The Killing Moon (Dreamblood) (27 page)

“Couldn’t rest with this damn cough,” she muttered. He heard Gehanu’s choppy accent in her words. She narrowed her eyes at him then, looking him up and down. “Ah-che. The
handsome boy who joined us in Gujaareh. They give you ‘take care of the old woman’ duty for the night?”

Ehiru smiled. “It would be an honor if they had, Elder, but no. I have come for a different purpose.” He paused while she coughed again, harshly and with obvious pain. A flask of water and a cup sat on a tray nearby. When the spasm passed, he poured water for her and lifted this to her lips, holding it while she sipped. She nodded thanks when she was done.

Setting the cup down, he paused for a moment and then reached into his robes for his waist-pouch. Pulling it out, he opened it and poured his Gatherer ornaments into his palm.

She peered at the polished stones with bright-eyed curiosity. He picked up the cicada and held it up for her to see. “Do you know what this is?”

There was no mistaking the blue-black gleam of jungissa, or its characteristic hum when he tapped the cicada’s back. Talithele’s eyes widened. “Kilefe, che? What we call the living stone. I heard that it hummed, but never saw it for myself.”

He smiled. “We call it jungissa. The hum is not life, but magic. The stones fall from the sky, now and again; we believe they are remnants of the Sun’s seed, scattered across the heavens. It took ten years to carve this one, and it took me five years to master its use.” He turned the cicada in his fingers, thoughtful. “There are only a handful of jungissa in all the world.”

She nodded, fascinated—but then her rheumy eyes narrowed at him. “In my land, we tell stories of the kilefe stones and what the priest-warriors of the river kingdoms do with them.”

Ehiru nodded, gazing into her eyes. “We use them to hold
spells of sleep in place, while we travel with the sleeper into Ina-Karekh—what we call the realm of dreams.”

“Ah-che.” She sat back, thoughtful. “You’ve come to kill me.”

“Death is only part of what I bring.” He lifted a hand and touched her cheek. She was old, weak; he could feel the hair-thinness of her tether. With the barest brush of his will he pushed her into the edges of Ina-Karekh, carefully steering her into a dream of pleasant memory. A vision of her home village bloomed in both their minds. Around him were huts with grass-thatched roofs, goats being chased by children, guinea fowl scratching in the dust. He smelled animal dung and grain-dust from the storage house nearby. He saw the tall, handsome youth she’d loved so long ago, and for a moment he loved along with her.

With a sigh of regret he ended the dream there, pulling her very gently back to Hona-Karekh. So near death was she that he hadn’t even needed to put her to sleep for that brief journey; she blinked once or twice and then stared at him.

“In Gujaareh, my task is to help guide others into Ina-Karekh in the manner that I have shown you,” he said. He caressed her cheek, admiring the beauty in every sun-weathered seam of her skin before finally dropping his hand to rest on hers. “I have not the skill to heal you, but I can at least see that your afterlife is peaceful and filled with your loved ones and favorite places.”

She stared at him, then let out a long sigh. “What a seducer you are. I never dreamed I would be courted again at my age, or that I would be so tempted to give in. How many women have you had with that silver tongue?”

Ehiru smiled. “None, Elder. Women are forbidden to my
kind. But…” he ducked his eyes, feeling his face heat beneath her knowing gaze. “I have loved many in the course of my duty.”

“Ti-sowu? Loved them, you say?” She cocked her head coquettishly. “Do you love me?”

He could not help but chuckle, though he kept it soft so as not to break the spell of peace. “I believe I could, Elder. When I share the dreams of another it is difficult not to love them…”

As he said the words, he faltered to silence and nearly flinched from the sharpness of the chill that moved through him. Was that it, then? Had he perverted the Bromarte’s Gathering because, in the moment after that eerie true-seeing, he had failed to love the bearer of Hananja’s tithe? He had disliked the man already—without cause, simply because he was a barbarian. And then he had allowed that prejudice to overwhelm his sense of duty. He had failed to master his own disgust and fear as he might have done for another.

So lost was he in the revelation that his attention wandered; Talithele uttered another harsh cough which drew him back. Privately he cursed and thrust his inappropriate thoughts aside. He had meant to keep her calm and relaxed to ease the coughing.

But as she recovered, her sharp eyes laid his soul bare. “You are troubled, priest.”

He bowed his head. “Forgive me, old mother. My mind wandered.”

“Nothing to forgive. A mistake is a small matter.” She smiled again. “But you would not know that, would you? Poor man.”

“Eh?”

She turned her hand under his and grasped it, patting the
back of it with her other hand. “I can see how they made you,” she said, her voice soft despite its hoarseness. “They took away everything that mattered to you, che? Upended your whole world and left you alone. And now you think love blooms in a breath and silencing pain is a kindness. Ah, but you’re young.”

He frowned, so startled that he forgot the spell he’d been weaving. “Easing pain
is
kindness, old mother. And my feelings for the people I help—”

“I don’t doubt your love,” she said. “You are a man made for love, I think. Your eyes make me
want
to die, there’s so much love in them. But it isn’t real. Real love lasts years. It causes pain, and endures through it.”

He was too stunned to respond for several breaths. When he finally found his tongue he could barely stammer out words. “That pain comes with love… that I can accept, old mother. I have lost loved ones—family. But they died quickly, and I pray thanks to my Goddess every day for that blessing. Are you saying it would have been better to let them suffer?”

