The Killing Moon

29

Kisua.

The capital city seemed as unending as the ocean. It was easy to see the shared history with Gujaareh in Kisua’s sun-baked white walls and narrow brick-paved streets, but there the resemblance ended. There were also great sprawling edifices, some four or five stories high. There were gold-leaf lintels, brightly colored tile inlays, and sturdy locked, ornately carved darkwood doors. Vines grew wild over most of the buildings, their flowers scenting the warm, humid air with perfumes so heavy that Nijiri could breathe them blocks away. With the scents mingled strange sounds: raucous laughter and furious arguments, the calls of merchants hawking their wares, lullabies and love songs long since forgotten in Gujaareh. He could taste the city’s three thousand years on his tongue, rich and thick as an elder’s dreams.

Behind him in the curtained chamber, Ehiru slept. He had not spoken since the incident in the desert; he acted only when Nijiri guided him; his eyes tracked nothing, lost in some other realm. On the way into the city, Nijiri had been able to keep Ehiru’s condition hidden from the soldiers, though he suspected Sunandi had noticed. She’d made no protest when he insisted upon sharing quarters with Ehiru, even though her house was large enough to have many guest chambers. The servants had brought food and fresh clothing, then left them undisturbed, giving Nijiri the time and privacy to bathe Ehiru and attend to his own toilette.

So at sunset Nijiri had knelt on the balcony to pray and seek peace within himself. He meditated until the Dreamer rose fully, its four-hued light a comforting and familiar companion. Finally he went into the guest chamber’s bedroom. Ehiru lay amid the translucent hangings, restless despite Nijiri’s dragonfly jungissa on his forehead. Nijiri parted the hangings and sat down beside him, reaching up to remove the jungissa. With his fingertips he traced the frown etched into his mentor’s brow. It seemed there was no peace for Hananja’s favorite even in sleep. There was only one way Ehiru would have peace ever again.

Nijiri shifted his hand to lay a finger on each of Ehiru’s eyelids.

Ehiru had failed the pranje’s test. To Gather him now would be a kindness—far kinder than letting him wake to face the enormity of his crime. It was Nijiri’s duty as Ehiru’s apprentice, his duty as a Servant of Hananja. In the Hetawa Ehiru would have been sent onward already. And yet…

Nijiri’s hand trembled.

In the Hetawa Ehiru would not have faced the test in the midst of a battle, surrounded by chaos and enemies. How could the test truly measure his control under such circumstances? Even Nijiri had killed—not with narcomancy, but murder was murder. And because of that, because he had been off protecting a tithebearer-in-abeyance and not attending Ehiru as he should have done, Ehiru had faced his moment of greatest trial with no one to help him. The failure was as much Nijiri’s as his.

“Brother—” He snatched his hand away, overwhelmed by an anguish so intense that its weight seemed to crush him. Pressing his forehead to Ehiru’s he wept helplessly, great racking sobs that echoed throughout the guest chamber and probably beyond, but he was past caring what Sunandi or her servants thought of his grief. He wanted only for Ehiru to wake and shush him and hold him, as he had on that long-ago day when they’d first met. I would die for you, he had thought on that day, and instead he had learned to kill, to walk in dreams, to dance his soul’s joy. He had done it all to make himself worthy of this man, who was the closest thing to a father he had ever known. The closest thing to a lover he had ever wanted. There were no words for what Ehiru was to him; even Sister Meliatua had not fully grasped it. God, perhaps. Far more than Hananja had ever been.

The tears spent themselves after a time. As the tightness in his throat loosened, he pushed himself up, taking deep breaths to try and regain control. Twin streaks of wetness painted Ehiru’s face. Nijiri brushed them away and then did the same to himself.

All the hard-won peace he’d achieved during the evening’s meditation was gone. Sighing, Nijiri got to his feet and rubbed a hand over his hair, turning to pace—and stopping as he saw the silhouette in the doorway. Sunandi.

She walked in without asking to enter, her bare feet making no noise on the woven-grass mats, the moonlight illuminating her face in flashes as she passed near the windows. Though she had probably heard his weeping she made no mention of it, not looking at him as she passed. He was too weary to feel grateful.

When she reached the foot of the bed she stopped, gazing down at Ehiru for a long moment. “Will he die?”

Once upon a time Nijiri would have hated her for that question. Now he only looked away. “Yes.”

“When?”

“When I do my duty.”

“Must it be now?”

“He deliberately took a man’s dreamblood and gave no peace in return. By our laws, there’s no higher crime.”

