The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (16 page)

In waking, women were goddesses in and of themselves, not the Goddess’s servants.

She forced herself to focus. Mni-inh looked as soul-weary as she felt; concern for him pushed away some of her unhappiness. “You should rest, Brother.”

“I know. There’s just… I’ve never been so useless before. It’s not something I’m used to.” He rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Oh—Damnation, I almost forgot. Gatherer Nijiri informed me earlier today that we’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“Leaving?”

“Yes. For someplace in the desert, so wear your formal robe over your usual attire; it will protect you from the sun. Mounts and supplies are being packed for us. We leave at noon from the House of Children gate.”

In waking, Sharers did not leave Gujaareh. Hanani frowned. “For what reason, Brother?”

“Nijiri said you knew.” Some of Mni-inh’s weariness faded, replaced by curiosity.

Nijiri’s trial. Now? With Sonta-i dead and corrupt magic threatening the city?

“He spoke only of a task that he wanted me to complete,” she said, “but he gave no details. He’d originally meant the task for you, but said he’d changed his mind.”

Mni-inh frowned to himself. “What in endless dreamscapes could he be up to?” He sighed. “That boy’s more meddlesome than any Gatherer I’ve ever known. I suppose Ehiru had no time to knock it out of him.”

Mni-inh closed the door to the Hall of Respite and came to stand beside Hanani. In the distance the pyre settled farther in on itself. They both watched as a great shower of sparks rose to swirl and dance in the night air. Then Mni-inh touched Hanani’s shoulder, and in silence they both returned to the Sharer’s Hall.

*  *  *

There were more people present than Hanani had expected when she arrived at the House of Children’s courtyard the next morning. The Superior stood on the steps nearby, watching the group prepare. Sentinel Anarim conferred with his equally solemn young apprentice and three other Sentinels whom Hanani did not know. Mni-inh looked on apprehensively as one of the Hetawa laymen tried to explain to him how to mount a horse. Gatherer Nijiri was already a-horseback, his hooded face gazing into the distance;
he did not look around as Hanani arrived. On impulse she went to him and touched his hand. He blinked and focused on her.

“Do you mourn for Sonta-i?” A fourday before, she would never have dared to ask such a personal question of a Gatherer. But that was before she had met his true self in the dreamscape, and watched him send a brother to die. In his face that day, she had seen the toll this took.

He gave her a rueful smile. “You should have become a Gatherer, I think.”

She ducked her eyes, inordinately pleased, though given how Yehamwy and his ilk reacted to her as a Sharer, she couldn’t begin to imagine the uproar—however peaceful—if she had chosen the Gatherer path instead. “I don’t have your strength, Gatherer.”

“I’m not strong.” Before she could do more than frown at this, he sighed, reaching up to stroke his horse’s neck. “Another journey into the desert. The last time…” He fell silent for a moment, then shrugged. “Well. Memories can be both sweet and painful.”

She could not imagine why a Gatherer would ever need to go into the desert. But before she could think of a tactful way to ask him about this, Mni-inh spotted her and called her over.

“Let this fellow teach you how to climb these beasts,” he said, jerking his head toward the layman as he tried, again unsuccessfully, to mount his horse. The horse grunted and sidestepped, and Mni-inh landed back on the ground. Irritated, he slapped the horse’s saddle. “I don’t want to ride you either!”

The layman, struggling not to smile, said, “Just keep trying, Sharer-lord.” Turning to Hanani, he stared at her for a moment. Hanani waited again, patient; after a moment the layman recalled himself and gave a quick apologetic bow over one hand. “This way, Sharer-uh-lady.”

“Lord,” she corrected, and smiled. “Though in truth neither is appropriate. I’m only an apprentice.”

“I see,” he said, looking more perplexed than before, but he put on a smile anyhow. “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

“Yes,” she said, earning a surprised look from Mni-inh. “But it has been many years since.”

“Some things never change, l—Apprentice. You remember?”

She nodded, smiling as he led her to the horse that had been saddled for her. It was a beautiful tawny creature, smaller than average but with an intelligent eye. “What’s this one’s name?”

“Dakha,” said the layman, obviously pleased. “She’s part Banbarra, which you’ll pardon once you see how she handles the foothills.”

Hanani nodded, patting the horse as she moved around to its other side. The stirrups had been slung low to help the inexperienced riders mount, for which she was grateful given her height and lack of practice. Some things indeed did not change, however, for she pulled herself up as smoothly as if fourteen years had not passed since the last time she’d ridden. The layman whistled, impressed, as she settled into the saddle.

“In the desert, a good animal can mean the difference between life and death,” he said, smiling up at her. “The Banbarra treat their mounts like family, you know. Give them the names of dead children, put jewelry on them, everything. So treat this lady right.”

Hanani smiled, delighted, as she scratched along Dakha’s mane and the horse’s neck arched under her hand. “I’ll be sure to, sir.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Superior come over to Nijiri’s mount.

“You’re certain of this?” he asked the Gatherer. He spoke low; Hanani heard it only because she was nearby.

“No, I’m not.” The sadness Hanani had heard in his voice earlier was gone, replaced by Gatherer calm. “But I’m certain that if we do nothing, we’re doomed.”

The Superior only sighed in response. Hanani dared not look at them. Instead she looked up as Sentinel Anarim raised his hand for attention.

“We’ll leave the city through the east gate,” he said. “It’s little used, which suits our purposes for avoiding the notice of the Kisuati, though it will force us to circle the city before we proceed southwest. It should take us two days to reach the hills, another day to traverse them.” He eyed Nijiri. “We’ll be there in time.”

