The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (19 page)

Mni-inh quickly bowed low over both his hands, as did Hanani, but Hendet said nothing as she stared at them—at Hanani in particular. Beside her sat a small boy of six or seven floods, holding a cup of water in his hands. The boy looked apprehensive at the sight of strangers, but brightened as soon as he saw the Prince. “Wana?”

“Tassa.” Saying something in Chakti, the Prince held out a hand and the child went to him. Like the other Banbarra children Hanani had seen, this one wore no veil or headcloth. The Prince cupped the child’s cheek in a brief affectionate gesture, and she saw the resemblance at once in the eyes—though the signs were also in the boy’s more tightly curled hair and dark-for-Banbarra coloring. The boy was his son.

The Prince spoke to the child in Chakti, giving instructions of some sort.

“
Two
tents,” Hendet said suddenly in Gujaareen, and the boy stopped and looked at her in surprise. The Prince did as well.

“Mother?”

“A respectable woman cannot be expected to share her tent,”
Hendet said. With what clearly took a great effort, she pushed herself up on one elbow; Wanahomen immediately went to her side to help. She panted a little and gave him a weak smile of thanks. “Order two tents, Wana. And tell Nefri that
I’m
buying them.”

The Prince stiffened. “Mother, she is of the Hetawa, it doesn’t matter—”

“She must be protected.” Despite the sickness, it was obvious Hendet had been a king’s wife: the note of command was in her voice. “Among the Banbarra, a person without wealth or kin is a slave. The Hetawa are our allies and these—” She faltered, visibly weakening. “They must both be protected…”

She fell silent, and the Prince caught his breath in alarm. “Mother!”

The urge to go to the woman was strong, but Hanani held herself back, deferring to Mni-inh as the senior Sharer. Mni-inh went over to them and crouched beside the woman, touching her forehead before the Prince could glare him away. “She’s just fainted. The disease eats all her strength. Lay her back down and I’ll examine her.”

When the Prince didn’t move, Mni-inh simply waited, gazing at him with the mild look that Hanani had always found worse than a reprimand during her training. Finally, with a soft curse, the Prince lay her down and got up, walking a few steps away and turning his back to them. His hands were fisted at his sides, but he said nothing. The boy, who had not left, went to him and touched one of his fists anxiously.

“Hanani.” Mni-inh stood to pull off his formal robe, lest the loose sleeves get in his way. “I’ve seen something like this before, and I think we’ll need a great deal of dreambile. How are your reserves?”

His brisk tone, the same he’d used in a hundred lessons and healings with her, was immensely reassuring. “Since the interdiction, Brother? I have little of anything
but
dreambile.” This she had in plenty thanks to her own dreams, which had been ugly of late.

“Good.” He raked her with a glance when she did not immediately move to assist him. “The interdiction was going to be lifted, Hanani, you know that. Your oath takes precedence over your doubts. This woman needs you.”

The words washed through Hanani like a cleansing, so powerful that she let out a deep breath and hurried to join him. Pulling off her own formal robe, she knelt at the woman’s side and set her hand on the woman’s breastbone in secondary healing position. Mni-inh knelt at the woman’s head and laid his fingertips on her eyes.

“It’s a variation on the sickness-of-tumors,” he said, closing his eyes while he began the search for her soul. “The disease is in the blood—or more specifically, in the bone, which makes blood. The feel is much the same as with other varieties of this sickness, so follow me in and we shall search for it.”

“Yes, Brother.” She closed her eyes as well and sank into healing trance with him, her dreaming-self seeking its partner in the woman’s flesh. Mni-inh found the woman’s soul before Hanani; it was hidden between two mid-ribs near the heart. He merged with it; Hanani did the same; and together they made the leap to Ina-Karekh.

After so long, performing an unrestricted, guiltless healing was a joy indescribable to Hanani—though the dream that Hendet suffered was anything but joyful. The woman’s dreamscapes were full of chewing, flensing things: scarab beetles and many-legged mites and hot ash that burned everything it touched. Mni-inh assigned Hanani to cleanse this imagery and the sickness that it represented, while he dug beneath the dreamscape and used dreamseed to encourage her body to replace the diseased bone with healthy. It was slow work, but with two healers dreaming in tandem, it went easily.

“Oh—” Mni-inh stretched, grinning as they finally ended the
dream and returned to Hona-Karekh. “I’ve
missed
this, Hanani. It truly is Sharing when we work together.”

Hanani smiled, shyly—and then paused as she spied the Prince, who sat on the far side of the tent watching them. Several hours must have passed since the healing had begun, for it was darker in the tent now. In the dimness she could just make out his face-veil and the glitter of his eyes above it.

“She should be well now,” Hanani said, anxious to reassure him. “I’ve cleansed away the taint. My mentor has grown anew the diseased part of her, so that it will make healthy blood from now on.”

Mni-inh nodded agreement as he completed his examination, sitting back on his heels. “Water, rest, and food—particularly red meat—will help her regain her strength most quickly.”

The Prince’s nod was a slow, barely visible movement in the darkness. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve proven your lives worth preserving.”

The absolute coldness of his voice was like a slap. Hanani drew back from it, looking instinctively to Mni-inh, but he too looked confused by the Prince’s reaction. She had not expected the man to share their good spirits; happiness seemed beyond him. Gratitude, though—yes, she had hoped for that.

But before either of them could muster a response, the Prince got to his feet.

“My servant is outside,” he said. He did not look at either of them, his eyes fixed on his mother. “He’ll show you to your tents.”

