The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(17)

Niyes sighed and ran a hand over his balding pate. “The Prince has also recently sought alliance with several northern tribes. Not just our regular trading partners, either—ax-mad barbarians from the icelands, who make our Bromarte seem well-mannered and gentle-hearted.”

“Perhaps he’s found new trading partners. Which of course would require new merchant ships.”

“But along with all the rest—including Kinja’s death—you must admit it paints a disturbing picture.”

It did indeed, but a picture that was far too indistinct to be of any use. Sunandi sighed. “I cannot bring this to the Protectors, General. Even if they believed me—which is no guarantee by far—they would ask the same questions I have, and you have no answers. I suspect you understand that. So I must ask: what did you really hope to gain from this meeting?”

“Your belief, if not the Protectors’. Kinja’s message—have you deciphered it yet?”

Sunandi grew very still. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He grimaced. “There’s no time for games, Speaker. We cannot stay here much longer or the servants—some of whom are surely spies—might miss us. Suffice it that Kinja gave me the message just before he died, though he told me nothing of its content. Said I knew too much already. He asked me to make sure his successor received it if anything should happen to him. Your girl’s skills made that easy for me, thank the gods.” He reached over and took her hand, gripping it firmly. “Believe the message, Speaker. Make the Protectors understand. The Reaper is only the beginning.”

“I can’t make the Protectors understand anything, General—”

“You can. You must. Go there to convince them—you’ll have to leave anyway if you want to live; you know that, don’t you? Do it soon. The Prince knew Kinja had discovered something, and Kinja died. He already suspects you. You’re too obviously Kinja’s heir.”

“And you?”

Niyes smiled, bleakly and without a trace of humor. “I will doubtless take that place soon.” He nodded toward the stone slab. “But before I do, I want to try and prevent a great evil. My men are loyal and more than willing to die for Gujaareh—but I won’t let them die for this.”

His face was grim, his eyes hard and resigned. He was either the greatest liar she’d ever seen, or he meant every word.

After a long and careful scrutiny, Sunandi finally sighed. “Then take me out of here, General, before I lose my dinner. I’ll need all my strength intact if I’m to stop a war.”





5





Gujaareh’s King is crowned as he ascends the throne of dreams to sit at Hananja’s right hand. In the waking realm, it is the duty of the Prince to act in Her name.

(Law)





In the sky above, the Dreamer had risen, her four-banded face framed by thin wisps of summer clouds. In the streets below, the same colors—red for blood, blue-white for seed, yellow for ichor, and black for bile—glowed from banners on every torchpost and windowsill, lintel and clothesline. The light reflected off sweat-sheened faces and leaf fans, brightly dyed cloth and eager smiles. Some while before the sun had set, its last sullen glow fading reluctantly beyond the river. Already Hananja’s city was deep in the throes of worship, rejoicing on the night its Goddess starved.

In the courtyard of the palace Yanya-iyan, the noblest of Her followers had gathered to worship apart from the wilder street celebrations of the common castes. Here the Hamyan proceeded in a more dignified fashion as the esteemed lords of the shunha and zhinha mingled with their peers from artisan-hall and warhall, the royal family and foreign lands. Every so often one of the guests would raise hands, proclaim some trinket or utensil a sacrifice, and exhort Hananja to accept it to supplement the sparse dreams She would receive on the shortest night of the year. Usually this ritual drew laughter from the other guests, though the Servants of Hananja in attendance maintained a pointed silence.

Had Nijiri known more of life beyond the Hetawa walls, he might have felt humbled by the presence of so many citizens of note. Instead he stood still as they ambled about him, his awe stolen by Yanya-iyan itself. The main structure of the great palace surrounded the courtyard in an open-ended oval. He and the other guests stood within a curving valley of marble tiers, each decorated with embossings and troughs of flowers that seemed to have been stacked to the sky. At the open end, bronze lattice-gates twice the height of a man allowed commoners to peer in, if they dared; the guards would allow it if they seemed no threat. Even as Nijiri watched, two women at the gate pointed in at something beyond him. He turned to follow their gaze and stopped in fresh wonder.

Far opposite the gates, at the other end of the courtyard, stood a pyramid-shaped elevated pavilion. Beneath the pavilion’s glass roof, at the top of a mountain of steps, sat a deceptively simple oxbow seat carved whole from a block of pale, shiny nhefti-wood.

And there sat the Prince of Gujaareh, Lord of the Sunset, Avatar of Hananja, straight-backed and so still that Nijiri wondered for a moment whether the figure was flesh or painted stone. The answer came when a servant child crouched at the Prince’s left hand, offering a golden cup on a platter. The Prince moved an arm—no more than that—and took the cup without looking. Another child crouched nearly hidden behind the Prince, holding the staff that bore the Aureole of the Setting Sun: a wide semicircle of polished red-and gold-amber plates shaped like sunbeams, kept steady behind the Prince’s head. Around the Prince’s feet, twenty of his younger children sat arranged as living ornaments, reflecting their sire’s glory.