“And the boy’s desire to please her? One need not be a Sharer to understand that. He followed her about like a tame hound, willing to do anything to serve his infatuation. Willing even to attempt a narcomantic procedure beyond his skill.”
Hanani’s knees had gone stiff during the healing, despite the cushion beneath them. She struggled clumsily to her feet. “Please—” Both men fell silent, looking at her; Mni-inh’s expression was tinged with sudden pity. That frightened her, because there was only one boy they could be talking about. “Please, Mni-inh-brother, tell me what has happened to Dayu.”
Mni-inh sighed and ran a hand over his hair. “There’s been an incident in the tithing alcoves, Hanani. I don’t know—There isn’t—”
With an impatient gesture, Yehamwy cut him off. “She should know the harm she’s caused. If you truly believe she’s worthy of becoming a Sharer, don’t coddle her.” And his expression as he turned to her was both bitter and satisfied. “A tithebearer is dead, Sharer-Apprentice. So is the acolyte Dayuhotem, who assisted you.”
Hanani caught her breath and looked at Mni-inh, who nodded in sober confirmation. “But …” She groped for words. Her ears rang, as if the words had been too loud, though no one would shout in Hananja’s own hall, at the feet of Her statue. Hananja treasured peace. “H-how? It was a simple procedure. Dayu had done it before, many times; he knew what he was doing even if he was just a child …” A Moon-wild, joyful jester of a child, as exasperating as he was charming. She could not imagine him dead. As well imagine the Sun failing to shine.
“We don’t know how it happened,” Mni-inh said. He threw a quelling look at the councilor, who had started to speak. “We don’t. We heard him cry out, and when we went into the alcove we found him and the tithebearer both. Something must have gone wrong during the donation.”
“But Dayu—” Her throat closed after the name. Dead. Her vision blurred; she pressed her hand to her mouth as if that would push the horror from her mind. Dead.
“The bodies will be examined,” Mni-inh said heavily. “There are narcomancies that can be performed even after the umblikeh is severed, which may provide some answers. Until then—”
“Until then,” Yehamwy said, “on my authority as a member of the Council of Paths, Sharer-Apprentice Hanani is prohibited from further practice of any healing art or narcomancy, pending the results of the examination.” He turned to one of the black-clad Sentinels who stood guard at the door leading into the inner Hetawa; the Sentinel turned to regard them. “Please note this for your brethren, Sentinel Mekhi.” The Sentinel, his face duty-blank, nodded once in response.
Dayu was dead. Hanani stared at Yehamwy, unable to think. Dayu was dead, and the world had bent into a new, unrecognizable shape. Hanani should have bowed over her hands to show her humility and acceptance of the Councilor’s decree, and she knew that her failure to do so reflected badly on Mni-inh. But she kept staring at him, frozen, even as his scowl deepened.
“It is the Sharers’ duty to discipline our own,” Mni-inh said. He spoke very softly, but Hanani could hear the suppressed fury in her mentor’s voice.
“Then do your duty,” Yehamwy snapped. Throwing a last cold look at Hanani, he turned and walked away.
Hanani looked up at her mentor, who stood glaring after the councilor as if contemplating something most unpeaceful. Then his anger faded as he looked down at her. She read compassion in his eyes, but resignation as well.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Your work with the petitioner was flawless. I can’t imagine our pathbrothers will discard your trial because of this, but …” His expression grew grim. He knew the Hetawa’s politics better than Hanani.
This was not the future I imagined, some part of her reflected, while the rest of her soul fluttered in circles from grief to disbelief and back again. This is not happening. She forced herself to bow over one hand; the hand shook badly. “Yes, Brother.”
He touched her hand again. “The boy was dear to you. Let me call a Gatherer.”
The promise of a Gatherer’s comfort was tempting, but then bitterness eclipsed that desire. She had lost her dearest friend in the Hetawa, and her hopes for the future seemed likely to follow him. She did not want comfort. I want everything back the way it was.
“No,” she said. “Thank you, Brother, but … I would rather be alone now. M—” She forced out the words. “May I see Dayu?”
Mni-inh hesitated, just for an instant, before responding. That was when Hanani realized: something was wrong with Dayuhotem’s body.
