The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(21)

(Wisdom)





Ehiru had been watching the Prince’s children for nearly an hour when Rabbaneh found him. Most of the children had not noticed him standing just beyond the overlapping circles of torchlight around the throne pavilion. One of them, however—a handsome lad of perhaps seven—occasionally peered into the shadows that cloaked Ehiru, squinting and frowning as if he sensed something he couldn’t quite see.

“I sent Nijiri home,” Rabbaneh said. He kept his voice low; it was habit for both of them when in the dark. “He was beginning to get the look of a taffur that’s been hunted too long.”

“Mmm. He lasted longer than I did at my first public affair.”

“You never learned to master tactful speech. That apprentice of yours is at least circumspect. Too much so, really; still too much the servant-caste, despite his pride.” Rabbaneh sighed. “I hope he grows out of it soon.”

“We are servants, Rabbaneh. Perhaps we should learn from Nijiri’s example.”

Rabbaneh glanced at him oddly; Ehiru noted this out of the corner of his eye. “Are you still troubled over that Bromarte, Brother? It’s been an eightday.”

“I destroyed a man’s soul.”

“I know that. But even the gods aren’t perfect—”

Ehiru sighed. “That boy has the dreaming gift.”

“—What?”

Ehiru nodded toward the child on the pavilion steps, who seemed to have given up the search for the moment. “That one. I noticed it as soon as I saw him.”

Rabbaneh shifted impatiently. “Then notify the Superior so he can lay claim to the child. Ehiru—”

“The Superior knows. I saw him offer greetings to the Prince not long after the processional arrived. The child was watching a moth, oblivious to the world around him. Even the blindest layman could have seen that he was halfway to Ina-Karekh in that moment.”

Rabbaneh sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “The Superior must consider what is best for Gujaareh, not just the Hetawa. We cannot make the Prince appear subservient while Kisuati trade associations threaten embargo.”

“I understand that very well, Rabbaneh. But it makes the situation no less offensive.” He folded his arms and saw the boy on the pavilion steps peer sharply into the shadows again, perhaps catching some hint of the motion. “A child of true potential will be left undedicated and untrained. He’ll grow up to become just another highcaste servant subject to the whims of the next Prince. If he grows up.”

“Is that what might have happened to you?” Rabbaneh glanced at him sidelong, with an air of daring. They had all learned not to ask him many questions about his past. “If the Hetawa had not claimed you?”

Ehiru sighed, abruptly weary. “I would have died young, yes. And perhaps that would have been best.”

Rabbaneh said nothing for a moment, though Ehiru felt the younger Gatherer’s eyes on him. When he felt Rabbaneh’s hand touch his shoulder, however, he brushed it off.

“Leave me this, Rabbaneh.”

“The grief devours you—”

“Then let it.” He turned away, unable to bear the look in his pathbrother’s eyes. Was that what tithebearers saw when they found themselves facing a Gatherer? Sympathy for the loss too great, the pain too unbearable? How did they stand such meaningless pity?

“I’m going back to the Hetawa,” he said. “In peace, Brother.”

Ehiru walked away before Rabbaneh could mouth a response, opting to hike the long route around the courtyard’s edges rather than a straight line through the lights and the crowd. A few revelers shared the shadows with him, some taking a break from socializing, some seeking a modicum of privacy for more intimate conversations. They did not speak and he gladly ignored them. If he had not recognized the Superior’s voice when he heard his name called, he would have ignored that, too.

Instead Ehiru stopped and restrained the urge to sigh as the other man approached from the torchlight, stumbling once in the dimness. Ehiru stepped forward and caught his elbow.

“Darkness is the realm of Gatherers and dreams, Superior. Not the Hetawa’s highest light.”

The Superior chuckled, nodding gratefully as he righted himself. “The Hetawa’s light would be you, Ehiru. I’m just a glorified clerk, and sometimes a gamesman.” He sighed, smile fading as his eyes adjusted and searched Ehiru’s face. “You’re upset about something.”

“Nothing important.”

“Devout men lie poorly.” Then the Superior’s face softened. “But in your case the truth is painful enough that I suppose you can be forgiven. Which makes me even more sorry to have to do this.”

“Do what?”

The Superior turned to gaze out at the crowd, which showed no signs of dissipating despite the lateness of the hour. It was thickest around the pavilion, where the Prince was visible on the steps, crouching to give a private good night to each of his children. A gaggle of strangers, black as shunha but dressed in foreign garments dyed shades of indigo, stood waiting nearby: Kisuati. The Prince’s gestures of affection might have been a minstrel’s show to judge by the avid way the strangers watched and commented to one another. Ehiru grimaced in bitter memory before the Superior’s next words pulled him rudely back to the present.