The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(103)

Swallowing, he lowered his hands to his sides, straightened, and took a step forward.

“There is still peace in you, Una-une-brother,” he said. “A Gatherer belongs to Hananja, always, even now.”

Una-une frowned at this, turning to gaze out at the horizon, but Nijiri saw that his words had been heard. Sorrow wavered in his ravaged face.

“I was ready,” Una-une said. “I told them I wanted Ehiru to come and take my Final Tithe. But they took me away, and there’s been no peace since.” He sighed, then glanced at Nijiri. “Do you think I could’ve seen Her? Just once, in Ina-Karekh?”

Nijiri took another step closer. “Yes, Brother. You served Her well.” He took a deep breath, trying to still the pounding of his heart, trying to feel the truth in his own words, trying not to think of Ehiru and whatever the Prince was doing to him. A Gatherer’s sole duty is to bring peace; for that a Gatherer must have peace within himself. He tried to feel compassion for Una-une. To his own surprise, it was not difficult.

“Shall I send you to Her now, Una-une-brother?” he asked softly. “I know the way.”

Una-une blinked at him. For one breathtaking, bittersweet moment his eyes filled with longing and Nijiri thought he would say yes.

Then Una-une’s expression flickered. The confusion returned. And as it began to pass, Nijiri saw the Reaper’s madness gleaming underneath. There would be no cat-and-mouse combat this time, he understood in that instant. The Reaper—for Nijiri could see Una-une fading away like morning mist—would pierce his mind and drain him dry.

Nijiri closed his eyes. “Forgive me, great Hananja. I can’t do this properly and still be sure.”

So he set his foot to brace himself, then made a blade of his hand and drove it into the Reaper’s throat.

The Reaper staggered back. Reached up, scrabbling at the loose leather collar and the deep concavity where its larynx had been. Even as Nijiri watched the area turned bruise-dark. With that opening, Nijiri ran forward and slapped a hand against the Reaper’s chest, driving dreambile through him as he’d done to Sentinel Harakha on the day of his apprenticeship trial. He was no Sharer; he had no idea what he’d managed to paralyze, just prayed it would be something important—And in the next instant, blood gouted from the Reaper’s lips. Its mouth worked, fishlike, as it struggled to draw breath and failed. With a Gatherer’s grace, it sagged to its knees. For just a breath its eyes focused on Nijiri, and there was peace in them.

Then Una-une fell and did not move again.

Taking a deep breath and clenching his fists, Nijiri pivoted to focus on Ehiru and the Prince. Oh Goddess!

Ehiru stood facing south. His hands quivered, each lifted before him with fingers forked. His body shook as well, harder than that of the afflicted child in Kisua; every muscle stood out like ropes beneath his skin. In profile Nijiri could see his mentor’s face frozen in a hideous rictus of lust and ecstasy and desperate, terrified denial. His eyes were shut tight. Over the sound of the wind Nijiri could hear Ehiru’s voice straining to utter a sound that might have been an animal’s death-cry or the groan of an overstressed timber. It was the sound of nothing human.

“Uuuuuuuh…”

And through it all the Prince stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, clinging to his back like a tick. His eyes had closed as well, but in pure bliss; in the dawn light he all but glowed as he drank in power.

“Nnnnnnnn…”

“Get away from him!” Nijiri lunged across the intervening space and grabbed the Prince.

It was like grabbing lightning. Power rammed up Nijiri’s arms and seared into his brain before he could raise his defenses or pull his hands free. In that blistering instant he felt himself crumbling away, too weak to withstand such a flood of will and magic and dreamblood and life and—

“Nnn—No! NO, GODDESS DAMN YOU, NO!”

The torrent of power stopped. In the ringing silence and slowness that followed, Nijiri saw the Prince, torn loose by Nijiri’s effort, stagger back; his expression was wild and thwarted. And then Nijiri saw Ehiru’s face contort in inhuman rage. Ehiru whipped about, still screaming—and put his fingers through the Prince’s eyes.

Impact with the floor drove Nijiri back into himself. He gasped, disoriented. A breath later the Prince hit the floor beside him, screaming, his eyes bloody holes. An instant after that, Ehiru fell upon the Prince, roaring and tearing at his face with bare hands.

The sky wheeled above Nijiri’s head. He closed his eyes, savoring flesh and blood and bone, more aware in that moment than ever before that his body was merely the temporary housing for his true self.

But it was good, strong housing, made by the gods themselves even if none would own up to the act, and he was grateful beyond words to have it.

*

After a time Nijiri was able to think again. He turned his head to the side and sighed at the sight of the Prince’s body. The face was unrecognizable, its limbs contorted in a bizarre sprawl. Dismissing it, Nijiri pushed himself up on one elbow and focused on Ehiru, who knelt facing the horizon.

“Brother.”

Ehiru did not turn. “Nijiri. We’ve won.” He chuckled, softly, without bitterness. “And lost. An army marches this way from Kisua.”

Nijiri sat up, wincing as bruises he’d forgotten reminded him of their existence. He suspected a rib was broken, too. “You’re certain?”