“Sonta-i is your mentor?”
“Ehiru, my lord.”
“Ehiru?” The Prince’s eyebrows rose in impressive arches—though strangely, Nijiri had the sense that he was not surprised at all. “He’s not the seniormost.”
Rabbaneh coughed into one hand. “My lord, Hetawa matters…”
“Ah yes. Bad manners again. Do not take me as an example of proper behavior, Nijiri. Old men take more liberties than young men can get away with.” He tilted his head in a self-mocking bow. “Another time, Gatherer-Apprentice.”
With that, the Prince turned away and wandered into the crowd, which parted before and closed behind him like water. In his wake, Nijiri exhaled a long breath and closed his eyes in a brief prayer of thanks. Rabbaneh waited politely for him to finish.
“Rabbaneh-brother, I have shamed the Hetawa. I did not recognize—”
“I know you didn’t.” For once, the older Gatherer was not smiling. That made the knots in Nijiri’s stomach tighten still further. But Rabbaneh was gazing after the Prince. “He knew you, though.”
Nijiri faltered to confused silence. After a moment Rabbaneh sighed and flashed a slightly strained smile at Nijiri. “You didn’t shame the Hetawa, boy. Ehiru, Sonta-i, and I have taken turns shadowing you all evening. You handled the Prince well enough, and Meliatua before him.” He assessed Nijiri then in a long glance. “You look tired.”
“I—” Nijiri wavered, torn between the truth and pride. An apprentice should at least try to manage a full Gatherer’s responsibilities, and Hamyan Night was only half over. But the combined stresses of the evening—the processional through Gujaareh’s streets, the crowd, the Sister, the Prince—had drained him. He wanted nothing better than to go back to his quiet cell in the Hetawa and be lulled to sleep by the night-breezes.
Rabbaneh’s hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed reassurance. “There’s no shame in it, Nijiri. You were a sheltered acolyte only an eightday ago, after all. Go back to the Hetawa. You’ve satisfied protocol.”
Nijiri could not deny his own relief, but guilt remained. “Ehiru-brother will expect—”
“I’ll find him and tell him how well you’ve done.” The older Gatherer’s smile filled him with warm pride, and shyly Nijiri smiled back.
“Thank you, Rabbaneh-brother. I will have good dreams tonight.” He turned to leave, pausing as he hunted for the shortest path through the crowd to the palace gate. It was only because he hesitated that he heard Rabbaneh’s reply.
“Dream them while you can, little brother.”
When he turned back, Rabbaneh had gone.
6
In dreams did Hananja bestow knowledge upon Inunru, a man of the sonha. “There is power in dreams,” She told him. “Harness it and therein lies magic. But only virtuous men may wield it.” Thus did Inunru bring forth narcomancy, and for a time all people rejoiced.
(Wisdom)
Ehiru had been watching the Prince’s children for nearly an hour when Rabbaneh found him. Most of the children had not noticed him standing just beyond the overlapping circles of torchlight around the throne pavilion. One of them, however—a handsome lad of perhaps seven—occasionally peered into the shadows that cloaked Ehiru, squinting and frowning as if he sensed something he couldn’t quite see.
“I sent Nijiri home,” Rabbaneh said. He kept his voice low; it was habit for both of them when in the dark. “He was beginning to get the look of a taffur that’s been hunted too long.”
“Mmm. He lasted longer than I did at my first public affair.”
“You never learned to master tactful speech. That apprentice of yours is at least circumspect. Too much so, really; still too much the servant-caste, despite his pride.” Rabbaneh sighed. “I hope he grows out of it soon.”
“We are servants, Rabbaneh. Perhaps we should learn from Nijiri’s example.”
Rabbaneh glanced at him oddly; Ehiru noted this out of the corner of his eye. “Are you still troubled over that Bromarte, Brother? It’s been an eightday.”
“I destroyed a man’s soul.”
“I know that. But even the gods aren’t perfect—”
Ehiru sighed. “That boy has the dreaming gift.”
“—What?”
Ehiru nodded toward the child on the pavilion steps, who seemed to have given up the search for the moment. “That one. I noticed it as soon as I saw him.”
