The Killing Moon

25

The first half of the journey to Kisua had been filled with routine—dawn waking and breakfast followed by twelve sweltering, mind-and body-numbing hours on camelback as they forged their way across the golden dune sea. But then had come Tesa, the halfway point, and after that the routine changed. A new sense of urgency seemed to have gripped Gehanu. She drove the caravan across the desert at a pace that left even the most experienced of the minstrels complaining at the end of the day. They began before dawn and finished well after sunset, stopping only when continuing would have threatened the camels’ health.

Nijiri was thankful, despite his own exhaustion and soreness. Because of the brutal pace, few of the minstrels noticed Ehiru’s shivering despite the day’s heat, or his unfocused stare. Or the prayers that he continually murmured under his breath, a litany against the swirling chaos of sound and vision that had surely begun to overtake his mind. It was the beginning of the pranje—out here in the wild desert, miles from any center of civilization where a suitable tithebearer might be found, with no hope of privacy or solitude to ease the Gatherer’s suffering during Hananja’s test. And surrounded by unbelievers, for even the Gujaareen among the minstrels were the sort who worshipped Hananja only in word and not heart. They would not offer themselves to a Gatherer’s need, no matter how much they revered Hananja’s highest Servants. So what could Nijiri do but lie beside Ehiru at night, whispering prayers to help him focus on reality? By day he rode alongside Ehiru, assisting his brother when he could and using all his guile to turn aside the chance attentions of the minstrels.

But as he’d feared, one among their party had already noticed.

The Kisuati woman confronted him at the midday rest break. “What’s wrong with him?” she demanded. They had begun to enter the scrublands that presaged Kisua’s northern border. The track of the Goddess’s Blood meandered in lazy east-west loops at this point, which—along with the fact that travel south was against the current—was what had made the desert route the faster option. In another day they would cross the river at the Imsa Narrows, which marked the northern border of Sunandi’s homeland.

She will have power then. Nijiri reminded himself of this as he accepted the canteen that she offered, her excuse for speaking privately to him. Since they would reach the river soon, he drank deeply before replying, grimacing at the brackish taste.

“Too much time has passed since his last Gathering,” Nijiri said, speaking quietly. He sat in the shadow of his camel, close enough to watch Ehiru but not so close that the other caravanners would notice.

She crouched across from him. “When will he become one of those things?”

“We do not speak of this to layfolk—”

She spat a stream of Sua at him, too fast for him to follow although its gutter content was obvious. “You will speak of it to me,” she finished in Gujaareen. Of course. She too had seen that the balance of power between them was shifting. They could still kill her, and would if Ehiru deemed her corrupt—but in her land that would bring the wrath of the Protectors down on their heads.

Nijiri sighed. “Gatherers are not like other men. The tithes we collect for the Goddess… change us. Surely you have heard of this in tales about our kind.”

“Yes. You go mad if you don’t kill. Why aren’t you mad yet?”

Nijiri felt his cheeks heat in a mingling of anger and shame. “I’m only an apprentice. I’ve never collected dreamblood.”

“Ah. Then answer my question: when does he change?”

“He will not.”

Another Sua curse. “Clearly it has already begun.”

“He would never permit himself to become such an abomination. He would die first.” Nijiri fought the tears that suddenly stung his eyes. “He’s dying now. If he were the monster you imagined, half this caravan would be dead already. Instead he waits, enduring nightmares you cannot possibly imagine. Can you not see his suffering?”

She rocked back on her heels at his anguish; Nijiri could read consternation in her eyes. “What I see looks like madness. What does he wait for?”

Nijiri bowed his head, telling himself fiercely that he would not weep before this unbeliever. “Me,” he whispered.

“You!”

“I’m the only one here who can give him death in the proper manner. If I can manage it. My training is complete but I have never… my narcomancy is…” He was breathing too hard, his fists clenching. He took a deep breath to get control of himself. “There’s no way to practice Gathering. When the time comes, the apprentice must simply do it. But to Gather my mentor…”

Sunandi stared at him as he faltered and let the words fall away. Several breaths passed. In Gujaareh it was considered proper to allow such silences in conversation, but Nijiri had already realized this was not something foreigners did. If Sunandi was silent, it never indicated peaceful thoughts.

“I should attend him,” Nijiri said at last. He handed the canteen back to her and got to his feet. “Tonight I’ll… After tonight, I will be the one who goes with you to learn whatever your Protectors can share of the Prince’s plans. Then I’ll return to Gujaareh and destroy the Reaper.” Hollow words. The monster would kill him and they both knew it. But he could say nothing else with grief still thick in his throat.

She watched him, frowning, her anger visibly lessened. “Why did he come on this journey?” she asked. “It seems foolish if he knew he wouldn’t survive it.”