She sighed, folding her arms. “He sleeps well for a criminal.”

“A minor sleep-spell. If he were himself, I’d never have been able to cast it on him.” He looked down at the jungissa in his hands, turning it by its fragile-seeming wings. It had been owned by countless Gatherers down through the centuries—and before that, the stone from which it had been hewn had flown through the sky, spinning among the gods themselves. Perhaps it had even touched the Dreaming Moon before falling to earth as magic made solid.

“Deprivation has greatly weakened his umblikeh,” he said softly. “The tether that binds a soul to its body, and to the waking world.”

“And now that he is no longer… deprived?”

“Under ordinary circumstances, with time, the tether could heal.”

She threw him a sidelong glance. “He will have no time if you Gather him.”

Nijiri shook his head. “In the Hetawa he might have managed it—over months, in isolation. Out here, amid all this madness…” Nijiri gestured toward the balcony, Kisua, the world. “No. Even leaving aside the matter of his crime, it’s hopeless.”

He felt her eyes on him as he went to the balcony door and leaned against it, gazing out at the city and wishing it were Gujaareh. Wishing too that the Kisuati woman would leave. He had so little time left with Ehiru.

But she said nothing for so long that he finally turned back to see if she was there. And stiffened, for she had dared to sit on Ehiru’s bed, stroking the fuzz of his unshorn hair with one hand.

She glanced up, saw his anger, and smiled. “Forgive my familiarity. He reminds me of someone I once knew and loved dearly.” She took her hand away. “He should have the choice.”

“What?”

“The choice. Of whether to die, when to die. I could accept the terrible things your kind do if you did them only to the willing.”

Nijiri scowled. “You believe he is unwilling? A Gatherer of Hananja?”

She winced. “Perhaps he is willing. Still, his city prepares itself in secret for war, his brother schemes to use evil magic, a Reaper stalks the shadows, and he will live to see none of it resolved. That seems crueler than merely killing him outright.”

Nijiri’s hand clenched on the curtain. “You only want him with us when we stand before the Protectors tomorrow.”

“That I cannot deny. But that serves you as well, for it will help me save both your city and mine. Whatever you might believe, I have no desire to see war between our lands. And too, it pains me to see the two of you suffering like this.” Nijiri made a sound of disbelief, but she ignored him, still gazing at Ehiru. “When he told me about Lin… I hated all your kind. Everyone who uses magic. Now I begin to see that it is your Hetawa that is wicked, and not you.”

He opened his mouth to curse her blasphemy, then recalled the look in the Superior’s eyes when they’d taken Ehiru away in a rogue’s yoke. “Not all the Hetawa.” Oh, that was weak.

“True. You and your mentor, and even the Reaper who took my Lin… you are the victims here. The most pitiful victims of all, because you believe.”

Nijiri stared at her, then finally sat down on a nearby chair. He rubbed his face with his hands. “Maybe you’re right.”

She fell silent, perhaps out of surprise at his agreement, perhaps just respectful of his pain. When she spoke again, she kept her voice soft the way a Gatherer would. “Let him live until tomorrow. Let him hear what the Protectors have to say. I don’t know what sort of information they can give him, but by speaking with them, he could help to seal the breach between my land and yours. Perhaps that will give him some extra measure of peace before…” She hesitated, groping for some delicate way to say it.

“Before he dies,” Nijiri finished for her. He looked her in the eye and offered a bleak smile. “Death does not trouble us, remember.” He focused on Ehiru and sobered. “He will not be pleased with me when he wakes.”

“Endure it,” she said, getting to her feet. “Your kind make decisions about other peoples’ lives—and deaths—all the time, do you not? Perhaps it’s time one of you learned to face the consequences of such decisions, instead of simply killing those who object.”

It was another insult—but there was a note of kindness underlying the acerbity, and he saw in her eyes that this was as near as she could come to a peace offering. He nodded to her; there was no anger left in him now, only grief. “Perhaps it is, Speaker.”

He saw her eyebrows rise at his use of her proper title; after a long moment she returned the nod. “Rest well then, little killer. In the morning the Protectors will see us. Be ready.” She turned and walked out, leaving Nijiri alone with Ehiru and his thoughts.

After a few moments of silence, Nijiri pushed himself up from the chair. Crossing the chamber to Ehiru’s bedside, he lifted the covers and climbed in, nestling himself into the crook of his mentor’s shoulder. Lulled by the steady beat of Ehiru’s heart he slept for the rest of the night—not quite at peace, but blessedly without dreams.