Rabbaneh shifted impatiently. “Then notify the Superior so he can lay claim to the child. Ehiru—”
“The Superior knows. I saw him offer greetings to the Prince not long after the processional arrived. The child was watching a moth, oblivious to the world around him. Even the blindest layman could have seen that he was halfway to Ina-Karekh in that moment.”
Rabbaneh sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “The Superior must consider what is best for Gujaareh, not just the Hetawa. We cannot make the Prince appear subservient while Kisuati trade associations threaten embargo.”
“I understand that very well, Rabbaneh. But it makes the situation no less offensive.” He folded his arms and saw the boy on the pavilion steps peer sharply into the shadows again, perhaps catching some hint of the motion. “A child of true potential will be left undedicated and untrained. He’ll grow up to become just another highcaste servant subject to the whims of the next Prince. If he grows up.”
“Is that what might have happened to you?” Rabbaneh glanced at him sidelong, with an air of daring. They had all learned not to ask him many questions about his past. “If the Hetawa had not claimed you?”
Ehiru sighed, abruptly weary. “I would have died young, yes. And perhaps that would have been best.”
Rabbaneh said nothing for a moment, though Ehiru felt the younger Gatherer’s eyes on him. When he felt Rabbaneh’s hand touch his shoulder, however, he brushed it off.
“Leave me this, Rabbaneh.”
“The grief devours you—”
“Then let it.” He turned away, unable to bear the look in his pathbrother’s eyes. Was that what tithebearers saw when they found themselves facing a Gatherer? Sympathy for the loss too great, the pain too unbearable? How did they stand such meaningless pity?
“I’m going back to the Hetawa,” he said. “In peace, Brother.”
Ehiru walked away before Rabbaneh could mouth a response, opting to hike the long route around the courtyard’s edges rather than a straight line through the lights and the crowd. A few revelers shared the shadows with him, some taking a break from socializing, some seeking a modicum of privacy for more intimate conversations. They did not speak and he gladly ignored them. If he had not recognized the Superior’s voice when he heard his name called, he would have ignored that, too.
Instead Ehiru stopped and restrained the urge to sigh as the other man approached from the torchlight, stumbling once in the dimness. Ehiru stepped forward and caught his elbow.
“Darkness is the realm of Gatherers and dreams, Superior. Not the Hetawa’s highest light.”
The Superior chuckled, nodding gratefully as he righted himself. “The Hetawa’s light would be you, Ehiru. I’m just a glorified clerk, and sometimes a gamesman.” He sighed, smile fading as his eyes adjusted and searched Ehiru’s face. “You’re upset about something.”
“Nothing important.”
“Devout men lie poorly.” Then the Superior’s face softened. “But in your case the truth is painful enough that I suppose you can be forgiven. Which makes me even more sorry to have to do this.”
“Do what?”
The Superior turned to gaze out at the crowd, which showed no signs of dissipating despite the lateness of the hour. It was thickest around the pavilion, where the Prince was visible on the steps, crouching to give a private good night to each of his children. A gaggle of strangers, black as shunha but dressed in foreign garments dyed shades of indigo, stood waiting nearby: Kisuati. The Prince’s gestures of affection might have been a minstrel’s show to judge by the avid way the strangers watch
ed and commented to one another. Ehiru grimaced in bitter memory before the Superior’s next words pulled him rudely back to the present.
“You have a commission. Forgive me, Ehiru.”
For an instant Ehiru was too startled and angry to speak; he stared down at the Superior. “I desecrated a tithe only days ago.”
“I’m aware of that. Yet as Superior I must also remind you of the practical implications of your self-imposed penance. Una-une gave his Final Tithe three months ago. Nijiri won’t be ready ’til next season at least. I have asked Rabbaneh and Sonta-i to shoulder some of your duties given recent events and because you’ve taken on Nijiri, but it’s simply unfair to ask them to continue much longer. Two Gatherers cannot do the work of four.”
