The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (38 page)

“The plague is passed from dream to dream,” said a familiar voice, and Sunandi turned from the captain to see a figure clad in pale robes moving toward them. He stopped and bowed over his hands in the Gujaareen fashion; his topknot of red-brown ringlets swung forward as he did so. The Gatherer Rabbaneh. As he straightened, Sunandi realized that he was not smiling for perhaps the first time in all the years she’d known him.

“There’s no danger of contagion,” he said. He looked at Dirakha, who abruptly looked embarrassed and released Sunandi. “Not now. But if you were to lie down now and sleep among these people, you would never wake.”

“Why did you not inform me of this?” In spite of Sunandi’s horror, her mind was racing to the implications. The Protectors would seize upon this chance to blame the Hetawa for Gujaareh’s ills. At the least they might ban magic; at worst they could close the Hetawa, demand the arrest or execution of all its priests, and do their best to eradicate this branch of the Hananjan faith.

“We concealed it because the problem was contained,” Rabbaneh replied. Bleakness, Sunandi realized. That was the look in his eyes as he looked around the chamber at his dying brethren. He had no hope for them. “Or so we thought. Two fourdays ago we collected all the sufferers of the dream, and anyone else who might
have been exposed. Fifty or so in all. We kept them isolated, studying them, but aware that there was one hope if we failed to find a cure: they would be the last.” He gazed down at one boy, a slim youth near or just beyond the age of adulthood, and closed his eyes as if in pain. “But two nights ago, we were attacked by the wielders of the dream.”

All thoughts of the Protectorate gone now, Sunandi stared at him. “
Attacked?
”

“That’s what we believe,” said a new voice behind her—the voice she had been dreading. She turned, steeling herself, to face Nijiri. But she saw at once from his expression that he knew why she had come and did not hate her for it. That was when she recalled his last words to her:
I’ll forgive you, no matter what the Protectors make you do.

It surprised Sunandi how much that relieved her.

“The source of the dream is a child,” Nijiri said. “Sonta-i found out that much for us. I don’t know how any child could have such power, but the fact remains that someone is using the child as a weapon. I and my brother Inmu witnessed it ourselves.” He gestured at the sleeping figures. “They did this to us.”

“Worse,” said Rabbaneh, “we’ve found that some people ‘carry’ the dream, without actually falling into unending sleep, for several days. They are as doomed as those who fall asleep at once, but in the meantime they spread the dream to others.”

Sunandi shivered, folding her arms over her breasts. “A plague of nightmares. Shadows indeed.” Then she paused, something in her own words tickling a memory. “Has this ever happened before? Dreams with such power?”

The Superior looked at her oddly. “No. There are many unusual variations on the magic we use, but none are inherently harmful. In spite of what your people say.”

“The Wild Dreamer,” Rabbaneh said. He’d crouched beside the
slim youth, gazing down at the boy with unmistakable tenderness. “That was what Sonta-i called it, at the end. But we’ve searched the archives and found no mention of such a thing.”

Sonta-i. Announcements of his death had been posted all over the city; several prominent artisans and crafters who specialized in mourning had created tribute works in his honor. The death of a Gatherer in and of itself was not a cause for grief in the city, for most Gatherers chose their time and went gladly. Now, though, seeing the anguish in Rabbaneh and Nijiri, Sunandi understood what else they had hidden from the public.

But Sonta-i’s last words stirred Sunandi’s memory further still.
Wild Dreamer.

“You haven’t consulted the archives at Yanya-iyan,” she murmured, trying to think. Trying to tease out that niggling bit of memory. “All the material Eninket assembled while trying to uncover the secrets of Reapers. It’s taken us years to sort it all out, but I recall seeing something there regarding this plague of nightmares. And a Wild Dreamer.”

The Superior stiffened. Rabbaneh and Nijiri looked at each other, then at her. Rabbaneh got to his feet.

“You must arrest me,” Rabbaneh said. “Yes?”

Sunandi lowered her eyes. “Yes.”

He rose and came to stand before her, holding his arms forth. “Take care to wrap my hands; you know what we can do with a touch.”

She stared at him. On some level she had expected this. Even so—She waved Dirakha forward, and stepped aside as his men bound Rabbaneh’s arms.

Nijiri came forward as well. Beyond him the third Gatherer, a tall, lanky young man, was walking down the aisle toward them. “And I,” Nijiri said. “And Inmu.”

“And I,” said the Superior, stepping forward. He gave Sunandi a
faint wry smile. “I’m only a Teacher, but unfortunately with one Gatherer gone, I would be the best substitute.”

Sunandi frowned. “I was sent only for Rabbaneh.”

“Your rule was that any harm done to a Kisuati would be repaid fourfold, yes?” Nijiri said. He glanced at his brothers and the Superior. “We’re only four and not eight, but perhaps the Protectors will forgive our small numbers given who we are.”

“I can’t take all of you,” Sunandi said, wondering. She looked at Nijiri especially; he would know what her next words cost her. “The city needs its Gatherers.”

Nijiri raised an eyebrow, a slow smile crossing his face. “This is true, Jeh Kalawe,” he said. “But we can do nothing else for Gujaareh right now. You’ve felt the mood in the city these past few days. The last thing our people want is peace.”

And with you and your brethren in our custody, the city’s anger will burn that much hotter.
Oh, yes. She could see it in Nijiri’s eyes. He knew full well how the people of Gujaareh would likely react when word spread that Kisua had arrested the Gatherers. All talk of the Hetawa inflicting nightmares on the populace would end; the people’s unease would sharpen to a fine, hot focus. Kisua, not the Hetawa, would be the target of all that anger.

