like a tick. His eyes had closed as well, but in pure bliss; in the dawn light he all but glowed as he drank in power.

“Nnnnnnnn…”

“Get away from him!” Nijiri lunged across the intervening space and grabbed the Prince.

It was like grabbing lightning. Power rammed up Nijiri’s arms and seared into his brain before he could raise his defenses or pull his hands free. In that blistering instant he felt himself crumbling away, too weak to withstand such a flood of will and magic and dreamblood and life and—

“Nnn—No! NO, GODDESS DAMN YOU, NO!”

The torrent of power stopped. In the ringing silence and slowness that followed, Nijiri saw the Prince, torn loose by
Nijiri’s effort, stagger back; his expression was wild and thwarted. And then Nijiri saw Ehiru’s face contort in inhuman rage. Ehiru whipped about, still screaming—and put his fingers through the Prince’s eyes.

Impact with the floor drove Nijiri back into himself. He gasped, disoriented. A breath later the Prince hit the floor beside him, screaming, his eyes bloody holes. An instant after that, Ehiru fell upon the Prince, roaring and tearing at his face with bare hands.

The sky wheeled above Nijiri’s head. He closed his eyes, savoring flesh and blood and bone, more aware in that moment than ever before that his body was merely the temporary housing for his true self.

But it was good, strong housing, made by the gods themselves even if none would own up to the act, and he was grateful beyond words to have it.

*   *   *

After a time Nijiri was able to think again. He turned his head to the side and sighed at the sight of the Prince’s body. The face was unrecognizable, its limbs contorted in a bizarre sprawl. Dismissing it, Nijiri pushed himself up on one elbow and focused on Ehiru, who knelt facing the horizon.

“Brother.”

Ehiru did not turn. “Nijiri. We’ve won.” He chuckled, softly, without bitterness. “And lost. An army marches this way from Kisua.”

Nijiri sat up, wincing as bruises he’d forgotten reminded him of their existence. He suspected a rib was broken, too. “You’re certain?”

“I can taste them.” The wind shifted again, carrying with it the muddy richness of the irrigation canals. Ehiru inhaled deeply as if savoring the scent.

Nijiri got to his feet, dusting himself off. The wind rippled the cloth of the filthy Kisuati shirt he’d worn since the catacombs. He pulled it off and tossed it away, reveling in the feel of light and air on his skin again.

“I suppose that’s Hananja’s will too,” he said, and Ehiru nodded.

They remained that way for some while, watching the day brighten over the greenlands. Somewhere below, farmers tilled their fields and fishermen checked their nets and mothers kissed their children awake. War had come to Gujaareh and it did not matter, for whoever ruled in the palaces and fortresses would always need grain and fish and subjects to rule. For that, there would have to be peace. Hananja’s will always won out in the end.

Nijiri turned to Ehiru and said: “Lie down, Nsha.”

Ehiru glanced up at him and smiled. He lay back, his arms at his sides, and waited.

Nijiri knelt and cupped Ehiru’s face between his hands, wiping away sweat and grime and flecks of the Prince’s blood. When that was done he simply caressed Ehiru’s face, memorizing its lines as if he hadn’t done so a hundred times already. “I am Zhehur, in dreams,” he whispered.

Ehiru nodded. “We’ll meet again, Zhehur.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a long, weary sigh.

The ritual words were in Nijiri’s mind, but he did not say them. There was no need, and in any case no words were ade
quate. He drew his fingers over Ehiru’s eyes to close them and then settled his hand in place. He had no jungissa—the Prince’s defiled stone had probably fallen over the balcony railing—but it was an easy matter to push Ehiru into sleep. Even easier to pass through the thin layers that separated the realms, for Ehiru’s soul was halfway to dreaming already.

The images that passed between them in the moments that followed were simple. Ehiru was more than skilled enough to construct his own paradise. Nijiri lingered only to make certain the proper connections were in place—Ehiru’s mother and Kite-iyan, his hundred siblings, Una-une. He added small but unnecessary touches, like making certain the scent of the river hung in the air, and clearing the sky so that the Dreamer’s light shone with that special strangeness he knew Ehiru loved. When the world was finished, he lingered more, reluctant to sever the final connection, but at last Ehiru gently pushed him out. Ina-Karekh was not a place for the living, except in short safe doses of dream.

So at last Nijiri withdrew from the dream and took hold of Ehiru’s frail, fraying tether. He severed it neatly, collecting the tithe and setting the soul loose in its new home. Only when the last vestiges of Ehiru’s umblikeh had faded to nothingness did he follow his own tether home, settling back into his flesh with a sigh.

“Farewell, Brother,” said Gatherer Nijiri. “We shall indeed meet again.” He kissed the smile on Ehiru’s lips, then bent to lay another kiss on his breast. Those would do in place of his lotus signature.

Though no one would know they were there but him.

Hananja’s city burned beneath the Dreaming Moon.

Flanked by eight Kisuati soldiers, Sunandi walked through the debris-strewn streets with her face a mask and her heart full of grief. Here was the crafters’ market, several stalls already destroyed by the fires that had flared in the city over the past several days. There was the hall where the famous chantress Ky-yefter performed, its facade destroyed by a stray catapult stone. Although the Unbelievers’ District and parts of the southernmost wall now lay in smoldering ruins, the majority of the city remained relatively unscathed. The Gujaareen army had not fought hard before surrendering, for their Prince was dead. Since then, the Protectors had been adamant that there be no looting or rapine, and General Anzi had been ruthless in enforcing those instructions among the Kisuati troops who’d come north to see to the occupation. They would have a difficult enough time controlling Gujaareh as it was.

Yet it was clear that even with the Protectors’ caution, something vital had been damaged in the city. Sunandi glimpsed some of the citizens forming water-brigades to combat the fires, but far more simply milled about in aimless confusion, their
faces haunted and lost. Along the main avenues some of the citizens loitered with their fellows while watching the Kisuati soldiers move through their streets, but most sat or stood or rocked alone. In the pleasure quarter the Kisuati had found several raucous parties under way, with music and dancing in the streets. Gaudily painted timbalin-house women and youths beckoned to the soldiers, some lifting loindrapes to show nothing underneath and some wearing nothing to begin with, all of them smiling and friendly. But Sunandi had seen the haze of drugs or dreamseed in their eyes; she had heard the edge of fear in their sweet invitations. And among the whores she spied the yellow-clad figures of Hananja’s Sisters, standing silent watch amid the revelry. Then she understood: Gujaareh’s pleasure-givers offered themselves to the conquerors so that Gujaareh’s weaker citizens might remain unmolested.

“They’ll strike at any Kisuati-looking face,” Anzi had warned Sunandi, when he heard of her plan to tour the city. “All our people will be targets for their vengeance—a pretty woman like you even more so.” Clever of him to slip in that flattery, she reflected. Transparent, but clever. Well, he was handsome enough. Perhaps when the dust had settled and Gujaareh was firmly in hand… But not yet.