“It’s a shell, Hanani.” He said it gently, using his most persuasive tone. “He’s gone from it. Don’t torment yourself.”
If Mni-inh did not want her to see the body, then Dayu had not died at peace. A soul that died in pain or fear or anger was drawn into the shadowlands, the dark recesses of Ina-Karekh, there to suffer for the rest of its existence amid endless nightmares. It was the fate dreaded by all who honored the Goddess Hananja.
Trembling, Hanani groped her way to a nearby bench and sat down, hard. She needed to curl up in the Water Garden to weep for a day and a night.
Mni-inh read her face. “Hanani,” he began, but then faltered to bleak silence himself. Sharers were trained to offer comfort after a tragedy, but they were not Gatherers; their comfort was only words, ineffective as those were. Hanani had never felt the inadequacy of that training so powerfully as now.
And what if Teacher Yehamwy was right? whispered a little voice in the back of Hanani’s mind. What if Dayu’s death and damnation were somehow Hanani’s fault?
The statue of Hananja, forty feet high and gleaming in white-flecked nightstone, loomed overhead. Would it help to pray? she wondered, distantly. Dayu and the dead tithebearer would need prayers where they had gone. But no words came to her mind, and after a long empty moment she stood up.
“I shall be in my cell,” she said to Mni-inh.
And though she saw Mni-inh raise a hand as she turned away, his mouth opening as if to forestall her, in the end he said nothing. Hanani went away alone.
2
The Hunters Test
Smoke rode far on arid breezes. The faint scent came to Wanahomen through his veil as he gazed across the green valley at a distant city. His city. The smoke-plume rose from within its walls.
“It was Wujjeg,” said Ezack, at his side. He spoke in Chakti, the Banbarra tongue.
“I know,” Wanahomen replied in the same language. Beneath him, his camel shifted restlessly and uttered a grumbling complaint. Wanahomen stroked her neck absently, his eyes never leaving the plume of smoke.
“I don’t think Wujjeg meant to kill, not at first. But when the first Gujaareen went down, the second went mad and came at him wide open.”
“He shouldn’t have gutted the first one.”
“What will you do?”
Wanahomen did not reply, turning his camel about and starting down the trail from the lookout point back to camp, traveling along a ledge path more safely traversed by four feet than two. Most of the horses and camels had been loosed to forage the steep trails below the shelf, though fodder had been piled nearby for the animals to eat as well. The younger men of the encampment had already lit the evening fire. The scent of brewing tea drove the scent of burning city from Wanahomen’s nostrils, though not his mind.
Reaching the shelf, Wanahomen dismounted without removing his beast’s tack or saddle, whistling the note that meant stay. The camel grunted in surly acknowledgement, and Wanahomen strode into the encampment, ignoring the eyes that followed and tried to read him, making no response to the few voices that murmured greetings. His gaze had fixed on a young man who squatted near one of the fires, laughing with a cluster of his companions. Someone nudged the young man—Wujjeg—as Wanahomen approached, and after a moment’s hesitation Wujjeg stood and turned to face him. He had let his veil slip aside. With no women or strangers about, this was not an insult in itself, but all the camp saw the insolent look he gave to Wanahom
en.
“I-Dari,” he said, offering the respectful term in a tone that was anything but. “The raid was profitable, at least, you must admit.”
“Indeed,” Wanahomen said. “The tribe must be certain to thank you when praying to its ancestors.” He laid a hand on the ivory hilt of his knife and waited.
Wujjeg’s smile slipped for just a moment, along with some of his swagger. Automatically he put his hand on his own blade-hilt, though he did not draw it. “I-Dari,” he began, but before he could say more Wanahomen’s blade scythed from its sheath and drew a second mouth across Wujjeg’s throat.
There was one gasp, from somewhere among Wujjeg’s friends. No one else spoke or moved. Wujjeg made no sound either, putting his hands to the flood from his throat for a moment before toppling to the ground.
Wanahomen shook off his knife and turned to the youngest member of the troop. “Wrap Wujjeg for travel and stow him with the baggage. We must return him to his clan.”
