Arrows thudded into the sand not two feet away. Nijiri darted for the gate, grunting with effort as he raised the heavy bronze bar. Ehiru, disturbingly calm, turned to face the archers. Just as Nijiri managed to shove the bar aside and push open the gate, there was a blur of motion at the corner of his vision. When he looked around, Ehiru held an arrow in his hand. It was still quivering, two feet from the small of Nijiri’s back.
Impossible! Even for the best-trained Gatherer…
“Go,” Ehiru snarled, throwing the arrow aside. Too numb to think, Nijiri scrambled through the gate.
They emerged onto the busy avenue that circled Yanya-iyan as more whistles sounded from the palace’s heights. Through the street traffic Nijiri saw men in the gray of the City Guard turning, craning their necks to see what had caused the alarm.
“This way,” Ehiru said. He walked swiftly into the crowd and joined its flow, keeping to the center of the street where the human river moved most swiftly. Nijiri kept his eyes low, playing servant-caste again, though he darted a glance back. The guardsmen had just reached Yanya-iyan’s gates. A palace guard ran out with sword unsheathed, looking about wildly; they saw him gesticulating at the city men. Nijiri quickly lowered his head again, noting that Ehiru had done the same. At the first juncture of streets they moved behind a lumbering wagon and turned south. Here was the market, where they could lose themselves easily in the sea of people.
Ehiru navigated his way through the milling folk so swiftly that Nijiri was hard-pressed to keep up. Around the stitch in his side—too many days of inactivity; should have kept up my prayer dances at least—he fumbled out a hand to catch Ehiru’s arm. “Brother, the Hetawa is that way.”
“No.” Ehiru did not slow.
“Brother, we can’t just walk to Kite-iyan! We need horses, disguises, supplies, replacements for our ornaments! And we must tell our pathbrothers all that has happened.”
“Within an hour, the entire city will be on alert.”
Nijiri’s heart sank as he realized Ehiru was right. Even worse, the Sentinels at the Hetawa would be notified, as was customary in any city emergency—but the Sentinels, some of them at least, obeyed the Superior. Returning to the Hetawa meant recapture.
“Then we should take the south gate, Brother,” he said. Ehiru slowed and glanced back at him. Nijiri offered a rueful smile. “It is not the closest gate to the Moonpath, I know, but the guard there is a friend of Sister Meliatua and Sunandi. Remember? He may even give us a horse.”
Ehiru stopped, frowning as he considered this. A merchant brushed past him and he shivered, his eyes unfocusing slightly as they tracked the merchant into the crowd. His body shifted, the fingers of one hand forking at his side—
Nijiri seized that hand and squeezed it hard. Ehiru flinched as if waking from a daydream, then closed his eyes in momentary anguish.
“The south gate,” he said. “Quickly. Get me out of this city, Nijiri.”
Nijiri nodded. Keeping hold of Ehiru’s hand, he pressed through the crowd in a new direction, praying that they reached Kite-iyan in time.
37
The world is born
Echoes, dancing fires, laughter
We race through the realm of dreams, alongside gods
The world ends.
(Wisdom)
The Prince of Gujaareh lay awake amid the cushions of his gauze-draped bed, contemplating the world he would one day own.
He had no particular desire for conquest. But he did desire peace—like any true son of Gujaareh—and he had long ago realized that peace was the natural outgrowth of order. This had been proven again and again throughout the grand dream that was Gujaareh. The rampant crime and violence that soiled other lands was alien here. No one starved, save in the most remote backwaters. Even the lowliest servant-caste had enough education and self-determination to control his own fate. Every child in the city knew his place from birth. Every elder in the city embraced his value in death. And on the strength of all who came between had Hananja’s nation thrived, growing from a pathetic knot of tents perched precariously on the river mouth into a network of cities and mines and farmlands and trade-routes crowned by its capital, the glory of the civilized world. His beautiful City of Dreams.
