The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(14)

Rabbaneh and Sonta-i were trying to do right by him, Nijiri reminded himself; they meant well. They did not understand that Nijiri had made his choice ten years before, on a humid afternoon thick with the stench of suffering. Ehiru had shown him the way to true peace that day. He had taught Nijiri the beauty of pain, and that love meant doing what was best for others. Whether they wanted it or not.

How could he not repay Ehiru for that revelation, now that the chance had finally come?

“I will be Ehiru’s,” he repeated, softly this time. “I’ll be whatever he needs, until the day he needs me no longer.”

And he would fight Hananja Herself, if he had to, to keep that day at bay.




4





It is the duty of the shunha to uphold tradition. It is the duty of the zhinha to challenge tradition.

(Law)





General Niyes’s home was in the spice district, where the evening breezes smelled of cinnamon and inim-teh seed. The house had been built Kisuati-style, with a roofed sitting area in the side-yard, and elaborate patterns laid in colored tile about the front door—though the ubiquitous Gujaareen river clay, sun-baked to near-white, covered the outer walls. A necessity, in this land of yearly floods; the clay kept the water from soaking the house’s support beams. Still, the design was familiar enough in style and function that Sunandi felt right at home as she stepped out of the carriage.

The additional sight of the general’s family, all of whom stood waiting on the steps, reinforced the illusion. The general himself was beaming in open welcome, a far cry from the usual Gujaareen reserve. His two children wore brightly-colored Kisuati wraps, though the boy had fastened his at the hip rather than in front as was proper. By her elaborately coiffed and beaded hair, Sunandi judged that the heavyset woman beside the general was his wife. Likely the only one, since the shunha nobility of Gujaareh prided themselves on maintaining the traditions of their Kisuati motherland.

“Speaker, we welcome you to our home.” The woman spoke in flawless formal Sua; Sunandi was pleased by the use of her proper title. “I am Lumanthe. You will be my daughter for the evening, and my family your own.”

“Thank you for the warm welcome, Lumanthe-mother. With this beautiful home and such perfect guest-custom, you might even tempt me to stay!” Sunandi grinned, too pleased to keep to tradition. Lumanthe raised eyebrows in surprise and then laughed, shedding her own formality just as easily.

“It must be difficult for you, Nandi-daughter, living here among the half-barbarian folk of this land.” Lumanthe moved to stand beside Sunandi, taking her arm companionably. “It’s hard enough for we who keep the old ways, but at least this is home for us.”

“Not so difficult. After my apprenticeship with Master Seh Kalabsha I spent three years as the Protectors’ Voice in Charad-dinh.” She smiled. “Gujaareh at least has proper baths. In Charad-dinh I had to bathe in the local waterfall. It was very beautiful, but very cold!”

Lumanthe laughed heartily. “I spent a year in Kisua as a maiden. I remember being amazed at how different the two lands truly are. It seemed a wonder to me that your people and mine were ever joined.”

“And will remain joined while the shunha endure.” Niyes stepped forward, taking Sunandi’s free hand for a moment in welcome. His Sua too was liquid and accentless, though more stilted than that of his wife. Shunha or no, Niyes was still Gujaareen, and no Gujaareen man was completely at ease with women. “Thank you for accepting my invitation, Speaker.”

He sounded relieved, as if he’d half expected her to refuse. Sunandi filed that small bit of information away to ponder later and squeezed his hand. “I’ll admit I’d hoped for an evening to myself, but having heard tales of your hospitality, I couldn’t refuse.” She gave him her most genuine smile and saw him relax just a bit.

“We’ll work hard not to disappoint you. My children, Tisanti and Ohorome.”

The children stepped forward to take her hand, murmuring greetings. Ohorome was the younger but already showed the beginnings of a muscular build: a warrior in the making. Tisanti was fifteen or so and just as muscular; perhaps she was skilled in dance. She had her mother’s flawless skin—flawless, Sunandi saw, but lightly covered with some sort of powder, and she had marked her lips with a berry-colored stain. Sunandi suppressed a grimace. The girl was beautiful; she had no need of paints and powders. That was the way of barbarians—and the Gujaareen, who had adopted far too many barbarian customs.

Still, Sunandi smiled, and the girl smiled shyly back. The boy did not, but Sunandi took no offense.

“A fine family,” she said to Niyes. “I’m honored to be welcomed into it, even if only for one evening.”

Niyes beamed, but again Sunandi detected a hint of nervousness in his manner. More than the usual Gujaareen strangeness; something troubled the man.

“Come inside,” he said, and she was forced to end her observations for the moment.

Inside, more familiarity greeted Sunandi. Sculptures of the Moon’s children—Hananja of course, but also several of the gods worshipped in Kisua—stood on plinths set into the corners. Hanging brass lanterns filled the air with the fragrance of beeswax, though the more pungent scents of cooking spices and fresh fruit were dominant. Sunandi inhaled and sighed in pleasure.