The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (24 page)

In the mirror-surface of a thin sheet of metal stood a woman: not tall, with hair of honey and almond skin, and lips as lush as the Blood river valley’s fields. Kohl lined her eyes, brown tint her mouth. The top half of her hair had been pulled into its usual bun, though bound with strands of white shells from the distant Western Ocean. The bottom half had been separated into a dozen or more locks, each captured at the tip by a heavy, teardrop-shaped gold ornament. They made a subtle rattle, drawing the eye, whenever she turned her head.

“This will do,” said the Banbarra woman beside Hanani, in accented Gujaareen. She drew a finger along one of the crisscrossing belts that held Hanani’s new many-layered skirts about her hips. Hanani started at the touch, her eyes darting away from the mirror—but after only a moment her gaze drifted back. She could not stop staring at the stranger there.

Yanassa made a pleased sound at her reaction. “You might grow vain at this rate!”

Hanani turned to the woman, moving gingerly in the unfamiliar skirts. How did one avoid tripping in them? She would have to
learn. “Yanassa, I… I have never…” She looked down at herself. “I cannot even think how to react to this. This woman is not me.” She lifted her arms, which were draped in bracelets and tasseled cloth. How was it that these were hers?
Her
arms should have been bare, her hands unencumbered so that they could be quick and clever and save lives. Yet they were the same arms, the same hands.

Yanassa smiled. The Banbarra woman had come to Hanani that morning, after Charris carried away her collar and Mni-inh’s to the tribe’s “accounting master,” whatever that was. With Yanassa had come a small horde of chattering Banbarra women, who invaded Hanani’s tent en masse and attacked her with clothing, makeup, and jewelry. When Hanani weakly questioned the sudden attention, Yanassa had been succinct: “You have offered value to the tribe,” she said, gesturing around her throat to indicate Hanani’s collar. “Your priest-man has instructed that his wealth and yours are to be shared equally. And Hendet has adopted you as her own. You’re now a rich woman of a good clan, and among my people that changes everything.”

Clearly it did. Throughout the operation Banbarra men and children had continued to arrive at Hanani’s tent, bringing additional pallets, cushions, lanterns, rugs, containers of food—a toilet jar. All the necessities and comforts her tent had previously lacked. On Yanassa’s order the women had left and returned with more clothing of the type that Hanani now wore, including undergarments and sandals and a greater profusion of jewelry than she’d ever seen in her life. “Value for value,” Yanassa said in her brisk, choppy accent. She had inspected each parcel as it arrived—sending a few back with loud complaints—while Hanani stood dumbstruck. “We’re not much for guests, but it will never be said that the Banbarra cheat in trade.”

It was through such acerbic statements, delivered like Hetawa pronouncements, that Hanani at last began to understand some of
the peculiar traits of Banbarra behavior. The men’s practice of veiling, for example; it was not simply unfriendliness. Yanassa explained that a man might bring in spoils from hunting and raiding forays, but it was the duty of his female relatives—who were less likely to be recognized, arrested, or killed—to parlay those raw goods into usable wealth by trading in cities. Thus men cultivated a habit of concealment around strangers, while women learned the skills that would help them bargain for the tribe’s needs. “I was taught Gujaareen and four other tongues by my mother, along with writing, figuring, and investing,” Yanassa had told Hanani proudly. “She did not bother with my brothers. But me she doted on, for she knew I would one day bring great wealth to our clan.”

It seemed she had, for all of the Banbarra Hanani had seen so far, even the other women, deferred to Yanassa by the rules of some incomprehensible hierarchy.

“Now, little mouse,” Yanassa said. (Hanani was not fond of this term, but it at least seemed affectionate.) “At tonight’s festival, you must take care not to flaunt yourself. That is what women of the cities do, and our men have no respect for it. Your worth advertises itself; there is no need to try harder.”

Hanani frowned in confusion. “I would never ‘flaunt myself,’ ” she said, speaking slowly in case something had gotten tangled in translation. “I don’t even know what you mean.”