The youth swallowed hard and bobbed his head in silent acquiescence. Wanahomen sheathed his knife and stepped over the spreading pool of blood to walk to the next campfire. Just beyond the circle of stones he knelt, bowing his head. “Unte, may I enter?”
The man who sat beside the fire inclined his head. An elderly man with the rounded features of a westerner—a slave—hastened to move aside one of the stones, and Wanahomen stepped within the circle.
“Be welcome,” Unte said, then signaled the slave. As the slave fetched a clamp to remove a metal cookbox from the flames, the man gave Wanahomen a long considering look. “I’m trying to decide whether I’ve claimed a fool or a genius as my hunt leader.”
The slave handed Wanahomen a bowl. Roasted cercrus tubers, with flecks of spiced meat that might have been kinpan, a ground bird, or one of a half-dozen species of desert vole. Lifting his veil with one hand, Wanahomen ate quickly and neatly, not looking up at Unte. He said, “You came on this ride to see how I do things.”
“Indeed. And now I see.”
“I’ve done nothing that violates the customs of this tribe.”
“True. You’re always proper and careful, Wana.”
Wanahomen set his plate down and rubbed his eyes. He was too tired for verbal games. “Will you cast me down?”
“I haven’t yet decided.”
No! I’m so close! But instead of voicing this protest, Wanahomen said, “If I may ask one boon, then, while I’m still your hunt leader?”
“Ask.”
“Wait.”
“Wait? For Wujjeg’s clan to incite their kin in the Dzikeh-Banbarra to feud?”
“Every man in this troop is sworn to obey me, Unte. Wujjeg disobeyed my command. There can be only one punishment for that while we’re on hunt-ride.”
“He killed an enemy.” Unte’s voice was mild, but his eyes were cool and sharp over his veil.
Wanahomen tried not to sigh. “I have explained this to you, and to everyone else in the tribe. Only the Kisuati are our enemies, not all city folk.”
“And I have explained to you that most Banbarra would neither agree with that statement, nor care about the distinction,” Unte replied. The lines about his eyes relaxed in the firelight; he was amused behind his own veil. “Though I grant they may be more inclined to pay attention now.”
Wanahomen relaxed as well, relieved. “So then. Fool or genius?”
“Not a genius, by any stretch.”
“But not a complete fool?”
“Gods help us all, no, not a fool. My life would be easier if you were, because then I could be done with you.”
Wanahomen set down his empty bowl, nodding thanks to the slave out of careless habit, and then rose to grip the older man’s shoulder. “I promised to make you a king among kings, Unte. Is that not worth putting up with me?”
But Unte shook his head and said, “Only if you survive to succeed, Wana. Sleep lightly tonight.”
Thus dismissed, Wanahomen rose and left. He kept his eyes forward as he passed through the encampment again, this time out of weariness rather than anger. Most of the hunt party consisted of his own supporters, few of whom begrudged him Wujjeg’s death. Still, they would want to talk with him, to find out his plans or praise his forthrightness or reassure him of their loyalty. One or two would no doubt invite him to share their pallets for the night, though he usually refused such offerings to avoid accusations of favoritism. He wanted nothing more than his own pallet and the peace of dreams, but first he had to tend his mount; no respectable Banbarra would sleep before doing so. As he was not Banbarra, it was important that he keep within the bounds of respectability.
When he reached the trail below the shelf, however, he found Laye-ka already unsaddled, her cream-colored coat brushed clean. She chewed placidly on some bit of scrub and grunted at him by way of greeting, rattling the necklace of amulets he had woven for her. At her noise, Ezack leaned out from behind her rump and grinned at him. “Knew you’d come back. The lady here didn’t want to wait. Started stomping about and grumbling once you were gone.”
Wanahomen chuckled and went to the camel’s head, reaching up to rub her hard forehead. She pushed against his hand, begging scratches. “Isn’t that just like a woman?” he asked, obliging her.
“True enough! So …” Ezack darted a look around for listeners. “Is the old man angry?”
“No. He understood.”
Ezack sighed in relief, his breath momentarily tenting the cloth of his own veil. “I thought he would, but still.”