Nijiri inclined his head, and Hanani wondered again what he and the other Gatherers had planned.

“We will ride by twos,” Anarim continued. “We must be on guard even in Gujaareen lands, and the farther we get from the city, the more hazards there will be. I and Dwi will lead.” He nodded to his apprentice, who nodded back with a briskness that belied his apparent calm. “Sentinel Kherkhan and Gatherer Nijiri shall take the rear; Sentinels Emije and Lemuneb shall flank. Sharers, stay between us if there’s trouble.”

Hanani threw a quick, worried look at Mni-inh, and saw that her mentor looked equally anxious. She had been born in the greenlands herself, but had not passed beyond the city gates since joining the Hetawa. She knew Mni-inh was city-born; for all she knew he had never left the city in his life.

Mni-inh let out an exasperated sigh. “Damnation, Nijiri. I’ve tried to be patient, but I’ve had enough. When are you going to tell us what this is about?”

Nijiri smiled as if he’d expected the question. “We’re going to meet friends, Mni-inh. At least, I hope they’re friends.”

“You
hope
—”

“We’ll know if they don’t kill us. That’s if they even show up in the first place.”

Mni-inh stared at him. Still smiling, Nijiri nodded to Anarim,
who wheeled his mount about and started for the courtyard gate, which four acolytes had cranked open for them. “After you,” Nijiri said to Mni-inh. With a muttered curse Mni-inh carefully urged his horse forward, uttering a startled yelp when it actually moved.

Then it was Hanani’s turn, and Dakha started out at a trot, as if eager to see them all meet whatever fate awaited.

In the garden of Kite-iyan there was a leopard. He could not see it, but he knew that it was there. As the Prince’s heir it was his duty to hunt and kill it before it harmed his mothers or siblings.

“Wana.”

Stalking through the garden as quietly as he could—his legs were shorter, he had always been a quiet child—he hefted his spear and

“Wana! Wake up, man! This is no time for daydreaming.”

Wanahomen looked up and saw that the leopard had a human face. Unte.
I must kill you,
he thought.

Then Unte was Unte again, and Wanahomen followed Unte’s arm to see what was the matter.

A party of eight riders on horseback approached along the rocky trail that led through this part of the foothills. From the ledge high above where he and the rest of the Banbarra waited a-horseback, Wanahomen could make out only the voluminous hooded robes that each rider wore: five black, two blood-red, and one the color of sun-bleached bone. The last made him frown.

“Hetawa?” asked Unte.

Wanahomen nodded. “The black are Sentinels—the warrior-priests,
deadly without weapons, nightmares with. The pale is a Gatherer.” His lip curled; he could not help it. He had not expected the Hetawa to send a Gatherer. To judge him, perhaps? And execute him on the spot, if they found him wanting? His hands tightened on the reins; the horse grunted. “They can fight almost as well as the Sentinels, but their magic is the greater threat. Never let him touch you. And they outrank the rest, so that one will be the leader. The red—” He frowned. “Those are Sharers. Healers. But why they’re here, I haven’t a clue.”

“Hmm.” Unte reached under his face-veil to scratch his beard. “And how should we welcome these guests, hunt leader?”

Wanahomen heard the amusement in his voice, and smiled to himself. His mother would disapprove, but—

“If they are to be allies,” he said, “it would seem wise to show them our strength, would it not?”

Unte chuckled and nodded, and Wanahomen raised his hand in a signal. All around him he heard his riders shift, alert. He made a circle and then a fist with his hand, and threw back his head to utter the rising Banbarra battle cry of “
Bi-yu-eh!
”

Come, and break on us.

The warriors surged forward, riding down three different trails toward the canyon floor. On the other side of the canyon, two more lines of riders came too, their calls echoing from the rocky walls. As the Hetawa party stopped and immediately turned back-to-back with the two healers at the center of their formation, two circles of Banbarra horsemen surrounded them, each riding in a different direction to make their numbers difficult to count.

Wanahomen rode down with them, whooping and brandishing his sword and laughing behind his veil. The templefolk would be unnerved, he knew, not just by the number of armed Banbarra who had come out to greet them, but also by the sheer noisy chaos of
them. Peace was the Gujaareen way, but there was no peace in the Banbarra—not these strong young warriors of Wana’s, anyhow.

Yes, see us
, he thought as he glared at the templefolk.
See what you ally yourselves to. If your sensibilities are too weak to bear us, then we don’t need your help!

But after the initial defensive movement, the Hetawa riders did not move, and at last Wanahomen began to tire of the game. So he signaled a halt, and the circling riders stilled their mounts and faced the party. They parted as Wanahomen moved through their ranks to stop before the pale-robed Gatherer.

“Show your face,” he said. “I would know my enemy.”

Most male Banbarra did not speak Gujaareen, but the few who did leaned over to whisper to the rest. They would all know that Wanahomen had demanded the Hetawa party’s leader to bare his face to them—an act of submission in Banbarra eyes.

The Gatherer lifted his hands to his hood and paused for a breath, perhaps noting the whispers among the Banbarra party. But he completed the movement, and as soon as Wanahomen saw the man’s face he flinched in shock.

“You!” Ten years unraveled themselves in an instant and he stood again on the deck of Kite-iyan, watching while his father faced the two Gatherers of Hananja who had come to kill him. One of the Gatherers had been his father’s brother; the stamp of the Sunset was in his face. But the younger one—“
You.
”