“Then this should be easy for you. The men won’t approach you—not now, when they can all see that you are a proper woman. If they
do
press you, let me know.” She scowled. “Some of them are fools. The sensible ones will let you know of their interest in subtle ways. You will know: a touch, a look, an unexpected kindness. If you desire him in return, all you need do is drop some trinket or a sash near him.”

“
Desire
him?”

Yanassa was hanging brightly-colored satchels, containing Hanani’s new wardrobe, along the tent frame. She did not see
Hanani’s look of shock. “That’s the custom. If there are many men around, look the one you want in the eye before you drop the item. Then simply return to your tent, and wait. If he desires you in return, he should come to your tent to bring you what you ‘lost.’ Often he’ll bring some other gift on top of it.” She threw a smile over her shoulder at Hanani. “Then you let him in. But he must leave in the morning, mind you.” She paused, frowning to herself. “And you’d better not bother with Wana, if he’s to your taste. I’ve seen him throw women’s tokens back at their feet, if he’s in the wrong mood: he’s picky and has no manners. But it means most women leave him alone, which I suppose is what he wants.”

“I—” Hanani groped for the words, too stunned to speak for a moment. In Gujaareh, people simply
knew
that Servants of Hananja vowed celibacy. She had never had to explain before. “Yanassa, I can’t.”

“Eh?” Yanassa paused in her tidying, frowning at Hanani.

“I cannot be with a man. Not in that manner. It’s forbidden.”

Yanassa stared at her for a long breath, mouth open. “Not
ever
?”

“No,” Hanani replied. “Those of my path—we healers, I mean—we take Her magic into ourselves and share it with others. We must often share something of our own souls in the process. This is all great Hananja permits; the rest of us belongs to Her.”

“How old are you?”

“I’ve seen twenty floods of the river.”

“Gods of clouds and cool wind.” Yanassa looked horrified. “Do you never feel hungry for a man? Are you permitted at least to pleasure yourself?”

Hanani felt her cheeks heat. No one in Gujaareh asked such pointed questions, either. “I… have… felt hunger, yes. But it is a measure of our strength and discipline that we work past it,” she said, quoting Mni-inh. “And, and—If the desire becomes too great to bear, I can ask one of my brothers or a Gatherer to share dream
blood with me. That quiets all passions. But I’ve never needed that—at least, not yet.” She considered. “Perhaps it’s because I’m a woman, and passions run cooler in me.”

Yanassa said something in Chakti. Hanani did not understand it, but it sounded very rude.

“Is that the foolishness they teach in Gujaareh?” Yanassa shook her head. “No wonder city women have no pride! And you—no men? Women, at least; they must allow you pleasure with women.”

“Th-there are no other women in the Hetawa.”

“Then you don’t even have friends with whom to share your troubles? How cruel!”

Hanani shifted from foot to foot, wishing wholeheartedly that the conversation would end. “I have my mentor, and—I have never, ah, regretted my choice—”

“
Unu-vi.
How can you, if you don’t know what you’re missing?” Yanassa sighed and came over to fuss with Hanani’s hair. “Such a shame. But if those are your ways, then so be it.” She paused and frowned, thoughtfully. “Shall I tell everyone of this vow of yours? Otherwise the men will be curious about you. Also, those who want him may be offended by your priest-man’s refusal.”

“Yes, please,” Hanani said, relieved. “I mean no insult to anyone—that is, everyone has been, well.” Better by far to have Yanassa act as an intermediary than for Hanani to endure this conversation ever again.

Yanassa smiled and patted her shoulder. “It’s all right. Poor thing; this must be hard for you. We are a passionate people, we Banbarra, and passion is what your kind seems to fear most. A shame more of you are not like Wanahomen—but then, he warned me long ago that he was atypical of city folk.”

A chance to change the subject. Hanani seized on it as smoothly as she could. She had already learned that pausing to speak just meant getting talked over. “Do you know him well, the Prince?”

“As well as any Banbarra can know that one.” There was a combination of ruefulness and affection in the woman’s voice as she turned to Hanani’s mirror and checked her own hair, in its elaborately braided upswept coif. “We were close once, but then I misjudged him on what seemed to me a small matter, and he’s never forgiven me for it. That man positively cherishes a grudge.”

