The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (49 page)

The morning was half over by the time Wanahomen finally left Hanani’s tent. She was still asleep, tangled in a thin blanket and the scattered pile of cushions. He paused to kiss her neck and one artlessly bared breast before leaving; she did not stir.

Outside, the camp was only half awake, as most of the tribe and its guests had kept up the celebration until the setting of the Waking Moon. He glimpsed a few bleary-eyed slaves cleaning up, and a few even more bleary-eyed warriors drinking strong tea around the cookfires; aside from this the camp was still asleep. Returning to his own tent, he took a quick basin bath and put on fresh clothing before reporting to Unte.

“Well, well,” Unte said as a slave let him into the tent. Unte was sprawled across a long flat cushion with his feet up, nursing a large cup. By the bitter scent, Wanahomen knew it held a tea for hangovers. “Do you never go at things the easy way, Wana? Half the camp is in awe of you, and the other half thinks you may be the death of us all.”

Wanahomen settled on the cushion across from him, smiling
ruefully. “Good. Not so long ago, only a quarter were in awe of me. Which are you, by the way?”

“I’ll judge when I see the lady’s face. I trust she was satisfied?”

It was practically law among the Banbarra to brag about one’s sexual exploits. Men spun tales of unattainable women attained and impossible positions achieved, while he’d heard rumors that the women kept a chart somewhere for betting purposes, complete with skill rankings for each of the tribe’s men. But while Wanahomen had done his share of tale-spinning—some true, most not, as was the way of such things—he had no great desire to talk about his time with Hanani. The whole matter was too fragile and powerful, almost holy, like the templewoman herself. He did not know how to feel about it yet.

“I would say so,” he said to Unte, trying to sound nonchalant. “Though of course it’s always difficult to tell with women. I think her sorrow has been eased as well. At least, enough that she will not go mad or kill herself.”

Unte stifled a yawn and frowned. “Was that really a danger?”

“Last night? Gods, yes. And she’ll bear careful watching for some while longer.” He reached for the tea to pour himself a cup. “My people don’t deal well with pain.”

“Then just as well you gave her pleasure. Though now I worry that her priest friends, those cold-faced fellows who kill in the night, will be annoyed with us.”

“They’ll be annoyed with
me
, yes.” The tea was foul, but it contained a strong stimulant; he grimaced and forced it down. “But it’s her they’ll blame, not me.”

“They might claim you seduced her.”

“Templefolk are many things, but not liars. If they question her, she’ll tell them she asked me for my favors.” He sighed and drained the cup. “I don’t know what they’ll do to her at that point.”

“Well.” Unte sat up, grimacing and touching his temple as if the movement pained him. “Either way, it will happen after the battle.”

Reaching for the tea decanter again, Wanahomen froze and stared at him. “The vote? But I thought—”

“Asnif of Madobah was the only other possible dissenter, and he was most impressed with you after the healer’s death the other day. He said last night that he means to support you, and the others admitted that they planned the same. Even Tajedd—though he has no choice.” Unte smiled thinly. “So rather than stand on ceremony, we called that the vote. The others will inform their hunt—no,
war
leaders this morning. They have granted you the title of war chieftain.” Unte smiled. “Our first in generations.”

Wanahomen closed his eyes and murmured a brief prayer of thanks to Hananja, then drew in a deep breath, feeling the first stirrings of battle-readiness in his blood.

“Then we leave tomorrow,” he said. “Please have the tribe prepare rations for all the warriors, and packhorses to carry fodder. I’ll organize a meeting of the war leaders for this afternoon, to prepare. And send a message-rider; it will take us three days’ hard ride to reach the rendezvous point with the Gujaareen soldiers.”

Unte raised his eyebrows, amused, though he nodded to each item on Wanahomen’s list of requests. “The rations are prepared already, of course, since we half-expected this. And the fodder, and the horses; the rest can be done at speed. But you will be careful, Wana, won’t you? I don’t want to see ten years wasted.”

Wanahomen grinned and shifted to kneel at Unte’s feet. “I told you I would make you a king among kings, didn’t I? Gujaareh will be mine again, and all shall know the strength of the Banbarra before we’re done. I’ll make you proud.”

Unte chuckled, reached out and gripped Wanahomen’s shoulder, then sat up and—much to Wanahomen’s surprise—kissed his forehead. “You already have,” he said.

The sun was well set by the time Wanahomen returned, tired but satisfied, to the Yusir camp’s ledge. He had spent the afternoon discussing strategies with the other war leaders—now his lieutenants—while the men of the troops made the final preparations for war. He had little thought of anything more than a meal and his bed, but of course that changed when Yanassa appeared and attached herself to his arm.

“Yanassa,” he said in wary greeting. “The wind blows fresher for your presence.”

She smiled sweetly, though he was not at all fooled. She wanted something. “What gift have you brought for Hanani?”

Hanani. He had thought of the templewoman, of course, but with so many other concerns to occupy his mind, that one had slipped away. It was Banbarra custom for a man to compensate a woman for her virginity. And while Hanani was not Banbarra and likely did not care, it was clear Yanassa meant to see that he did right by her.

“Shadows,” he muttered.

She patted his arm. “I think that amber anklet of yours will do nicely.”

He started, frowning at her. He had given Yanassa the anklet years ago, when they’d first become lovers. She had given it back when they’d fallen out, but he had always hoped—“I don’t know,” he said.

“So you care nothing for her? She was just a night’s release to you?”

