The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(56)
“Go wake your friend,” Kanek said, following Nijiri’s gaze. “I think he’s still in the desert.”
Nijiri nodded and reined in his camel, dropping back through the caravan column until he rode abreast with Ehiru. “Brother?” he said. He kept his voice low, though none of the other caravanners were close enough to overhear anyhow.
Ehiru’s head lifted slowly; he focused on Nijiri as if from a great distance. “Nijiri. All is well?”
Obviously not, Brother. “Have you not heard? We will reach Tesa soon.”
“So soon? Good.”
He spoke softly, but Nijiri heard the detachment in his voice. This was how the change always began, with the pranje; the Gatherer’s attention gradually turned inward to focus on the coming struggle, sparing little for the nonessentials of personality or emotion. That would be the only sign on the surface, at first. But somewhere within Ehiru, in the formless space between flesh and soul, the umblikeh that kept him whole was dry and cracking. Without dreamblood to nourish it, that tether would fray, loosening his soul to swing uncontrollably between waking and dreaming. Eventually the tether would snap and Ehiru’s soul would fly free into death—but not before he had lost all ability to tell vision from reality.
And while Ehiru struggled to keep his mind intact, his soul would be hungry, so hungry, for the peace that dreamblood could give him. If his control faltered even once—
If he falters, I must Gather him.
Was he ready for that? Barely trained as he was, far from home, under the duress of time? No, of course he wasn’t. And even if he could somehow make himself ready, could he then keep perfect peace in his heart, as a Gatherer should?
More heavily than he needed to, Nijiri put a hand on Ehiru’s.
“It may be some hours yet before we reach the oasis, Brother,” he said, to distract himself. “Are you hungry?” He rummaged among his robes and found one of the cloth sachets of food that had been given out at the last rest hour. “I have a hekeh-seed cake left over from breakfast. Gehanu soaks them in honey…” He peeled the sticky treat free and held it out.
Ehiru glanced at it, shuddered as if the sight made him queasy, and looked away. Nijiri frowned. “What is it, Brother?”
Ehiru said nothing.
A vision, then. Too soon; it had been only three fourdays since Ehiru had given his last tithe to the Sharers. Nijiri kept his tone even and said, “Tell me what you saw, Brother, please.”
Ehiru sighed. “Insects.”
Nijiri grimaced and began to rewrap the cake. Most visions were harmless. But like pain with the body, unpleasant visions served as a warning for the mind, indicating imbalance or injury. It was a thing that Sharers could deal with on a temporary basis—siphoning off the excess dreambile, adding sufficient dreamichor to restore the inner equilibrium, perhaps other things; Nijiri had never learned much more than basic healing techniques. But only dreamblood could cure it. “There aren’t any. But I’ll hold this until the vision has passed, if you like.”
“No,” Ehiru said. He reached over and broke off a piece of the cake, lifted it to his mouth without looking, and ate it, chewing grimly. “It was only a vision. Eat the rest yourself.”
Nijiri obeyed, shifting to ease the ache in his buttocks. If he never rode another camel, he would die in peace. “We can rest properly tonight, Brother,” Nijiri said. He hesitated and then added, “And you can draw dreamblood from me, just enough to stave off—”
“No.”
Nijiri opened his mouth to protest, but Ehiru forestalled him with a small pained smile. “My control was weak the last time you offered; now it is gone altogether. I have no wish to kill you, my apprentice.”
His choice of words chilled Nijiri despite the desert heat. “Gathering is not killing, Brother.”
“Either way, you would be dead.” Ehiru sighed, lifting his head to gaze toward the distant oasis. “In any case, there may be another way.”
“What?”
Ehiru nodded toward the middle of the caravan. A light palanquin of balsawood and linen bobbed amid the river of cloth-wrapped heads, carried by sturdy young men on the smoothest-gaited of the camels. From within the palanquin came the sound of a racking, weary cough.
“Their matriarch,” Ehiru said very softly. “I have heard such a cough before. I would guess she suffers hardened lungs, or perhaps the sickness-of-tumors.”
“Dreambile could cure the latter if she has the strength to bear it,” Nijiri said, trying to recall his Sharer-lessons. He had seen the old woman during their rest hours. She was a cheerful little creature who had probably been spry before her illness, seventy floods at least. Her old body would be slower to respond to the healing power of the humors, but the effort wasn’t hopeless. “I know nothing of hardened lungs, though…” He trailed off, seeing suddenly what Ehiru meant. “… Oh.”
Ehiru nodded, watching the palanquin. “She could have visited the Hetawa before the minstrels left Gujaareh, but she didn’t.”
She does not want to be healed! Nijiri stifled excitement. It was the best of all possible circumstances. And yet Ehiru’s angry words from a few nights before, after Nijiri had recovered from the Reaper attack, lingered in his mind. “So… you’ve changed your mind about testing yourself?” He did not say facing the pranje, for one did not speak of such things while among layfolk, even quietly.