The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(26)
The Prince lifted the stone in front of himself as if to ward off whatever lurked in the shadows. “I’ve brought you something, Brother,” the Prince said, keeping his voice soft. “This one is corrupt too. But you must finish him quickly, for tonight you have another task to complete. Do you understand?”
“Corrupt…” There was a shuffle from the dark, followed by a soft step. Niyes made out the figure of a man rising slowly from a crouch.
Escape was impossible. Even if he made it out of the room, Charris’s soldiers would take him down at one word from the Prince. Heart pounding, Niyes drew his dagger.
“It’s better if you don’t fight,” the Prince said. He kept his voice gentle, soothing, though his eyes marked Niyes’s dagger. “He has enough control left to do it properly, if you don’t agitate him.”
Niyes smiled grimly. “I am also military-caste, my lord.”
“So you are.” The Prince sighed, then turned back to the door. “I’ll tell your family that you died bravely, protecting me from an assassin. They’ll not be harmed.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Farewell, Niyes. I’m sorry.”
“So am I, my lord.”
The Prince left. After a moment, the Reaper came.
8
A Gatherer shall seek purity within the Hetawa, keep hidden among the faithful, and reveal his whole self only to the recipient of Hananja’s blessing.
(Wisdom)
A leaf had fallen into the fountain. The patter of water against its surface sounded like rain. Ehiru closed his eyes as he sat on the fountain’s edge, listening.
Rain came only once a year in Gujaareh, during the spring. When it came, the Goddess’s Blood overflowed her banks and flooded the entire river valley, from the Sea of Glory all the way into the northeastern reaches of Kisua. Most Gujaareen hated floodseason and the small discomforts that it brought—mud everywhere, insects rampant, families forced to live on their upper floors or rooftops until the waters receded. Ehiru had always loved floodseason, himself. It cleansed, despite the initial mess; the city’s sun-baked walls gleamed anew once the dust of the dry seasons had been washed away. It renewed—for without the annual floods Gujaareh’s narrow band of fertile land would be swiftly devoured by the deserts beyond.
The boy would make a fine replacement once his training was complete, Ehiru decided.
But Nijiri was to replace Una-une; he grimaced, remembering this. There were one or two other promising youngsters among the acolytes who might replace Ehiru himself—none so clearly called to the task as Nijiri had been, but suitable nevertheless. Life would be difficult for Sonta-i and Rabbaneh until the new Gatherers gained seasoning, but soon their younger brethren would be ready to walk the Goddess’s most difficult path. Then the Gatherers of Hananja would be renewed. Cleansed at last of weakness and taint.
“Ehiru-brother.”
The patter of the fountain might have covered the boy’s footsteps, but not the rustling of the palm fronds. These were so thick in the Water Garden as to be unavoidable. Yet Nijiri had approached undetected. Ehiru smiled to himself in approval.
“Hananja has given us to each other, Nijiri.” He kept his voice only loud enough to be heard over the fountain. In the intermittent silence he heard the boy’s soft intake of breath. “Me to you in your time of need; now you to me. I will be here until you need me no longer. Understand this.”
More silence, just for a moment. “I may need you for many years yet, Ehiru-brother.”
“Not so long. Only until your apprenticeship ends.”
“And beyond!”
Ehiru turned away from the fountain and looked at him, surprised by the urgency in the boy’s tone. Nijiri stood a few feet away, half-hidden amid the palm-tree shadows, looking every inch the handsome young highcaste in a tailored shirt and loinskirt of fine woven cloth. No one would guess him servant-caste given his manner, and his beauty. There was something perpetually deceptive about him: fine bones hid the strength that came from years of physical training, and his smooth-cheeked, pretty face drew attention away from his eyes—which Ehiru knew could turn very cold when circumstances merited. He had always had Gatherer’s eyes, even as a child.
Not now, though. Now Nijiri’s face seemed calm, but his body was rigid, betraying feelings that perhaps even he did not yet fully understand.
I should never have allowed you to choose me as your mentor. Selfish of me, and confusing to you. Poor child.
“A Gatherer must be strong enough to stand alone, Nijiri,” Ehiru said. The boy’s face twitched ever so subtly at this warning; Ehiru could not guess what was in his mind. “Your greatest lessons will come long after your apprenticeship, taught to you by the world. I cannot stand between you and those.”
“I know that, Brother.” There was an edge to Nijiri’s voice, all of a sudden, that Ehiru had not expected. “I went with you, all those years ago, because I had already grown to understand it. You taught me my first lesson: that love means sacrifice. Making choices that are good for others, even at the cost of the self.” He ducked his eyes suddenly, radiating unhappiness. “I can do that. But I see no reason to do it unnecessarily.”
Suddenly Ehiru wanted to embrace him. It was the wrong thing to do—too familiar, too paternal. Nijiri was his pathbrother, not his son; someday soon his opinions would hold as much weight as Ehiru’s own. The relationship between mentor and apprentice required a careful balancing of affection with respect, on both sides. But in the wake of his mishandling of the Bromarte’s soul, and the miserable self-loathing he had wrestled in the days since, it was both humbling and humiliating to realize that Nijiri still thought highly of him. Humiliating because he did not deserve the boy’s admiration—but humbling to realize he could not abandon his duty so easily. The boy trusted him, needed him. He had to be worthy of that trust—become worthy of it, somehow, and stay worthy for long enough to get the boy trained.