The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (45 page)

“All right.” Moving carefully—for she was still tensed, ready to bolt or worse—he let go of her hands and took hold of her shoulders again. He pulled her closer, and when she did not fight or panic again, he slid his arms around her completely. “There. Like this?”

She quivered. Leaned her head against him. Pressed her face into his chest. He felt something in her body gather, poise itself—

And then she
howled
. It was the only word he could think of to describe the sound she made, so far beyond a sob or a moan that it sounded as if it had been torn out of her soul. It was worse even than the sound she’d made after Azima’s death. This was agony, torment, and she screamed it out again and again as she clung to him, pulling his robes and shaking with the effort until he thought she would break of that alone.

There seemed no way to deal with such pain other than to let it run its course, so he held her and let her scream.

The flap of Hanani’s tent opened, and someone peered in. Hendet. As mistress of the
an-sherrat
, only she had the right to invade Hanani’s privacy. She looked them over for a moment, then inclined her head to Wanahomen before withdrawing again and flicking the flap shut. Doubtless she would reassure those outside, who might hear and misconstrue, of what was actually happening.

Hanani’s voice gave out sometime after the twentieth or thirtieth cry. She sobbed then, helpless and anguished—and angry too, for now and again she made a fist of one hand and pounded him with it. Resigning himself to bruises and a damp tunic, he finally lifted her and moved them both to the cushions, lying down and arranging her so that she could spend the rest of the night crying on him if she needed to. He’d realized after the first unleashing that there was more to this than grief over Mni-inh’s death. Perhaps she cried for other losses, or perhaps she simply sought to vent feelings suppressed for all her Hetawa-bound life. Regardless, he found himself rubbing her back and murmuring vague reassurances—“Shh, shh, you’re not alone, don’t worry”—which seemed to soothe her.

And perhaps, given his new understanding of his father, and his fears of the coming battle, he soothed himself a little as well.

Gradually she quieted. Wanahomen dozed at one point, waking when instinct prompted him. Hours had passed, though the sounds of the celebration outside hadn’t dimmed at all. The Banbarra could and would revel all night when sufficiently motivated. The lantern had gone out, but there was plenty of the Dreamer’s light coming through the tent’s smokehole. He guessed it was midnight or thereabouts.

Turning his head, he saw that Hanani was awake, her head pillowed on his chest, her eyes open and dry but lost in thought. One hand was still fisted on the cloth of his tunic. It made her look very young.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

She drew in a deep breath, her eyes still gazing into the distance. “Tired,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse.

“You should rest, then.”

Her brow furrowed; she lifted her head and looked up at him. He suppressed a grimace as the movement of her head exposed a wide wet area on his tunic. “Do you have to leave?”

“No.” He smiled ruefully. “In fact, after accepting your invitation I’m
supposed
to stay all night, or until you tire of me. Are you tired of me?”

She ducked her eyes and smiled. It was a weak, barely noticeable thing as smiles went, but he was relieved almost to tears to see it. It was the first normal thing she’d done in days. “No. But then, we’ve done nothing that would tire either of us.” Her shoulders tensed again, the beginning of unease.

She should have been exhausted after that storm of grief, but he decided not to point this out to her. He did address the unease, however. “The Banbarra will think all sorts of things, but we know the truth.” He shrugged. “As long as word of tonight doesn’t get back to the Hetawa, there’s no problem. Let me up for a moment.”

She seemed surprised that she still had tight hold of his tunic, but she let him go. He sat up and pulled off his tunic and the undershirt, and laid them on the rug to dry. Then, spying an uneaten meal at the side of the tent, he got up and checked the flask: cold tea. There was only one cup, but he brought that over and filled it, offering it to her. She gave him a weary nod of thanks and drained it. After she’d drunk a second cup, she gave it back and he poured the last of the tea for himself. Then he lay back down, holding his arm out so that she could curl against his side again.

She hesitated, apparently shy of his bare chest. “Skin dries faster than cloth,” he explained. “That way you can weep on me to your heart’s content.”

That earned him another tired smile. The tiredness won out; she lay back down, her hair tickling his shoulder, her hand resting lightly on his belly. He sighed, pulling a nearby blanket over them
both against the night’s cool, and enjoying the contact. He’d always preferred it when women took pleasure in him for more than just the one thing.

The silence stretched out, punctuated by the distant beat of a drum and a dozen voices singing a raucous song. Wanahomen had begun to drift again when Hanani’s voice pulled him back. The tea had done her good: she was not so hoarse now.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Whether word gets back to the Hetawa.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed her back, wishing she would sleep. “It would make things awkward for you when you return. Me as well.”

“I’ll tell them that I made you come to me. They can’t fault you for that. And I’m the one they would blame anyhow. You never made an oath to Hananja.” Her hand on his belly tightened; he hoped she didn’t hit him again. “But I don’t care what they think anymore.”

She would, of course, when her grief over Mni-inh’s death had faded and she had the wherewithal to consider her future again. He would ask Yanassa to help control the rumors that constantly ran rampant through the tribe, to lessen the chance that word might reach the ears of Hanani’s superiors.

“Sleep,” he said firmly. “No lessons this time, and no magic. We both need rest.”

She nodded and fell silent, and eventually Wanahomen slept.

*  *  *

The city again, in color this time. This was Ina-Karekh, true dreaming, and not the mirror of his soul that was the realm between. Yet for some reason he seemed to have been drawn to the shadowlands. The sky was a charnel pit of tumbling, scattered clouds flecked with lightning. Wanahomen stood on the steps of the Hetawa, and in its doorway stood a shadowed, swaying form.

