The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (29 page)

“I saw what happened in her dreams,” said the Sharer. Wanahomen squinted up at him through tears of pain and suddenly knew: this man had no compunction whatsoever about killing him. Whatever oaths he had sworn, however ingrained his healer’s beliefs, they had been completely subsumed by his fury. “I saw you bring her into that tent to heal your wound. She didn’t understand what your kiss meant, but I do. You marked her as a target.
You used her as bait.
”

His heart. The pain had wrapped around his heart like the coils of a serpent—or a dozen ropes, their raw fibers abrading him even as they pulled tighter. He moaned, wishing the ropes would loosen just for an instant so the pain would ease. Or better yet snap—

Through the haze of his vision, he thought he heard the pop-hiss of fibers parting. An instant later he could breathe again, and the Sharer had let him go.

“I see,” Wanahomen heard the Sharer murmur, almost to himself. “She was right about your strength. If you were trained you’d have me—but you aren’t trained, young Prince, and I can tear your body apart faster than you can break through my constructs.” Footsteps moving toward him. Wanahomen scrambled backward, though ineffectually; the pain had left him weak.

The Sharer crouched before him. He did not scowl; his expression was as calm as any Hananjan priest’s should be. All the fury was in his black eyes. “Tell me why, Prince.”

“Wh-why…?”

“Why you put my apprentice in harm’s way! If you had any idea—” The Sharer’s face constricted in sudden anguish. “I hadn’t warned her she could kill this way. She’s so young, she tries so hard.
This night will taint her soul forever and I want to know why you did it, Prince of Gujaareh, Avatar of Hananja. I want to know if you’re as much of a monster as your father, because if you are—” He clenched a fist, trembling with suppressed rage, and for a moment the fading pain in Wanahomen’s heart was eclipsed by fear the mad priest would attack him again.

He tried to think. “I needed—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying, damn you! I n-needed Tajedd’s vote.” His heart was a raw ache, but he took more deep breaths, reveling in the taste of the air, the feel of it in his lungs. “In a few days there will be… a gathering of the tribes. Yusir, Dzikeh… f-four others. They vote on… whether to join in war against the Kisuati. Free Gujaareh.”

The Sharer’s eyes narrowed. Why, Wanahomen wondered, did all Hetawa priests look so alike when they meant to kill? Though if he had known even the healers were deadly, he would have told that Gatherer where he could throw them both.

“And the vote wasn’t likely to go in your favor?”

“S-six tribes. Because enemies see no difference between one Banbarra and another… four of the six must vote in my favor. Even a tie loses. Dzikeh would not have supported me. They could have turned others. I had to win them
now
.”

Was there some hint of understanding in the Sharer’s eyes? Wanahomen didn’t dare hope for it. “And how did hurting Hanani win these—” He stumbled over the unfamiliar syllables. “Dzikeh?”

He started to protest that the girl hadn’t been hurt much; it was obvious that Azima hadn’t managed to penetrate or loose seed into her. Just in time he realized the utter stupidity of saying so.

“I made them think Hanani was mine,” he said. “My slave, my woman. Azima—the dead man—wanted an excuse to fight me. To damage another man’s property is an insult that must be avenged. He attacked her to provoke me.”

With that, Wanahomen glared up at the Sharer. Some of the feeling was coming back into his limbs. Could he defend himself now? He wouldn’t have cared to lay a wager on it. “But I need the Hetawa too, though I wish to all the gods I didn’t. So I had Charris watch the girl, ready to intervene before… well, before. You may not believe me, but I did
not
intend Azima’s death. And I didn’t intend for the girl to be… damaged. Alarmed, perhaps. Offended. Nothing more.”

The Sharer said nothing for a long while, considering. Then, before Wanahomen could flinch away, he lifted his hand to Wanahomen’s face. Wanahomen blinked instinctively, and then there was another of those curious disjuncts of time. The Sharer took his hand away, and Wanahomen’s eyelids tingled. He sat up, aware that more time had passed than his mind could immediately grasp.

Then he realized the pain in his chest—even the twinge of the bruises where the priest had gripped him—was gone.

“The Gatherers see some value in you,” the Sharer said softly, his lip curling. “They think you’re better than your father. I can’t say I agree, but they are closer to Hananja than I.” He got to his feet. “Do what you must to free Gujaareh and return peace to our land, but don’t ever use my apprentice in your schemes again.”

The Sharer turned then, and went back to kneel at the girl’s side. Plainly he meant to keep vigil for the rest of the night. And plainly Wanahomen had been dismissed.

After several tries—the strength was returning to his limbs, but slowly—Wanahomen managed to get to his feet. It was even more difficult to leave the tent at a pace that did not seem like fleeing, so that some morsel of his dignity could remain intact. The Sharer never turned back to him; the man didn’t care. But it mattered to Wanahomen.

Though later that night, when he reached his own tent and collapsed into the pallets, he did not stop trembling for a long while.

The child sat up and looked around. After a moment she got to her feet, then spun in a circle. Her mother gasped, then threw her arms around the girl in a tight embrace, earning a muffled protest from her.

“She’s been weak for several months,” Yanassa said for Hanani’s benefit. “But with this fever, her mother had begun to fear she would die. The clan has only the one girl-child to inherit the
an-sherrat
.”

Hanani got to her feet and brushed her skirts straight, nodding to the teary-eyed mother who babbled thanks at her. “All thanks to the Goddess,” she said. “I’ve cured the fever, but the underlying problem remains. Please tell them that the child must take care to eat certain foods or she may weaken again, especially now that her fertile cycles have begun. Meat would be best, but…” She glanced around the tent. It was one of the poorest she had seen among the Banbarra camp, patched and old and containing few of the trinkets and decorations most Banbarra women seemed to collect. “If the family cannot afford meat, then there are other foods that should serve as well. If I tell you the Gujaareen names, will you know them?”