Hanani looked at Mni-inh again, but he only shook his head, getting to his feet. Hanani did the same, and moved to follow Mni-inh through the tent flap.

“This makes us even, templewoman,” the Prince said, his voice forestalling her. “But no more than that.”

“Even?”

He turned to her, reached up, and pulled down his face-veil. She caught her breath, recognizing at last the man who had tried to save her from the Kisuati soldiers. His expression held none of the contempt he had shown her that day, but neither was there friendliness. He might have favored an enemy or an insect with the same cold regard.

“Now get out,” he said, and turned his back on her.

Shaken into silence, Hanani obeyed.

The eightday leading to the winter solstice was a time of great peace and contemplation in Gujaareh. In a month, perhaps more, the great river called the Goddess’s Blood would overflow its banks and fill the entire valley. When the waters receded, they would leave behind thick black silt, whose richness made the garden that was Gujaareh blossom at the desert’s heart. Once the storm clouds faded and the land’s fertility was renewed, children born in the prior year could be named at last.

But until the floods began, Gujaareh existed in an arid limbo, waiting. The farmers sat idle, their fourth and last harvest done; craftsmen and artisans finished projects and closed accounts for the year; those with the means went on trips to estates outside the river valley, to avoid the floods’ nuisance. It was at such times that families in Gujaareh came together to celebrate love, good fortune, death, and all the small, mundane joys in between.

The Sisters of Hananja were busiest of all during the days of the solstice. Hardly a street there was, from wealthy highcaste neighborhoods to fishmarket hovels, that did not know the sound of rhythmic bells and a soft stately drum, announcing the procession of a
Sister and her attendants. And the sight of a yellow Sisters’ tent—within which these representatives of the Goddess would lay down their tithebearers and conjure for them dreams of purest ecstasy—was a common one during the winter’s short days and long nights.

Likely it was because there were more Sisters about, and more people to watch for them, that two Kisuati soldiers were seen forcing a Sister into an old storehouse. A mob formed with astonishing speed, rescuing the Sister and her apprentice, who had been taken hostage to ensure her cooperation. The angry citizens then gathered around the soldiers with ominous intent. But as the soldiers shouted warnings and drew weapons to defend themselves, the crowd parted before a stocky, serene man with the tattoo of a red poppy on one shoulder.

“We’ve been watching you,” he said to the soldiers, smiling. “Didn’t think you’d be foolish enough to attempt another assault in the open like this, but—Well, here we are.”

One of the soldiers, intuiting something of the man’s intent, screamed and slashed at him with his sword. The watching crowd gasped. Quick as a striking snake, the man ducked the slash and caught the soldier’s sword-wrist, jerking him off balance. The soldier stumbled forward, nearly losing his grip on the hilt, but before he could recover the tattooed man had put two fingers on his eyelids. He fell, asleep, and the man put something small, that hummed faintly, on his forehead.

The other soldier understood at last. Panicking, he fumbled for his own sword, but before he could get it out of its sheath, the man caught hold of his arm. “Peace,” the man said—and that soldier too slumped to the ground.

The tattooed man then returned to the first soldier, laying fingers on his eyelids for several long silent breaths. When the soldier let out a long sigh and did not breathe in again, the crowd murmured its approval. The tattooed man then performed the same ritual on
the second soldier, and when he too was dead, the crowd gave a great collective sigh. They fell silent, properly reverent, as the man arranged the soldiers’ bodies into a dignified position, and then stamped a symbol on each forehead. The red poppy, same as the man’s shoulder tattoo.

Just as he finished this, more Kisuati soldiers arrived in a rush, having word of the mob. The new soldiers’ commander pushed through the crowd with his sword drawn and then stopped in disbelief, staring down at the corpses as the tattooed man turned to face him.

“These men have committed violence against citizens of Gujaareh,” the man said. “Most heinously against those who serve our Goddess. They have been judged corrupt and granted peace in accordance with Hananja’s Law.”

“
We
don’t obey your damned Law, you filthy—” the commander began, pointing his sword at the man. He fell silent as one of his men touched his shoulder; the crowd was murmuring again, its tone this time unmistakably angry. The commander hesitated, then lowered his sword.

“Hananja’s City obeys Hananja’s Law,” the man said.

“
Hananja’s City obeys Hananja’s Law
,” echoed the crowd, soft and relentless. The soldiers started, looking around in alarm.

“Your people have been tolerable until now,” said the man, “and we have welcomed you for that reason. You are our kin, after all. But if you can no longer accept our hospitality without abusing it, then perhaps it’s time you left.”

The commander caught his breath in fury and affront, but it did not escape his notice that the crowd, which was growing larger by the moment, signified its agreement with a few shouts and raised fists of encouragement. The shouts ended, however, as the tattooed man gave the crowd a mild look. This, far more than the crowd’s agitation, turned the commander’s fury into sharp, iron-cold fear.
He realized: if the tattooed man commanded it, the crowd would fall upon him and his men, and tear them apart.

“I would suggest you at least leave this street,” the tattooed man said. His voice was gentle, his eyes genuinely kind; later the commander would recall this with great confusion. He had never been threatened so politely in his life. “Peace is a difficult creed to follow at the best of times, and certain provocations go beyond even a pious person’s self-control. I’ll summon some of my Sharer brethren to help distribute these soldiers’ peace to the crowd, which should calm them. You should go and inform your superiors of what’s happened here.”

The commander’s men looked anxiously at him, hoping for his agreement. The commander stared back at the tattooed man, suspicious. “You
want
us to tell what happened here?”