Abruptly Hanani intuited something. “The child who was tending his mother last night.” What had the Prince called him? “Tassa.”

“Mine,” Yanassa said fondly. “He was tending Hendet? Soft-hearted child—so different from his father. I don’t know yet whether I should be thankful for that.”

If the son had not inherited the seething, sharp-edged moods of his father, Hanani could see it as nothing but the Goddess’s blessing. “The alliance that Gatherer Nijiri spoke of.” She had almost forgotten it in the shock of the past few days. “The Hetawa supports him, then—the Prince. But the Kisuati would never leave peacefully.”

Yanassa looked at her oddly. “Of course not. Your ‘Prince’ has asked all the tribes of the Banbarra to join with him in one great battle to drive the Kisuati back to their own land. They vote on war at the end of the solstice.”

Hanani caught her breath; her skin goosebumped.
War
—it was anathema to Hananja. War turned the waking realm into the darkest of nightmares, and sentenced its victims to shadows in the afterlife as well. Could the Hetawa truly support such a thing?

“I do not believe that,” she whispered.

“What?” Yanassa asked. But before Hanani could respond, Yanassa blinked and frowned, looking away at the sound of shouts and commotion outside. “Now what?”

She went outside, and Hanani followed, to see that the tribe had begun to gather at the northern edge of the main shelf. Over the milling heads of the tribesfolk, on the lookout shelf, she saw a man
standing rigid, holding a strange long conical object. At first Hanani thought this was a horn, but the man held it to his eye.

“Hanani.” She turned—and stared, shocked, at Mni-inh. Her mentor grinned back at her sheepishly, swathed from tip to toe in Banbarra robes and a headcloth. They had even given him a veil, though it hung loose around his chin. Then she saw that he was staring at her, a slow smile crossing his features.

“I knew that had to be you,” he said. “No one else here has such hair. But this… Well, well.” He put his hands on his hips, grinning, and she ducked her eyes so that he would not see her face heat. Yanassa, at her side, made an amused sound.

Then the murmurs of the tribesfolk softened as the Prince appeared from the crowd, along with Unte. Hanani barely noticed the tribe leader, for the smoldering anger in the Prince’s manner made her heart clench with apprehension. There was blood on his clothes, and death in his eyes.

The Prince stopped then, and Hanani realized he had seen her. His eyes drifted down, then back up. She had never in her life wanted to be noticed less.

But he said nothing, inclining his head first to Yanassa, then after a moment’s pause to Hanani. Then he turned and strode over to the lookout. Unte lingered longer, his eyes crinkling in what was unmistakably a smile behind his veil. Then he headed to the lookout as well.

“I seriously begin to question the Gatherers’ judgment,” Mni-inh muttered, gazing after the Prince. “If
he
is the one they’ve chosen…”

Hanani recalled her earlier thought—
the Hetawa supports a war
—and kept her silence, too troubled to do otherwise.

Yanassa called out to some fellow tribesman in Chakti. The man answered quickly, and the people around him murmured in surprise and alarm in response. Yanassa looked surprised herself. “A caravan has appeared,” she told them in Gujaareen. “They’ve sent the
correct greeting-signals. But none of the other tribes’ delegations were supposed to be here for at least a fourday.”

Unte held up a hand signal atop the lookout, and the tribesfolk who saw it cheered.

“What?” Mni-inh asked. “Delegations?”

“There are six tribes of the Banbarra people,” Yanassa replied. “Usually the tribes gather only at the Spring Conclave in the west, but Unte has called for the hunt-troops from all six to come here and decide whether to join Wana’s war. The first of those parties seems to have arrived early.”

Mni-inh started, as Hanani had done before, at the word
war
. He frowned, squinting across the landscape. Only then did she notice the tension in the air around her; the tribe was waiting for something. What?

The man with the strange contraption said something to Unte, who smiled and turned to face the crowd. “Dzikeh!” he cried, and another cheer went up. But Yanassa, Hanani noticed, was no longer smiling.

“Dzikeh-Banbarra are opposed to the union,” she said softly. “For them to arrive early… They mean to fight it.”