The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(20)

“We all have such needs, my lord. But directing them toward the service of Hananja is the sacrifice we of the Hetawa offer every day, with great joy.”

The Gatherer Rabbaneh stepped out of the milling throng, his face carved into its usual smile, a cup in one hand. Before Nijiri could register relief, Rabbaneh handed his cup to Nijiri and dropped smoothly to one knee, crossing both arms before his face and turning his palms outward as if to shield himself from a blinding glare. A manuflection; Nijiri had heard of the custom from his Teachers, but never seen it performed outside of lessons. It was the highest gesture of respect, offered only to those specially marked by the gods—

Dream of Inunru!

The strange man—the Prince of Gujaareh—laughed good-naturedly at the look of horror on Nijiri’s face, then waved a hand at Rabbaneh. “Stop that. I put aside the Aureole so I could walk among my people for a while without all that foolishness.”

Rabbaneh rose and adopted the more traditional bow of respect instead. He was still smiling as he straightened. “You must forgive me, my lord. I meant only to model the proper behavior for Nijiri. His actions reflect upon the whole Hetawa now, and especially my path.”

“Oh, he was perfectly polite, Rabbaneh. A credit to his Teachers.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Nijiri said. To his great relief he did not stammer, though he could not have vouched for the volume or pitch of his voice in that moment. He quickly bowed over his free hand, not trusting himself to manuflect without falling over. His hands shook so badly that Rabbaneh’s drink sloshed and splashed in its cup. Rabbaneh reached over and deftly plucked the cup away before Nijiri could stain his robe.

“Nijiri.” The Prince seemed to mull over the name. “Too pale to be shunha, too humble for zhinha. Were you common-born?”

“My lord.” Rabbaneh smiled in a gentle reprimand even as Nijiri opened his mouth to say, “Yes.” To Nijiri’s surprise, the Prince chuckled.

“Oh fine, fine. You priests.” He stepped closer, and Nijiri nearly started as the Prince reached up to take his chin between two fingers. “You’re a fine-looking boy. It’s a good thing your birth-caste no longer applies, whatever it was. You might have been sold in marriage to some wealthy, influential widow—or if you were lowcaste, someone would have made a pleasure-servant of you.” He ran a thumb over Nijiri’s lips and this time Nijiri did start in spite of himself, though he mastered the reflex to pull away in time. The Prince smiled, his eyes narrowing in amusement. Then—to Nijiri’s intense relief—he let go.

“Sonta-i is your mentor?”

“Ehiru, my lord.”

“Ehiru?” The Prince’s eyebrows rose in impressive arches—though strangely, Nijiri had the sense that he was not surprised at all. “He’s not the seniormost.”

Rabbaneh coughed into one hand. “My lord, Hetawa matters…”

“Ah yes. Bad manners again. Do not take me as an example of proper behavior, Nijiri. Old men take more liberties than young men can get away with.” He tilted his head in a self-mocking bow. “Another time, Gatherer-Apprentice.”

With that, the Prince turned away and wandered into the crowd, which parted before and closed behind him like water. In his wake, Nijiri exhaled a long breath and closed his eyes in a brief prayer of thanks. Rabbaneh waited politely for him to finish.

“Rabbaneh-brother, I have shamed the Hetawa. I did not recognize—”

“I know you didn’t.” For once, the older Gatherer was not smiling. That made the knots in Nijiri’s stomach tighten still further. But Rabbaneh was gazing after the Prince. “He knew you, though.”

Nijiri faltered to confused silence. After a moment Rabbaneh sighed and flashed a slightly strained smile at Nijiri. “You didn’t shame the Hetawa, boy. Ehiru, Sonta-i, and I have taken turns shadowing you all evening. You handled the Prince well enough, and Meliatua before him.” He assessed Nijiri then in a long glance. “You look tired.”

“I—” Nijiri wavered, torn between the truth and pride. An apprentice should at least try to manage a full Gatherer’s responsibilities, and Hamyan Night was only half over. But the combined stresses of the evening—the processional through Gujaareh’s streets, the crowd, the Sister, the Prince—had drained him. He wanted nothing better than to go back to his quiet cell in the Hetawa and be lulled to sleep by the night-breezes.

Rabbaneh’s hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed reassurance. “There’s no shame in it, Nijiri. You were a sheltered acolyte only an eightday ago, after all. Go back to the Hetawa. You’ve satisfied protocol.”

Nijiri could not deny his own relief, but guilt remained. “Ehiru-brother will expect—”

“I’ll find him and tell him how well you’ve done.” The older Gatherer’s smile filled him with warm pride, and shyly Nijiri smiled back.

“Thank you, Rabbaneh-brother. I will have good dreams tonight.” He turned to leave, pausing as he hunted for the shortest path through the crowd to the palace gate. It was only because he hesitated that he heard Rabbaneh’s reply.

“Dream them while you can, little brother.”

When he turned back, Rabbaneh had gone.





6





In dreams did Hananja bestow knowledge upon Inunru, a man of the sonha. “There is power in dreams,” She told him. “Harness it and therein lies magic. But only virtuous men may wield it.” Thus did Inunru bring forth narcomancy, and for a time all people rejoiced.