“No, I just…” He faltered, troubled. He had grown to like Hanani in spite of himself, but what good did that do? She did not love him. She had used him, really, though he’d allowed it. Only fair after what he’d done to her—But when all was said and done, she would return to her Hetawa and eventually forget him, and he her. “I had intended that anklet for one of my wives,” he finished.

Yanassa stopped walking, scowling at him. “Always the same with you. One night in a woman’s arms and you want to lock her away in a palace somewhere. And if for some reason you can’t have that, she’s nothing to you. Why can you never simply accept what’s offered, Wana, without demanding so much more?”

He stopped as well, putting his hands on his hips, not caring that they stood in the middle of a walkway and half the tribe was probably watching. “Because I’m not Banbarra, flinging my seed at any willing woman and bragging of my aim!”

“She isn’t Banbarra either!” Yanassa snapped. “Gods, no Banbarra woman is stupid enough to put up with you after watching what I’ve gone through! But Hanani is like you, angry and hurt and lonely under all her airs, and she needs someone to care for her even if it must be
you
of all people. So if you break her heart I will scorn you forever!” With that she stormed off in a swirl of sashes and dangling jewels, leaving him gaping after her.

Charris stepped out from between the tents, coming to stand at his side.

“My father never had this much trouble with women, did he?” Wanahomen asked through clenched teeth.

“No, my lord. Though that may be because he kept all of his locked away in a palace somewhere.”

Wanahomen threw a sharp look at him, but Charris kept his face politely neutral.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes over the face-veil. “Fetch the amber anklet for me, would you?” When Charris did not move, Wanahomen glanced down and saw that a small wrapped parcel lay in the palm of Charris’s hand.

With a final sour look, Wanahomen snatched the parcel and headed for Hanani’s tent.

She wasn’t there. A few questions about the camp revealed that she’d appeared around the midday rest, gone to bathe, then come
back and asked several of the Banbarra to share dream-humors with her. “How did she seem?” he asked one elder from whom she had collected dreamblood.

“Well enough,” the old man said, then grinned. “Not displeased, if you have hopes of another busy night.” Biting back an impolite retort, Wanahomen bid the man a good afternoon.

Finally he spoke with someone who had seen her heading for the heights. He found her halfway up the ledges, where she’d given him that first lesson in narcomancy only a fourday before. She sat on the same stone slab, in fact, with her knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, gazing out over the canyon as the last colors of sunset faded from the darkening horizon.

Wanahomen went over and sat down beside her; she jumped when he did so, coming back from a million miles away. “Oh,” she said. “Good evening, Prince.”

He stifled the urge to brush a lock of her thick, sand-colored hair away from her face. Despite the previous night, it felt somehow odd to take liberties touching her. He kept his hands awkwardly in his lap. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you,” she said. Her tone was nothing but politeness. He wondered suddenly whether she was displeased with him. Then he recalled Yanassa’s words, and realized that she might not be thinking of the previous night at all.

“The vote went your way,” she said softly, confirming his guess. “Everyone is talking about it.”

He nodded. “It’ll be over soon, one way or another.” Glancing at her, he added, “You’ll be able to go back to the Hetawa then.”

Watching her face, Wanahomen just caught the fleeting dip of her eyes. “Yes.”

He braced himself and then asked, “Regrets after all?”

Her lips tightened. “Concerns.”

“Concerns that…?”

She shook her head slowly, as if unsure of her own words. “The peace I once felt as a Servant of Hananja is gone. It was fading before, but Mni-inh’s death has shattered it for good. Death follows me like a shadow. I’m a healer: I should bring life. Shouldn’t I? What does it mean that I don’t?”

Wanahomen was taken aback for a moment. Had she been sitting up here brooding on such questions all day? And how was he—not a priest by any measure—supposed to answer?

He sighed and removed his veil, gazing out over the canyon himself. “You didn’t cause Mni-inh’s death,” he said. “And Azima brought about his own by attacking you.”

“If I had healed the Shadoun myself, Mni-inh would not have died.”

He stared at her. “Because
you
would have died instead! Hanani—” He shook his head, sighed, and reached for her. She stiffened, and he stopped, leaving his hand hovering in midair until she relaxed. Then he pulled her to sit across his lap. He had the sense she permitted this only because he’d surprised her into it.

“Prince, what—”

“Wanahomen.”

“What?”

“I’ve been in your tent and in your body. You can at least call me by my shadows-damned name.”

That certainly startled her out of the melancholy. A flush deep enough to see even in the dimness spread across her face. Her shy smile followed; he counted this a minor victory. “Very well, Wanahomen.”

“Good.” He settled his arms around her, loosely. “Now, you’re being foolish. And the last time you were foolish, holding you seemed to bring your wits back. It’s all I know to try.”

He was relieved to see her smile widen. “Yes, P—Wanahomen. It is oddly helpful.”

Mollified, he shifted to get comfortable on the hard stone, so that
his legs wouldn’t fall asleep. “The war has begun,” he said, more seriously. “None of us can afford to be foolish now. Only getting through this will bring the return of peace.”

She nodded, sobering as well. “I’ve made arrangements to ride at the rear of your army, with the slaves and smiths and others who won’t fight.”

It had not occurred to Wanahomen that she would come along when he rode out. But then, that was why the Hetawa had given the Sharers to him in the first place, wasn’t it? Troubled, he dared to rest a hand on the small of her back, considering the dangers. “Keep wearing this clothing,” he said. “No one will bother a Banbarra woman, not with hundreds of Banbarra warriors about. But a lone Gujaareen would be seen as vulnerable.”