“Father,” Wanahomen said. He inclined his head in greeting.

The shadowed form said nothing, and did not move beyond its unsteady shift from side to side. Wanahomen looked down at himself, but saw none of the creeping foulness of before. The damage had been repaired.

“My son, my heir,” said the shadowed figure in its clotted voice. “My reborn soul.”

“No,” Wanahomen said, frowning. “Your son, your heir if Hananja wills it, but my soul is my own, Father. As is my future.”

There was silence for a moment. He thought he sensed surprise from the thing in the doorway. Then teeth gleamed from the dimness, whether in a snarl or a smile he could not tell.

“Niim.” The voice had changed. It was less sibilant all of a sudden, more human and real. “Strength devours strength in the realms of dream, Niim. Hate and fear grow ever stronger. But compassion… She has had so little of that. And trust? Love? Against these she has no power.”

“Who?” Startled by the dream’s change, Wanahomen climbed one step, another. “Who, Father? Hanani? Yanassa?” Those names did not feel right. “Tiaanet?” Closer, though more troubling. “Do you warn me against the woman I want as my queen?”

Another gleam of teeth; definitely a smile now, and a real one.
This was his father.
He felt it with every instinct he possessed: not a phantasm, not a distorted memory, but truly the soul of Eninket, damned to the shadowlands for his cruelty and greed. The Hetawa had declared Eninket mad, and he had been, in waking. But somehow, in this realm, it seemed he had found some measure of peace.

And it was as a whole, healed man that Eninket said, “Be well, my son. Be a better man than I.”

“Father!” Wanahomen lunged up the steps, no longer caring what horror waited for him in the shadows. “Father, no, wait—”

But the city faded, and the silence between dreams was his only reply.

Hanani waited in a dream of the Hetawa’s Hall of Blessings. After a long while—the time meant nothing, it was a dream, but she marked it anyhow out of waking habit—the shimmering shadows near the donation alcoves stirred, and Gatherer Nijiri stepped forth.

“Hanani?” He frowned. “Where is Mni-inh?”

She got to her feet, came down from the dais, and bowed low over both hands. “Dead, Gatherer.”

She heard rather than saw Nijiri’s soft intake of breath. He said nothing, but the Hall reverberated, just a little, with his shock. Since she’d expected this—he had loved Mni-inh too—it was an easy matter for her to hold the dream steady, balancing its structure against his surge of anguish.

“The nightmare plague,” she explained. “A woman of the Shadoun brought it into the Banbarra camp. We didn’t know. Mni-inh-brother tried to heal her.”

Nijiri let out a sigh that was half moan, and turned away to rest his hands against the nightstone statue of the Goddess. In waking this was never permitted, but in dreams there were no rules. When
Hanani looked up, she saw him leaning against the statue as if he needed the support to stand; his head hung out of sight. She sat down on the edge of the dais to wait.

“Even in the desert!” he breathed, then let loose another great sigh. “Mni-inh was all I had left for friends in the Hetawa beyond my pathbrothers. This plague is an abomination worse than the Reaper.
Indethe etun’a Hananja
, let him walk in Your peace until dreaming ends.”

Hanani remained silent, allowing him time for grief, as was proper. When he finally turned, however, his expression was stricken; he came to her and crouched, taking her hands at once. “Forgive me, Hanani. I think first of my own pain and forget yours. Let me give you peace—”

She got to her feet and stepped back from his touch as politely as she could. “I will find my own, Gatherer. Thank you. The P—The Banbarra, they are very kind. They’re helping me.”

He looked surprised, but nodded. “Was the plague spread to others before…”

“No. Mni-inh-brother’s death ended it.”

“Such a terrible thing to be thankful for.” He fell silent for a moment, and the air felt heavy with his sorrow. Then he shook his head. “But I have little time. Share this with the Prince: the city is as ready as we could make it. If he attacks soon, the people will fight at his side. They’re angry enough to fight without him, really, but we hope they’ll hold ’til the right time.”

She nodded. “I shall pass the message, Gatherer. I believe the Prince’s plans culminate in the next few days.”

“Good. The Sentinels have made agreements with some of the military caste—those few of the Sunset Guard who managed to escape the purges, officers of the former army, a few mercenary companies persuaded to return and fight for free. They have a series of
sabotages to implement as soon as the Prince’s force begins its assault. This should disrupt the Kisuati’s defenses and prevent them from regrouping as effectively. Beyond that, it’s up to him.”

“Yes, Gatherer.”

He paused, then, and looked hard at her. She had chosen to appear in the Banbarra clothes that Yanassa had given her, rather than her red drapes. His Gatherer eyes no doubt recognized other, more subtle changes. “Are you truly well, Hanani?”

She had expected this too, but that made it no easier to endure. “I’m better than I was, Gatherer, and I believe I’ll be better still with time. But—” She hesitated, then spoke what was in her heart, since he had already sensed it. “But I don’t know if I can ever again be
well
. Mni-inh, he and Dayuhotem—” She bowed her head. “I know we’re to love all our brothers, but there was no one in the Hetawa who meant more to me than the two of them. Without them I am a river barge set adrift with no steering pole, headed for the yawning sea.”

His expression was more compassionate than she had ever seen it. “I understand,” he said, very softly. She believed that he truly did. “I have no comfort to offer, unfortunately. Dreamblood is only cautery; it can ease pain for a time, when the wound is fresh and most in danger of festering. Beyond that, it’s best if the soul heals itself—” He caught himself. “But you are the healer here.”