But the rest of the world still struggled along in disorder, and what peace could Gujaareh have in the long term with such weak and petty neighbors? He had visited other lands in his youth, and been horrified by chaos and cruelty that made the shadowlands seem pleasant. Other rulers had tried to tame that chaos with might or money, sometimes succeeding, but it never lasted. How could it, when a human lifetime was only so long? Even the most noble warlord eventually grew old and died, passing on power to those who more often than not were ill equipped to maintain it.
Thus the solution: conquer the world, but for peace rather than power. And to hold the world once it was won, become a god.
The Prince sat up. Beside him his firstwife Hendet stirred. He looked down at her and stroked her cheek, greeting her sleepy smile with one of his own. After thirty years and more than two hundred other wives, he still felt honored to have her favor. In the way of southern women, she was still beautiful even with her youth long past; time had left few seams in her dark smooth skin. But she was old—past fifty, nearly as old as himself. He yearned for more children from her, and perhaps could have had them if he’d permitted her to accept dreamblood from the Hetawa. But tempting as the notion had been, he could not bear the thought of the Hetawa’s setting its claws into yet another member of his family.
He kissed her forehead. “I would still rather you stay here. It will be dangerous.”
She lifted a hand to trace his lips with one finger. “Don’t be foolish.”
He smiled and nodded, approving of her decision despite the flicker of grief that moved through him. He would lose her when the power made him immortal. Another decade or two, and then she would pass beyond his reach into Ina-Karekh, where he would never see her again.
More sorrow to lay at the Hetawa’s feet, he decided. Then he rose, naked, to begin his war.
Servants draped a feather robe over him for the walk to the baths. There they sluiced his skin with purifying salt and lemon-water and dabbed him dry with oiled rose petals. When they finished dressing him in the armor of his ancestors and threading gold into his hair, he left the apartments to find Hendet and their son Wanahomen waiting for him. From his kneeling posture, Wana lifted a sword in a worked leather sheath. When the Prince took it, Wana raised his eyes to watch him belt it on, and not for the first time did the Prince marvel at the stark worship in his son’s gaze.
So be it, he thought. Let Hananja and the Moons’ children have the land of dreams. The waking world belonged to the sons of the Sun.
“Come,” he said, and Wanahomen rose, immediately falling into place one pace behind and to the right as they walked. Ever proper, Hendet followed on his left, her head high in anticipation and pride. As they entered the public corridors, his Aureole-servant leaped up to follow in his wake. The Prince considered waving the child away, but decided it would be more fitting to discard the Aureole afterward, when he had become a god in more than name. Charris fell in behind them, and thus they proceeded to the steps that led up Kite-iyan’s highest tower.
Around them the marble corridors were empty. For their own protection the Prince had sent all his other wives and children away, and stationed the Sunset Guard on the lowest floor of the palace to protect against attack. Only these four—an auspicious and pleasing number—would witness his ascension.
They mounted the steps in silence, passing the landing where Niyes had faced his final moments, not stopping until they reached the topmost level of the spire. As Charris opened the door, a finger of light pierced the faraway horizon and spread as the sun’s golden curve made its first appearance.
The Prince smiled. Far to the south, where the desert met the Kisuati border, the coming of dawn had signaled his armies’ attack.
He stepped out onto the balcony, inhaling in pleasure as a brisk wind rose from the ground far below, lifting his hair like curling wings. To one side of the balcony a figure stirred, the rattle of chains breaking the morning’s silence. The Prince glanced over at his Reaper, which crouched where the servants had chained it against the wall. The servants’ corpses lay at its feet. The Prince was amused to see that some flicker of its old self must have stirred in the Reaper during the night; it had arranged the bodies in dignified positions.
The jungissa stone that the Prince raised was crude, ugly. It had chipped off a larger piece of Sun’s seed, the peculiar stones that fell every now and then from the sky, and unlike the artfully carved jewels used by the Hetawa, this one was just a chunk of rock. Still, when the Prince struck it against a nearby railing, the Reaper shivered, lifting its head. “B-brother…?”
The Prince raised his eyebrows in surprise. The Reaper rarely spoke these days. The remnants of its personality had grown so weak that he barely needed the jungissa anymore; his will was enough to hold the creature’s thoughts. Putting the stone away, he went over to it, crouching to peer into its confused eyes. “Here. Did you rest well, Una-une?”
