The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(29)

“I did not strike to kill,” the youth said, almost apologetically. He too was soft-spoken, though his voice was higher-pitched. “I meant only to silence her.”

“Nijiri,” the man said, and the youth fell silent.

Reaction set in as Sunandi’s fear eased, though anger replaced it. She shivered uncontrollably as she stepped around the bed, pulling Lin with her to put some distance between them and the strangers. The killers.

“Is this the piety of Gujaareh?” she demanded. Her voice sounded harsh and loud compared to theirs. “I was told the Gatherers of Hananja had honor. I never dreamed you would allow yourselves to be used like this.”

The man flinched suddenly as if her words had been a blow. “Used?”

“Yes, damn you, used. Why even bother pretending to serve Hananja’s Law? Why delay? Kill me and be done with it—unless you mean to talk me to death?”

“ ’Nandi!” Lin’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

It was not the wisest thing to say, true, but something in her words had jarred the older one; she had to keep talking. He was the greater danger, she saw at once. Not just physically; there was something else about him that set her nerves a-jangle every time their eyes met.

Perhaps the fact that he wants to kill me.

The Gatherer went still. His hand drifted away from his side, the fingers curling in an odd gesture—first and middle fingers forked, the rest folded neatly out of the way. For some reason that gesture sent a chill prickling along Sunandi’s skin.

“I was trying to put you at ease,” he said. “But I can calm you once you’re asleep, if you prefer.”

“Gods! No!” She took an involuntary step back. He did not lower his hand.

“Explain your statement, then,” he said. The youth frowned at him in sudden surprise. “That we are being used.”

“Are you mad? Get out before I shout for the guards. You’re the worst assassins I have ever seen!”

“We are not assassins.”

“You are. Doing it in the name of your bloodthirsty goddess changes nothing. Are you the one who’s been killing the prisoners? Did you kill Kinja, too?”

The man’s face changed subtly—still calm, but no longer detached. She thought she read anger in his eyes.

“I have never Gathered anyone named Kinja,” he said. He began to pace around the bed, every step silent, his eyes never leaving hers. The youth followed him—less gracefully, but with the same soundless menace. “No one I have ever Gathered has been imprisoned, except within his own suffering flesh or blighted mind. I offer Her peace in exchange for pain… fear… hatred… loneliness. Death is a gift, to those who suffer in life.”

He stopped, breaking the spell of voice and movement, and with sudden, chilling clarity Sunandi saw that the Gatherer had closed the distance between them until he stood only a few feet away. His hand was still poised in that odd gesture; this time he meant to strike. And when he did, no knife or half-grown bodyguard would stop him.

The fear spiked into terror—and then receded as Kinja’s training reverberated through her mind.

“Two days ago I saw a corpse,” she said. The Gatherer paused. “A man who had died in his sleep some while before. His face… I have never seen such anguish, Gatherer. In Kisua we tell tales of your kind, you priests who bring dreams of death. They say the dreams are not always pleasant. They say that sometimes, if one of your kind loses control, the victim dies irusham—wearing the mask of horror. Do you still want to tell me you know nothing of that?”

The Gatherer froze, the deadly intent in his eyes giving way to something unreadable.

“I know of it,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

“Then do you truly expect me to believe,” she said, softening her own voice, “that you arrive here to kill me not even a fourday later, and it has nothing to do with the Prince’s plans for war?”

The Gatherer frowned, and she realized she’d made an incorrect assumption somewhere. There was no mistaking the confusion on his face. Just then the youth stepped forward, apparently unable to keep silent. He did not quite step in front of the man, but his stance radiated protectiveness.

“The Prince has nothing to do with who is Gathered, or why,” the youth said. “And my brother’s mistake has nothing to do with any war.”

Brother? Ah, yes. The boy was the man’s physical opposite; it was unlikely they were related. He had to be the man’s apprentice. Snippets of gossip overheard at the Hamyan merged with the niggling sense of familiarity, and abruptly she knew who the man was.

“You are Ehiru,” she said. “The Prince’s last surviving brother.”

The Gatherer’s eyes narrowed. Yes, that was it. Each man had clearly taken after his respective mother in most ways, but the stamp of the shared sire was in their eyes. Ehiru’s were an onyx version of the Prince’s, just as lovely—though far, far colder.

“My family is the Hetawa,” the Gatherer snapped.

“But before that, you were of the Sunset. Your mother was Kisuati, a sonha noblewoman, probably some kin of mine. She gave you to the Hetawa to save your life.”

The Gatherer scowled. “Irrelevant. Once the Hetawa accepted me, I became wholly theirs. The Prince has no brothers; I have a thousand.”