Ehiru flinched as guilt overlaid anger. Turning to gaze out at the crowd, he said, “I don’t mean to burden my brothers unduly. But you must understand… I doubt, Superior. I no longer feel Hananja’s mandate in my heart. I no longer know if…” He faltered, then forced himself to voice the fear that had been gnawing at his mind since the night of the Bromarte trader’s death. “I no longer know if I am fit, if I am worthy, to perform my duties.”
“Both Rabbaneh and Sonta-i have mishandled Gatherings, Ehiru—Sonta-i twice. Is your sin greater, or theirs lesser? Do you demand more of yourself than you expect of them?”
Yes. But he did not voice the thought lest he be accused of arrogance.
The Superior watched him expectantly. It was clear refusal would be unacceptable.
“As you wish, Superior,” Ehiru said at last, with a sigh. “I can only pray that this is Hananja’s wish as well. At least Nijiri will be pleased; he’s been plaguing me to go out for a fourday now.”
The Superior nodded and turned back to the crowd. His eyes roved for a moment before alighting on the steps around the pavilion. “The strangers there in grieving colors. They are Kisuati; they celebrate the Hamyan properly. Do you see them?”
Ehiru did. They stood higher on the steps now that the children had been taken away by the Prince’s wives and guardsmen. The Prince had resumed his place on the oxbow seat, his posture formal and the Aureole once again raised behind his head. Several of the strangers made a bow of supplication to him, but one woman amid the group remained tall and straight. The others bent around her like reeds to a bargepole.
“The woman.”
Ehiru frowned. “Women need no Gatherer’s assistance to reach Ina-Karekh—”
“In this case the commission is requested as a kindness, both to her and to the city. Her soul is corrupt, the supplicant says.”
“Has an Assay of Truth been performed?”
“Unnecessary. The supplicant is beyond question.”
Ehiru turned his head to stare at the Superior’s profile.
The Superior smiled at Ehiru’s skepticism, though Ehiru noted that the smile did not reach his eyes. “I did request proofs to support the charge of corruption. I was shown such proofs. But a formal assessment would take time and require a public record. In this case, that would cause greater harm.”
Ehiru’s frown deepened as suspicion flowered in his mind. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Sunandi. Jeh Kalawe in their nomenclature; a daughter out of the lineage of Kalawe, of sonha caste, in ours. She is the Voice of the Kisuati Protectorate, newly assigned to Gujaareh. The charge is that she has used her position to spy, to steal, and to corrupt Gujaareen officials. By her actions she foments unrest between Gujaareh and Kisua.”
“Our focus is spiritual, not political.” Ehiru folded his arms. “If the Sunset wants her killed, he has assassins for that.”
“And if the Protectorate declares war? The assassination of an ambassador would be a violation of the treaty between our lands. The whole city would suffer if they sent an army seeking redress. Where is the peace in that, Servant of Hananja?”
Long gone from my life, Ehiru thought bitterly.
“Would they not also declare war if she is found dead with my mark on her?” he asked. “Gathering is not their way.”
“They respect it as ours. Kisua honors Hananja too, even if they dilute their faith by worshipping other gods alongside Her. If this woman is Gathered, the Kisuati will be angry, no doubt—but not angry enough to declare war. That would enrage their own Hananjan sect and cause them no end of internal trouble.” The Superior turned to him. “I won’t pretend this isn’t political, Ehiru. But there remains a spiritual component to the matter. The woman has committed acts of theft, deception, and malice. If she were anything but an ambassador, how would you judge her?”
“… Corrupt.”
The Superior nodded as though he were still a Teacher, and Ehiru a particularly wise student. “As you said: our focus must be spiritual first and foremost.”
Ehiru sighed. “Her location?”
“Here in Yanya-iyan, of course. The ambassadorial wing, largest suite. Will you require maps?”
“No. I remember the way.”
“Will you be taking Nijiri? Palace guards draw swords first and ask questions later.”
“The better for him to learn the hazards of our path.” Ehiru turned to go, then paused. “I will carry out the commission tomorrow night.”
“So soon?”
“If she is as corrupt as you say,” Ehiru replied, “then for every day I delay, her soul grows more diseased. Shall I leave her to suffer longer?”
“No, of course not. In peace, then, Gatherer.”
Instead, Ehiru left in silence.