The Reaper blinked against the sunlight, sighing and shaking its head. “No. Visions. There… there was pain. Ehiru. He suffered.”
The Prince nodded to Charris, who unlocked the chain fastened to the collar ’round the Reaper’s neck. “Yes, pathbrother,” the Prince said, taking the end of the chain from Charris. He reached up to stroke the creature’s slack cheek. “Unfortunately, he suffers. But now the time has come for your own suffering to end. One last task, one last glorious Gathering, and then you may rest.”
Longing flooded the creature’s eyes; tears welled in its eyes. “Yes. Yes. Oh please, Brother. I have served for so long.”
“I know. Just a little longer, and then Her peace awaits you, I promise. Come.”
He stood, tugging the Reaper’s leash. It rose and flowed after him, predator-graceful even with its mind all but gone. He stopped at the railing, gesturing Hendet and the rest of them back.
But then, suddenly, the Reaper stiffened. It whipped about to face the balcony doorway, nearly pulling the chain from the Prince’s hand. He caught his breath and gripped the leash, preparing to set his will against the thing’s mad hunger—but then realized the creature’s attention had not fixed on Hendet or Wanahomen. He followed the Reaper’s gaze, and set his jaw.
“Enough, Eninket,” snarled Ehiru.
38
There is nothing to fear in nightmares, so long as you control them.
(Wisdom)
Like a vision, the Dreamer had raced across the nighttime sky as their horses blurred along the Moonpath to Kite-iyan. Through the rushing wind, the only constants Ehiru had grasped were anger and Nijiri’s voice, penetrating the blur now and again to remind him of who he was. They entered Kite-iyan’s welcome hall and found it full of soldiers. With his mother’s voice echoing in his mind, Ehiru hated them, and so fierce was his hatred that some of it broke free and leaped forth. When he pulled it back, their souls came with it, plump wriggling fish snared in the net of his mind. He’d devoured them greedily, savoring their pain and terror as a piquant spice, and guilt soured the moment only a little.
Now he stood facing his Prince, his brother, his betrayer, and the hatred returned—but this time he held it back. He would cleanse this corruption from Gujaareh’s soul in the proper manner, he had decided along the way, as a Gatherer and not a monster. For justice and for Hananja, he would be himself one last time.
“Enough,” he said again, stalking onto the balcony. Nijiri flowed behind him, a shadow ready to strike. To one side a woman, two men, and a servant-child stood in shock, their souls bright alluring flames that called out to him. He ignored them and the hunger that wanted them. “Yield. I still have enough control to give you peace. If you resist I can promise nothing.”
Eninket gave him a cool smile, though Ehiru saw anger lurking underneath. “Don’t be foolish, Ehiru. Death or godhood; which would you choose?” He put his hand on the Reaper’s shoulder and the creature uttered a feral hiss at them.
“Control your beast, Eninket.” Ehiru raised his voice. It was not the peaceful thing to do, but there was little peace left inside him, and he did not care besides. “The man it once was could have beaten me, but not this sorry thing. And if you unleash it, it may attack indiscriminately.”
He glanced at their inadvertent audience. The man in the garb of a high-ranking soldier drew his sword; the youth did the same. The youth’s features bore Eninket’s stamp, Ehiru had already noted, and that of the shunha woman who stood with them. He saw too the fear that flashed across Eninket’s face.
Keeping a hand on the Reaper’s shoulder, Eninket spoke softly, but firmly. “Wanahomen, leave with your mother. Charris, protect them with your life.”
The man looked ready to argue, though he threw an uneasy glance at the Reaper—which had fixed its gaze on Nijiri in blatant eagerness—and subsided. The youth had no such qualms. “Father, I will not!”
“Do as I say.” Eninket tore his eyes away from Ehiru long enough to glare the youth into submission. “Now. Go!”
After another moment, the youth slumped, and the woman pulled him toward the door by the arm. The soldier grabbed the arm of the child, who clutched a pole bearing the Aureole, and dragged him out as well. Once Ehiru heard their footsteps moving away down the stairs he stepped closer, keeping a wary eye on the Reaper.