The swiftest and surest path to stability. That was what Nijiri had warned her the Hetawa would choose.

Looking into Nijiri’s eyes, she said, “I’ll search the archives in the palace, and share any relevant material.”

“Anything will help at this point,” he said. Then he gave her a faint, fond smile. “We’re a bad influence on you, Jeh Kalawe. Your behavior seems suspiciously Gujaareen these days.”

She returned the smile, less insulted than she should have been. “You know I use whatever tactics work best. Hopefully my actions will bring peace to
both
our peoples, with a minimum of suffering.”

“So we must pray.” Then he held his arms out as two of Dirakha’s
men came to tie him. Dirakha had them wrap the twine over and around the Gatherers’ closed fists as well to bind the fingers, and then they tied all four men to one another in a linked chain.

That done, the soldiers herded them into a single file and marched them out of the temple, through the furious crowds, to Yanya-iyan.

Wanahomen came out of Unte’s tent and instantly spotted the templewoman, ten paces away and coming on like a storm. Her fists were tight, her eyes black as cabochons, her sashes and sleeves whipping around her.

Under other circumstances Wanahomen would have admired the sight. Hanani was no beauty like Tiaanet, and she had none of Yanassa’s bold allure, but there was something appealing about her nevertheless—especially whenever she shed her shyness and allowed this side of herself to appear. In another time and place, had she been anything other than a Servant of Hananja, Wanahomen might have happily courted her; it was expected that a Prince count some common women among his two hundred and fifty-six wives. Now, though, he had to stop her before she did something stupid.

He intercepted her at five paces and caught her arm. “Come with me.”

She looked up at him, startled and angry—too angry, he suspected, to react to his grip with terror as she had before. He wasn’t certain whether that was a blessing. “What? Let go of me!”

“
Come with me
, damn you, unless you want to touch off a storm of violence like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

That broke the back of her anger. Stumbling in her confusion, she finally let him draw her away from the tent. He kept hold of her arm all the way back to his mother’s
an-sherrat
, where he brought her into the fire circle between the tents and sat her down.

“I cannot stand idle while they abuse that woman,” Hanani said at once.

“Indeed you cannot,” Wanahomen replied, sitting down across from her. “For once, I’m in agreement with the Hetawa’s way of thinking on this.”

She blinked, having clearly expected an argument. “Then why—”

“If you had walked in there just now and told two Banbarra tribe leaders how to treat their prisoner, they would have thrown you out and given the prisoner the slowest, most painful death they could dream up between them. If you had offended them enough, they would have made you watch.”

She flinched, her face actually becoming paler, which Wanahomen had not thought possible. “That’s barbaric!”

“They’re barbarians.” Wanahomen reached up to pull off his veil and headcloth; he ran a hand over his braids, abruptly weary. He had been a-horse all day, and this after sleeping poorly the night before. The templewoman’s visit had left his conscience raw and his thoughts restless. “And they’re men, and elders, and the leaders of a people who considered Gujaareh the enemy until recently. You’re a guest in their home, for peace’s sake; how do you
think
they’ll react if you disrespect them? Imagine you let a foreigner into the Hall of Blessings, and he first tried to tell you how to pray, then pissed on the statue of Hananja. How inclined would you be to listen to anything he had to say, after that?”

She looked affronted by the very idea of his imaginary offender, but then her face tightened again. “But this is not mere rudeness
that we speak of, Prince; this is murder and torture. Some things are wrong in the eyes of all peoples—”

“That isn’t true.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “In Gujaareh, Gatherers kill over what would merely be bad manners here. A Banbarra slave may buy or earn her way free; in Gujaareh, our servants have no hope of escaping their lot. And consider this: to Unte and the others, what has been done to you is cruelty, a lifelong torment.”

“That’s—” she blurted, but he cut her off with a sharp gesture.

“I know. But this is how they see it. A woman, taken from her family as a child, forced to dress and act as a man, made to be humble where she should be proud, never permitted lovers or children or property or any of the things that constitute
a good life
in their eyes? Anyone who proposed to do such a thing to a girl-child here would be called a monster and thrown out of the tribe.”

She looked astounded by this characterization of her life. Seeing that he was at last getting through to her, Wanahomen pressed the advantage. “The Banbarra are the elders between our two races, Sharer-Apprentice, and like all elders, they’re proud and set in their ways. We cannot
demand
things of them, we can only
ask
—and if they refuse, accept that. Press the issue, and you’ll only make things worse.”

She frowned all of a sudden, her eyes roving his face entirely too keenly now that he had removed his veil. “You speak from experience.”

Wanahomen considered, then decided on brutal honesty. “Sometimes a new slave objects to his condition and must be broken. They begin with beatings for days. Then they progress to burning, amputations of anything deemed unimportant…” She had gone rigid. He lowered his eyes, looking at his own clasped hands. It was easy, frighteningly easy, to remember a time when there had been manacles around his own wrists. “When I was new here, I too protested such cruelty. But as I said, it
is
possible to make things worse.”

She made a little sound, rising and beginning to pace around the fire to vent her frustration. It was an amazingly unpeaceful thing to do, for a Servant of Hananja; physical expression of distress was simply not done among polite Gujaareen. He watched her warily, wondering if he had somehow done her more harm. When she stopped, her hands kept moving, fidgeting, rubbing one another as if to scrub away some contaminant. But her voice was calm when she spoke.