She snorted aloud. “Suffering is part of life,” she said. “All the parts of life are jumbled up together; you can’t separate out just the one thing.” She patted his hand again, kindly. “I could let you kill me now, lovely man, and have peace and good dreams forever. But who knows what I get instead, if I stay? Maybe time to see a new grandchild. Maybe a good joke that sets me laughing for days. Maybe another handsome young fellow flirting with me.” She grinned toothlessly, then let loose another horrible, racking cough. Ehiru steadied her with shaking hands. “I want every moment of my life, pretty man, the painful and the sweet alike. Until the very end. If these are all the memories I
get for eternity, I want to take as many of them with me as I can.”

He could not accept her words. In his mind he saw again his mother’s face, aristocratic and beautiful, marred by streaks of blood. He could smell that blood, and bile and the reek of broken bowel; he saw his mother’s eyes, staring outward with no one to shut them. Women were goddesses who needed no assistance to reach the best of Ina-Karekh—but her death had still been horrific, not at all the queen’s death she’d deserved.

He looked up at Talithele and in that moment could see the same ugly ignominy awaiting her. She would cough until her lungs tore to pieces, and die drowning in her own blood. How could he leave her to suffer so? No, worse—stand by and watch?

I could take her anyhow
, came the thought.
Gehanu would never know.

And on the heels of that thought came a chill of purest horror.

Swallowing against the dryness of his throat, Ehiru pulled his hands away from hers. “It is your right to refuse the tithe,” he whispered. The words came more by rote than conscious effort. “Your soul is healthy and your life does no harm. Remain in Hona-Karekh with Hananja’s blessing.”

He pushed himself up from the rugs and would have fled the tent then, but he stopped when she said, “Priest. I may accept the pain, but I’m not a goddess, whatever your people might think. My last days will be easier to bear if I am not alone. Che?”

He heard the plaintive hope in her voice and nearly wept. In a thick voice he replied, “Then I’ll visit again, old mother.”

She smiled. “So you love me after all. Rest well.”

“Rest well, old mother.”

He left the tent and kept walking forward, his strides brisk, his fists clenched at his sides. Almost immediately he heard the scuffle of feet behind him as Nijiri recovered from surprise and followed. The boy asked no questions, for which Ehiru was supremely grateful as he reached the wall of the oasis, dropped to his knees, and gripped the lip of smooth stone as if for life. Perhaps he could dance. Perhaps he should weep. Anything—so long as it took his mind away from the terrible sin he’d almost committed, and the sour taste of dreamblood-lust in his mouth.

He did nothing but tremble there in the dust until Nijiri took his hand. “
Tatunep niweh Hananja
,” the boy said—the opening phrase of a prayer. All at once Ehiru’s anguish began to fade. Again the boy had proven his worth.

There’s no more time. I must make him ready to serve Her now, for I can do so no longer.

Then he bowed over his hands and lost himself in prayer.

The Reaper does not serve Hananja. It no longer needs a stone.

*   *   *

Niyes was a fool to think he could escape this nightmare
, thought Charris.

Now
General
Charris, elevated to Niyes’s place. Once Charris might have been pleased with the appointment and with the oblique victory over his old rival, but no longer. Now he would have given anything to be able to hand the title back to Niyes, and the foul duty that came with it.

The prisoners knew they were to die. They moved reluctantly, only after much shoving and shouting on the guards’ parts; Charris could see the despair in their eyes. They could not have seen the heavy-walled, locked wagon that Charris had brought with him to the prison, and which now stood in an adjoining courtyard. They could not have known about the monster locked inside it—yet still they seemed to sense the
imminence of death. Criminals they might be, but they were true Gujaareen as well.

Because of that, Charris—normally more pragmatic than devout—prayed for them.
May Hananja watch over you in the dark places you’ll inhabit for eternity
, he whispered in his mind.
And may you die better than Niyes did, for I saw his body when that thing was done with him.

“Sir.” Charris turned to see one of his message-riders standing at attention, escorted by one of the prison guards. The rider was sweaty and filthy, all but swaying with exhaustion. Charris narrowed his eyes and ordered the guard to go fetch lemon-water and salt. Then he pointed toward the floor, and the rider gratefully sat.

“Report.”

“Orders were delivered to the southeast garrison by messenger bird two days ago,” the rider said. “Another bird was dispatched from there to the southwest. The southeast commander distrusts birds for critical information, so he sent me to deliver the message to—” He hesitated. “To the high desert. I killed a horse getting there, but delivered the message successfully. On the return journey I passed through the border town of Ketuyae. The minstrel caravan crossed the river there a fourday ago.”

“Just four days? You’re sure?” Barring storms or accidents, the fastest desert route to the Kisuati Protectorate’s northernmost trade-town was usually seven days. Ketuyae was a day out of Gujaareh. They would be past Tesa by now, half their journey completed.

“Yes, sir. But the desert commander assured me that his troop would be able to catch up to the caravan. They have good trackers.
And they have Shadoun horses, bred and trained for the high desert and twice as fast as any camel.”

Which meant that it would take another day, perhaps two, for the garrison troop to find and catch up with the minstrel caravan. Right at the border. Charris could only pray that Sesshotenap, the commander of the desert force, would have enough sense to send his men without Gujaareen livery. All they needed was for a Kisuati patrol to catch a party of Gujaareen soldiers where they weren’t supposed to be, dispatched from a garrison that wasn’t supposed to exist, trying to kill a Kisuati ambassador. War was coming—Charris wasn’t blind—but an incident like that could precipitate it sooner than the Prince wanted.