“He warned me to be wary. As if I needed that warning.” As Wanahomen scratched Laye-ka’s ears, his eyes drifted back toward the camp. Most of the knots of men had broken up, as if Wujjeg’s death and Unte’s approval had ended all debates. One remaining cluster—those who had been Wujjeg’s friends—sat together whispering around one of the campfires. Wanahomen was not particularly disturbed by this, for Wujjeg had been the smartest and boldest of that bunch; without him they were little threat. Nevertheless, he would obey Unte, and be careful.
“Ha, you greedy thing; get on now.” He slapped Laye-ka’s shoulder, and with a last mournful look she turned and ambled off to join the other horses and camels. “Rest well, Ezack.”
“In peace, Wana.”
Wana paused, glancing back in surprise at the familiar, but quint-essentially Gujaareen, parting phrase. Ezack shrugged at his look. “We Banbarra find a use for whatever comes our way. We’ve kept you, haven’t we?”
With this, Ezack began stacking the saddlebags against the shelf wall, politely ignoring Wana when he murmured in Gujaareen, “Thank you.” Too delicate a moment for Banbarra tastes; the sort of thing Wanahomen would never have allowed himself to do with anyone else, lest they think him as soft as most city-dwellers. But Ezack had learned to tolerate his commander’s peculiar behavior years before, for which Wanahomen was grateful. He walked away quickly, before the urge to become sentimental got any worse.
His camp space was ready, the fire burning briskly and his pallet laid out by his own slave. There was no barrier circle here; a good hunt leader did not need to separate himself from his men. As he entered the area of firelight and sat down, shifting to lie on his side, Wanahomen nodded to the slave. “We’ll be heading home tomorrow.”
Charris—once a general of Gujaareh’s army, though those days were long past—returned the nod from where he lay on his own pallet. “You handled things well.” He spoke in Gujaareen, in part because his Chakti was poor, and in part for privacy. Only Unte and Ezack spoke anything of the tongue: Unte with marginal fluency, Ezack far less than that.
Wanahomen’s cheeks warmed with the praise. “Father taught me to deal swiftly with defiance.”
“If it’s any consolation, the Gujaareen who was wounded will probably live. If his comrades kept him warm and took him to the Hetawa right away, the wound could’ve been healed.”
Wanahomen nodded slowly, gazing into the fire. “I had forgotten about that. Healing. Amazing, isn’t it? That I co
uld forget such a thing.” He fell silent as the capital’s walls, golden at sunset, gleamed in his memory. For a moment he could almost smell moontear blossoms on the wind, and then the memory was gone. He mourned its passing; his memories were thin and rare these days. “No true Gujaareen would forget such a thing, Charris. Would they?”
Charris spoke gently. “We’ve been away a long time, my Prince, but we will always be Gujaareen.”
Yes. And Gujaareh would be his again. Wanahomen repeated that thought to himself once, and thrice more under his breath; four repetitions made a prayer. His, by Hananja’s grace.
“The appointment with the shunha,” he said. “Is it set?”
Charris nodded. “Three days from now, at sunset. I told him in the message that it would be me.” He threw an uneasy look at Wanahomen.
“I must see this man for myself, Charris. The shunha might give their first allegiance to Gujaareh, but they’re still too close to their Kisuati roots for my comfort. I need to be sure we can trust this one.” Wanahomen reached under his headcloth to rub the gritty back of his neck, missing with rueful fondness the scented baths of his people. “I’ll be careful, never fear.”
“And my other suggestion?”
Wanahomen scowled. “Never.”
“The Hetawa is as much a power in Gujaareh as the nobility, my Prince. More.”
“And I will never ask their aid for so much as healing a stubbed toe.”
Charris sighed. “In peace, then, my Prince.” He shifted to lie back on his roll.
“In peace, old friend.” Wanahomen shifted to remove his boots, then lay down, securing his face-veil for rest. Watching shadows dance on the shelf’s overhang, he shut his eyes—
—And opened them to a churning, storm-choked sky.
Where the stone of a sheltering ledge should have been, where Dreaming Moon and the million Lesser Suns should have filled the night sky beyond that, thick black clouds boiled and rippled. The lightning that flickered among these clouds was attenuated, thin and sickly, and it lingered, more like the thread of veins through flesh than light and fire. He had never seen such a sky, even in the worst of floodseason.