“You’ve lost,” Ehiru said to Eninket. “Face your death with dignity.”
“Even now, after everything I’ve told you?” Eninket uttered a soft, bitter laugh. “A slave of the Hetawa to the end. No, Ehiru. I’m not the one who’s lost here.” He sighed. “So be it.”
As he gazed down the Reaper, Eninket’s face took on a peculiar look of concentration. The Reaper froze, expression going even more slack than usual—though it cocked its head, as if listening. Then Eninket took his hand away from its shoulder.
Even with that warning, the creature’s speed caught Ehiru by surprise. He had only an instant to brace himself—but it flashed past him, and suddenly he realized that he was not its target. “Nijiri!”
But the boy caught the Reaper’s hand before it could reach his face, twisting to turn aside its momentum. The creature stumbled, off balance, and Nijiri struck it in the middle of its sunken chest. It fell to the ground flailing and Nijiri closed in, his eyes more vicious than Ehiru had ever seen. Ehiru moved to assist, but abruptly a faint sound from behind impinged on his awareness. He whirled to face whatever trickery Eninket was attempting—
—And froze, staring at the humming jungissa stone in his brother’s hand. Eninket tensed, then paused, narrowing eyes at him.
“Come here, Ehiru,” said Eninket. Ehiru took a step toward Eninket before it occurred to him to wonder why he did so. He stopped, frowning.
“So it works on you as well.” Eninket stared at him with something akin to wonder. “The Superior said you had been deprived… and yet the boy is alive. Who, then, have you killed to preserve your own life, my brother?” As Ehiru set his jaw against shame, Eninket smiled, relaxing, a high gleam of victory in his eyes. “You’re as corrupt as the rest of them, for all your pious talk.”
The jungissa’s song filled Ehiru’s mind, throwing him back to a thousand nights and a thousand Gatherings, making him yearn for the time when things had been so simple in his life. When he had been pure, and there had been nothing but peace in his heart, and—
What is this? In confusion he shook his head, but the stone’s whine pierced through his thoughts like a dagger.
“Another secret of the scrolls,” said Eninket, drawing near. “A Reaper’s mind grows in sensitivity as well as power, leaving you vulnerable to the simplest narcomancy.”
Ehiru struggled to draw his eyes away from the jungissa as it grew in his vision, but he failed. The sound of the thing drowned out everything e
lse—including the sounds of Nijiri’s struggle against the Reaper behind him. He tried again to focus on Eninket, who was now unprotected and could be Gathered, but—
“Hananja’s favorite, they call you. The most skilled Gatherer in recent memory; the dying dream of being taken by you. Yet look at the price you’ve paid for serving the Hetawa so well, Ehiru. You’ve become mine even faster than Una-une.” The Prince sighed. “Perhaps this was always meant to be, my brother. Now come.”
The word drove into Ehiru, backed by a will that parted his own like bedhangings and touched the most secret part of his consciousness where it lay. On some level he thought he made a sound, perhaps a strangled groan. He could not be sure. A hand touched his shoulder. He shivered beneath it, trying to let the hate loose again, but the mind that had woven its way into his gently pushed those thoughts aside. “Come, Brother,” Eninket said again.
Ehiru turned and walked where the voice steered him, over to the balcony railing.
Behind him, from a distance, he heard someone cry his name. Nijiri. Fear for the boy nearly gave him the strength to turn back, but Eninket’s will beat against his own.
“Shhh, Brother.”
Now he was lost again, in the cage under Yanya-iyan, weeping against the hunger that had nearly driven him to murder Nijiri. The voice was different, but the words of comfort were the same, the hands on his shoulders almost as tender.
“It’s all right,” said the voice in his ear, twisting his memories further. Nijiri? No. There was no love in this voice. “I understand. So much corruption all around, so much suffering, and you helpless to stop it. But I can help you, Brother.”
With a supreme effort Ehiru managed to close his eyes. But this was a mistake: the whine of the jungissa followed him into the darkness, and the voice spread its roots farther into his mind.