Nijiri shook his head. “A Gatherer can endure without dreamblood for several eightdays—as much as a full turn of the Waking Moon. But that’s amid the peace and order of the Hetawa, where the Gatherer may pray and calm himself amid the Contemplation Gardens. Fear and danger devour dreamblood faster.” He sighed, unhappily. “Ehiru’s heart lacked peace to begin with because of his last Gathering, which went badly. And then he met you, with your accusations against the Hetawa. And then the Reaper attacked and forced him to use his last reserve to save me…” He sighed, bowing his head. “Gatherers need peace, to thrive. In more ways than one.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she did something odd: she got to her feet, paced a few steps away, then paused and turned back. “What does he need?”

“What?”

“To survive.” Her lip curled as if the very words offended her, but she said, “Can he be saved at this point?”

Nijiri scowled. “Do you expect me to believe you care?”

“I care that making my case to the Protectors will be easier if he stands at my side.” She smiled thinly at Nijiri’s look of affront. “One of the dreaded Gatherers of Gujaareh—the famous Ehiru himself—petitioning the Kisuati Protectorate for aid because he can no longer trust his own rulers? That will appeal to their vanity as well as their reason. And add to my prestige.”

“How dare you use him for your… your…” He groped for the words, almost too outraged to speak. “Your filthy, corrupt games—”

“Lower your voice, little fool!”

He did so immediately, his anger chilling as he noticed the curious glances of the other caravanners and realized his outburst had been overheard. But he let his gaze show his loathing, glaring at the woman as he would never have done at a Sister. “If only he would revoke your abeyance,” he said. He kept his tone gentle, though the words were vicious. “That would save him. But he’s too honorable to take even the likes of you without being sure of your corruption.”

She smiled, and in spite of himself he was amazed by her steel. “And I appreciate that consideration,” she said, “which is why I’m willing to help you save him. He needs death, yes? There’s a hospital—think of it as a temple, but only for healing and not worship—in the town of Tenasucheh, just on the other side of the Kisuati border. I can bring him there, speak to the healers. If he kills someone already dying I may be able to justify that to the Protectors.”

To save Ehiru-brother— Hope, after so many days without it, struck so fiercely that it seemed to burn in Nijiri’s belly. “It must be someone willing to die. Otherwise he may refuse.”

Her eyes rolled. “Willing, then. Though a dying man should not be so picky.”

“He’s not like you. To a Gatherer, death is a blessing.”

“But not to you.” She gave him a cold, knowing smile; he flinched. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. You would do anything to keep him alive—so you shall take this chance, even though you despise me. And then you shall stand beside him in the Protectors’ Hall and beg them for help, knowing that your every word increases my power. Then they will listen to me even though I’m only Kinja’s too-young, unseasoned daughter. We must use one another now, little killer, if we are both to achieve our goals.”

Nijiri flinched at her words and their implications—far beyond the petty schemes she imagined. It was as the Teachers, even lecherous Omin, had warned him: those who consort with the corrupt eventually become corrupt themselves. Evil was the most contagious of diseases, so virulent that no herb, surgery, or dream-humor could cure it. One’s sense of what was normal, acceptable, became distorted by proximity to wrongness; entire nations had succumbed this way, first to decadence, then collapse. Sunandi, and perhaps all Kisua, was well advanced in the throes—and now she had spat this sickness onto Nijiri. Only his will would determine whether the sickness passed and left him stronger, or consumed him wholly.

But he would keep others’ needs foremost in his thoughts, as Gatherer Rabbaneh had taught him. He would risk corruption, if that was what it took, to see that peace was restored and justice done. Because that was what a Gatherer did. And if it cost his soul to do so… well, at least he might save Ehiru. That, alone, would be worth it.

“So be it.” He turned away to go tell Ehiru the news. Perhaps, knowing that this hospital was near, his brother could hold out a little longer. But then he stopped.

Ehiru was on his feet. He had stepped out of the makeshift lean-to that the minstrels used to shield themselves from sun at the midday rest, and stood now facing north. To Nijiri’s eye the deterioration was obvious in the way that Ehiru swayed slightly as he stood, and in the hollows of his face; he had no appetite these days. But his back was straight and his eyes—though dimmed at the moment by a slight confusion, as though he doubted something he saw—were for the moment lucid. Nijiri felt hope rise a notch higher. Surely Ehiru could last another day or two.

“Something is out there,” Ehiru said suddenly. The minstrels glanced around at him in surprise. He took another step onto the hot, rocky sand. “Someone is coming.”

Nijiri went to him, Sunandi forgotten as he touched his brother’s arm and spoke in a low voice. “Is it a vision, Brother? Tell me what you see.”

“Evil,” Ehiru said, and for a sick instant Nijiri wondered if Ehiru spoke of him. But the Gatherer’s eyes were fixed on the horizon.

“No. Gods, no.” The Kisuati woman stood nearby; Nijiri saw that her eyes too had fixed on the horizon. Puzzled, Nijiri followed their gazes and finally saw for himself: a row of dust-shrouded specks amid the wavering heat-lines, flickering and solidifying and flickering again—but growing closer.

“Evil, and blood,” Ehiru said, and then he turned to Nijiri. “We should run.”