The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(48)

Slowly Nijiri nodded. “Yes. It was like that.”

“You love him. Ehiru.”

Nijiri stopped in his tracks, his blood running cold, and Meliatua stopped too. Before he could stammer some excuse, however, she stepped close, like a lover, resting her palms on his chest. “I was servant-caste, too,” she said gently. “I remember the same lessons as you—but I remember, too, that some of those lessons were wrong, Gatherer-Apprentice. They were all about protecting yourself, making yourself strong enough to survive a servant’s life. There were no lessons about how to love safely, or what to do if you did not.”

Nijiri stared at her, forgetting for the moment that they stood in the middle of an open street, surrounded by her attendants and gods knew who else. He remembered his initial thought that she had, somehow, read his mind, on Hamyan Night—but no. Perhaps it was simply the fact that she understood him.

“I…” He faltered, licked his lips. “I don’t know what to do.”

She shrugged. “You’ve done what you can—put yourself close to him, aided him, let him aid you. In the end, that’s all any of us can do for the ones we love. And he needs you, Nijiri. More than he realizes. Perhaps even more than you do.”

Her hands stroked his chest; inadvertently he put his hands on her waist, since that seemed the only proper way to respond to her touch. “You know, though: being a Gatherer is everything to him. Can you love him, knowing that you’ll always be second in his heart?”

“I have always known that.” Nijiri closed his eyes, remembering nights he’d lain awake, wanting. Knowing he could never have what he wanted. “I’ll take what he can give me, and be satisfied with that. It’s just that…”

A Gatherer belonged wholly to Hananja, the Teachers said. It was true for all four of the paths of Hananja’s service—but the Gatherers were special even among those. No one cared if Teachers or Sharers slipped into each others’ rooms at night, so long as they were discreet about it. Even Sentinels took watchbrothers, and fought harder for them than any others. But among the Gatherers, it was different. Respect, admiration, brotherly love—those were right, acceptable, even encouraged. Only selfish, singular desire was forbidden.

“It’s very hard, Sister,” he whispered, unable to meet her eyes. “I became a Gatherer because I wanted to be strong. Because then I would not need others, and grief would no longer have the power to hurt me. I wanted to be with Ehiru; I wanted to be Ehiru. And now…”

She smiled through her veil—and then very, very gently, pushed him away.

“Now, you’re not a child anymore,” she said. “Now you see: Gatherers are only as strong as other men. Now you know you cannot be Ehiru… but you can be worthy of him. And now you know: there’s no shame in love.”

He could not help a small, bitter smile. “No. But there’s more pain than I expected. And it takes more strength than I realized it would, to endure.”

She watched him a bit longer before inclining her veiled head. “Forgive me for disrupting your peace, then, Gatherer-Apprentice.” She resumed walking and after a moment he forced his legs to move again. His heart took longer to settle, but she remained quiet as they walked, and gradually, it steadied.

“There’s a taxmaster in the Unbelievers’ District who is known to me,” Meliatua said at length. “His booth is just beyond the gate, on the third corner; ask for a half-Jellevite named Caiyera. Tell him you’re my friend, and he’ll tell you the Kisuati woman’s location. But do this soon; his shift ends not long after sunset.”

Nijiri glanced up at the already-reddening sky. “Yes, Sister.”

They had reached another intersection. The street-market here was brisk with people and business; many shoppers came out only once the day’s worst heat had faded. Across the square was a broad street marked by an arch, and some ways beyond that Nijiri could see the south gate, which led to the Unbelievers’ District.

“Don’t linger after dark, Gatherer-Apprentice,” Meliatua said, and he looked at her in surprise. “The beast that stalks the nighttime streets has tasted your soul once already and may crave more. You don’t yet have the skill to fight it.”

Unease warred with pride; Nijiri squared his shoulders. “I was caught by surprise, Sister.”

She smiled again, but something about that smile let him know he was not being mocked. “Of course.” She stepped close again, lifted a hand, and touched his cheek to the tinkle of bells. “Go with Hananja’s blessing, Nijiri, and remember that there is no corruption in love, either.”

She turned away, her acolytes following, and it was only after she’d left him that he comprehended her words. They made him feel—not better. But more sure of himself.

With his sense of purpose renewed, he started toward the gate to go and find Ehiru.





17





The Gatherer had meditated, he had prayed, but it was not enough. It was never enough. In the end, when the mind forgot prayers and lost the ability to meditate, all that remained was the terrible, ceaseless gibber of raw need. Only one thing could silence that need. In the morning they would come, in the morning they would come; this became his reason for existence. Until then, nothing to do but endure. Distract himself. A boy lay pinned beneath him with eyes shut. An offering. The Gatherer lifted his free hand to stroke one of the boy’s cheeks, marveling at the beauty and innocence of youth. He could devour that beauty, paint himself with that innocence. Would that erase the sins of his life? Perhaps he could find out.