7
In the dark of dreams, the soul cries for help. It summons friends, loved ones, even enemies in the hope of relief from its torment. But it is still in darkness. These seeming allies will do no good.
(Wisdom)
In the dark of waking, the Reaper’s soul no longer cries. It has no further need to summon others; others always come eventually, or it can fetch them if it so desires. It does not remember the word friend.
* * *
Kite-iyan—Sun Above the Waters—was the Prince’s springtime palace. Yanya-iyan—Sun Upon the Earth—was not floodproof, and during the rainy season most of the palace’s denizens suffered with the rest of the city. The Prince himself did not. He retreated to Kite-iyan, where his four-of-four wives lived year-round. There he spent the season of fertility in appropriately symbolic labor, conceiving the children who would continue his dynasty.
“I don’t visit often during the dry months,” the Prince said to Niyes as they rode amid the caravan. “I find my wives are happier when I keep things orderly, and sudden unannounced visits create chaos. They scramble to adorn the palace for my arrival, make the children presentable, and so forth. The ones hoping for my favor rush to pretty themselves, while the ones who wish to punish me make themselves scarce. It’s terribly detrimental to peace.”
Niyes, keeping an eye on the soldiers around them, chuckled. “You sound as if you enjoy making unannounced visits a great deal, my Prince.”
“Does it seem that way? How crude of me. Must be all this sun addling my brain.”
The day was certainly hot enough for it. The Prince’s caravan rode along the elevated roadway called the Moonpath, which led from the city right to Kite-iyan’s front gates. Irrigation ditches feeding nearby farms flanked the path; there were no trees to provide shade. Niyes politely refrained from pointing out that the center of their caravan, where the Prince rode, was cooler than it could have been thanks to the canopy that four servants held above him.
“But yes, I do rather enjoy surprising them,” the Prince continued. “I remember what it was like, growing up in Kite-iyan. My mother would alternately fuss over me and shoo me away, and the other mothers would be just as frantic, whenever the Prince visited. The guards and eunuchs, the tutors and chefs, my siblings—everyone was on edge. But at the same time we were all so excited. The Sun of our own little earthly kingdom was coming to shine on us. We were a family, after all, in spite of our numbers.” The Prince’s expression hardened.
“My father—may he dwell in Her peace forever—forgot that sometimes. I do not.”
Kite-iyan had been built on one of the broad, squat hills that bordered the Goddess’s Blood river valley. From there the palace stood sentinel over neatly sectioned tracts of farmland and orchards, and the maze of roads that connected each part of Gujaareh with every other. In the springtime, when the Prince usually made the journey, most of the farms were under floodwaters; now in high summer they were lush and green. As the party continued along the Moonpath, Niyes caught glimpses of workers in the fields below stopping to watch as the caravan rode by. Some knelt and manuflected; the rest shaded their eyes as if it were indeed the Sun himself who passed so near.
The gates of Kite-iyan opened as the palace came into view. When the troop drew to a halt, a dozen children poured out of the palace’s entrance, the smallest of them running to meet the party. The Prince laughed and spurred his horse forward, waving the soldiers aside. He dismounted and then was mobbed by the youngsters, who showed no shyness in tugging on the Prince’s shirt or skirt or even his braids to gain his attention. And he lavished it on them, Niyes saw, ruffling hair here or bestowing a rough hug there, picking up the youngest to carry on his hip, chatting with the rest as he walked.
Niyes signaled the soldiers to dismount and quietly flank the Moonpath and palace entrance. He expected little trouble; the Prince’s decision to visit Kite-iyan had been spur-of-the-moment, and Gujaareh had no enemies—overtly—who could arrange unpleasantness on such short notice. It still never hurt to be certain.
Beyond the knot around the Prince, a handful of adults and older children waited more calmly near the gate. Among them Niyes spotted the Prince’s firstwife Hendet, their son Wanahomen, and Charris, captain of the guard at Kite-iyan. The Prince patted several of the children to send them inside, handed the youngest off to an older sibling, and then paused to exchange affections with his wife and favorite son, kissing the former and playfully gripping the arm of the latter in a mock-combative gesture.