The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(18)

“A rare sight,” a voice said beside Nijiri, startling him badly. He jerked about to see a woman in a gown of palest green, translucent hekeh fiber. She smiled at his discomfiture, flexing the delicately patterned scars along her otherwise smooth brown cheekbones.

Women are goddesses, rang the old adage through Nijiri’s mind before he swallowed and bowed over both hands, hazarding a guess. “Sister?”

“Gatherer.” She inclined her head and spread her hands, her every movement grace. He stared, entranced by the way the black ropes of her hair caught the light. “Gatherer-Apprentice rather, given that I do not know you, and given that you gaze at me like a young man who hasn’t seen a woman older than twelve for many years. That would make you Nijiri.”

He quickly lowered his eyes. “Yes, Sister.”

“Meliatua is my name.” She nodded toward the Prince’s pavilion again. “I meant the Prince’s children, by the way. He rarely allows any but the oldest out in public.”

“Ah, yes.” Nijiri groped for some more polite way to address her. “Sister” alone seemed rude, like calling one of his brethren merely “Servant.” But her order operated independently of the Hetawa, and he knew nothing of their divisions of rank. Then it occurred to him that a conversation had begun between them and he was expected to respond, not stand there gawping like a fool.

“I, I was just thinking that it must be terribly dull for the children,” he said, wincing inwardly at his stammer, “being forced to sit there for so long.”

“The Prince will send them away presently. For the time being they’re on display, both as a sign of his devotion to Hananja and as a rebuke to the rest of these fools.” She looked around and sighed, either missing or ignoring Nijiri’s shock at her casual contempt. “They offer Her trifles; the Prince presents his own flesh and blood. If the Hetawa laid claim to any of those children right now, the Prince would have no choice but to agree.”

Nijiri blinked in surprise. That the Hetawa could adopt any child who showed promise—orphaned or not—he knew. During his own years in the House of Children he had met several adoptees with living parents. But they had all, like Nijiri, been children of the lower and middling castes. He could not imagine a shunha or zhinha heir, let alone a child of the Sunset, deigning to live as a mere Servant of Hananja when caste and family connections promised so much more.

She read his face and lifted an eyebrow. “Your own mentor is a brother of the Prince, Gatherer-Apprentice. No one knows the circumstances—Ehiru has always been private about such things—but he was the last child of the Sunset claimed by the Hetawa. Did you not know?”

Half-overheard whispers flitted through Nijiri’s memory, but still the truth was a shock. He had guessed that Ehiru’s origins were highcaste—who could notice that fine black skin, those angular features, those elegant manners and speech, and think otherwise?—but never so very high as that. He dared a look up at the seated Prince again and tried to visualize Ehiru in his place, beautiful and regal and perfect as a god. The image fit so well that a secret, shameful thrill flitted down Nijiri’s spine before he banished it.

From the corner of his eye he spied Meliatua watching him. Realizing that half his thoughts must be obvious, he flushed and drew his hood closer about his face. “We all belong to Hananja now, Sister.”

“Indeed we do.” She took his arm then, startling him badly. He could do nothing but follow as she tugged him into a stroll.

“Where is your mentor, Gatherer-Apprentice? He should be at your side, protecting you from the likes of me.” Her teeth gleamed in the firelight.

“He wished me to spend some time on my own, Sister.” Nijiri felt the softness of her breast press against his elbow and fought the urge to nudge it back to see what would happen. He had a vague notion this would offend her. “Gatherers must blend in among people of many kinds; I am therefore to observe and learn.” He glanced at her, hesitated, then dared humor. “Perhaps comfort is my sacrifice tonight.”

To his relief she laughed, causing the scar-patterns on her cheeks to dance in the firelight. He admired the way the scars ornamented her beauty even as he realized with some surprise that he did not want her at all. She was a sculpture: to be observed and perhaps even touched, but not a thing one could take home.

“You should become a Sister if you’ll miss such a small thing,” she said. “Our business is comfort, after all. Although truthfully, there’s little even we can do tonight.”

Surprised, Nijiri followed her gaze and focused on his fellow revelers. It took him a moment to fathom the Sister’s meaning, but now that she had pointed it out, the signs were obvious. A darting glance from a man who wore rich scholars’ robes, at Nijiri—at his shoulder, which bore his new, just-healed Gatherer tattoo—and then away. A young zhinha woman, laughing at some joke by her companion, faltered silent for an instant as Nijiri and Meliatua passed. When she resumed laughing, it sounded forced. A tall soldier with a face like sandy foothills nodded gravely to Nijiri; there was a terrible sorrow in his eyes.

Meliatua shook her head. “And another measure of comfort is offered up to Hananja. They make proper sacrifices without meaning to.”

“No one has ever looked at me with fear before,” Nijiri said, troubled. “But then, I am a Gatherer now.”