“If I don’t, I’ll find out,” Yanassa replied. She got to her feet as well, then followed Hanani out of the tent. “Too many children die needlessly in this tribe. Will it help if all the tribe eats these foods?”

“It would help anyone, but especially the young and women of childbearing age, yes.”

“Then I must tell Unte, and in the spring trading we’ll make certain to collect stores of those foods.” Glancing sidelong at Hanani, she smiled. “Once again you have given value to the tribe. If you stay with us much longer, we’ll have to send you home with a horse or two!”

Hanani said nothing. Two days had passed since the first solstice celebration; one since Azima’s quiet, unlamented burial. Even the Dzikeh had not attended the interment—by Tajedd’s order, since Azima had shamed their tribe. The slaves had seen to the matter, and besides them, only Hanani had stood at graveside to whisper prayers in a language Azima would not have understood, offered to a goddess he probably scorned.

Since then she had devoted herself to duty to distract her thoughts from that terrible night. Yanassa had helped her find those members of the tribe who suffered from illness or injury, and with the Banbarra woman’s help she had coaxed most of them to accept her magic. With Hendet’s advice in mind, she had accepted the gifts and services they offered in return, but she knew the truth. She had not performed the healings for their sake.

“Are you still troubled by it, little mouse?” Hanani felt Yanassa’s gaze on her face. When Hanani did not reply, Yanassa sighed. “I may never understand the gentle hearts of you city folk. To mourn a man who did you such an insult…” She shook her head. “Do you mourn the enemies you kill in war too?”

“Yes.”

Yanassa stared. “I was joking.”

“I was not. Murder, violence, causes corruption unless done with
the purest of intentions. That’s why my people kill only for mercy, and never in anger. It’s why we consider war anathema… or we did once.” But the world had changed in so many ways.

Mni-inh came toward them from the far end of the encampment, nodding to Yanassa with cool courtesy before falling in to walk with them. He gave Hanani a measuring look, then brushed his hand against hers. “Your reserves are low.”

“I have enough left for minor injuries and illnesses.”

“We’re here for a war, Hanani. You must be ready for more than that. Come; I’m going to see Unte right now. We might as well both ask.”

Yanassa gave them a curious look. “Ask?”

“For dream-humors,” Hanani said. She had half hoped to do without them, working what small magic she could out of her remaining reserves and her own dream-generated energy. Then she would have no further ability to perform higher narcomancy. Then she would no longer be able to kill.

Mni-inh nodded, throwing Hanani a disapproving scowl. “My apprentice seems to have forgotten that the Goddess Hananja—She Whose dreams encompass the afterlife—gives us the gift of magic to serve others. Our own dreams are not enough, however; we must ask your people for donations.”

“Donations… of dreams?” Yanassa considered this and sighed. “We like Gujaareh’s gods as well as any other land’s, but yours in particular seem uncommonly pushy. Does it hurt, this donation?”

“No,” said Mni-inh, “and it does no harm except when one takes dreamblood; only Gatherers are sanctioned to collect that. Though I suppose if we find volunteers, we could siphon off a tiny amount from each. That should be safe enough.”

Azima would have had more dreamblood than we needed if he had died in peace
, Hanani could not help thinking, but she did not voice the thought.

“Dreamseed will be a problem too,” Mni-inh went on, musing to himself. “Given these people’s feelings about sexuality, I’m not certain of the appropriate way to ask for donations of that. And I’m no Sister; I haven’t a clue how to actually—well.” His face flushed red. “But we’ll definitely need that humor too.”

Yanassa shook her head, uncomprehending. “Well, whatever you need, Unte will provide. I understand now why your people offered you in trade: this magic of yours is a great treasure.” She slowed as they reached Unte’s tent. To Hanani, pointedly, she said, “I’ll come to check on you later tonight.” Then she bowed and headed away.

Mni-inh gazed after Yanassa for a moment. “You’ve won a friend, it seems.”

“Yes.” The Banbarra admired swift, efficient killers.

The interior of Unte’s tent was cooler than the heat outside, but smoky thanks to the long wooden pipe smoldering on a plinth near Unte. Unte, his face-veil and headcloth laid aside—he was bald as an egg, she saw for the first time—smiled as they came in and beckoned them over to the low table that Hanani had seen before. And as before, Wanahomen was there, though this time he sat upright and solemn on a cushion near the table. His veil was off as well; he did not look at them as they came in. Hanani had no great urge to look at him either.

“Everywhere I go, my people exclaim of your magic,” Unte said, gesturing them toward empty cushions on either side of the table. Hanani waited for Mni-inh to choose a seat, but he beckoned for her to sit down first, and she recalled that this was Banbarra custom. Awkwardly, fighting the feeling of wrongness, she sat down beside Unte. Mni-inh took the remaining seat next to Wanahomen.

“That is why we’re here, Lord Unte,” said Mni-inh.

“Lord! These city folk have pretty manners, don’t they?” Unte looked at Wanahomen and smiled. “I haven’t been called that since
you
first arrived.”

Wanahomen managed a faint smile, but it went nowhere near his eyes. “In my land, it’s considered politeness.”

“Hmph. The day my people need a fancy title to know their leader is the day I ride off into the desert to meet Father Sun.” Unte laid out small cups and poured tea for each of them, not bothering to ask whether they wanted it. Hanani, following Mni-inh’s lead, picked up her cup and sipped it carefully. To her surprise the liquid was cool rather than hot, spicy and richly sweet.