The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(61)

As he said the words, he faltered to silence and nearly flinched from the sharpness of the chill that moved through him. Was that it, then? Had he perverted the Bromarte’s Gathering because, in the moment after that eerie true-seeing, he had failed to love the bearer of Hananja’s tithe? He had disliked the man already—without cause, simply because he was a barbarian. And then he had allowed that prejudice to overwhelm his sense of duty. He had failed to master his own disgust and fear as he might have done for another.

So lost was he in the revelation that his attention wandered; Talithele uttered another harsh cough which drew him back. Privately he cursed and thrust his inappropriate thoughts aside. He had meant to keep her calm and relaxed to ease the coughing.

But as she recovered, her sharp eyes laid his soul bare. “You are troubled, priest.”

He bowed his head. “Forgive me, old mother. My mind wandered.”

“Nothing to forgive. A mistake is a small matter.” She smiled again. “But you would not know that, would you? Poor man.”

“Eh?”

She turned her hand under his and grasped it, patting the back of it with her other hand. “I can see how they made you,” she said, her voice soft despite its hoarseness. “They took away everything that mattered to you, che? Upended your whole world and left you alone. And now you think love blooms in a breath and silencing pain is a kindness. Ah, but you’re young.”

He frowned, so startled that he forgot the spell he’d been weaving. “Easing pain is kindness, old mother. And my feelings for the people I help—”

“I don’t doubt your love,” she said. “You are a man made for love, I think. Your eyes make me want to die, there’s so much love in them. But it isn’t real. Real love lasts years. It causes pain, and endures through it.”

He was too stunned to respond for several breaths. When he finally found his tongue he could barely stammer out words. “That pain comes with love… that I can accept, old mother. I have lost loved ones—family. But they died quickly, and I pray thanks to my Goddess every day for that blessing. Are you saying it would have been better to let them suffer?”

She snorted aloud. “Suffering is part of life,” she said. “All the parts of life are jumbled up together; you can’t separate out just the one thing.” She patted his hand again, kindly. “I could let you kill me now, lovely man, and have peace and good dreams forever. But who knows what I get instead, if I stay? Maybe time to see a new grandchild. Maybe a good joke that sets me laughing for days. Maybe another handsome young fellow flirting with me.” She grinned toothlessly, then let loose another horrible, racking cough. Ehiru steadied her with shaking hands. “I want every moment of my life, pretty man, the painful and the sweet alike. Until the very end. If these are all the memories I get for eternity, I want to take as many of them with me as I can.”

He could not accept her words. In his mind he saw again his mother’s face, aristocratic and beautiful, marred by streaks of blood. He could smell that blood, and bile and the reek of broken bowel; he saw his mother’s eyes, staring outward with no one to shut them. Women were goddesses who needed no assistance to reach the best of Ina-Karekh—but her death had still been horrific, not at all the queen’s death she’d deserved.

He looked up at Talithele and in that moment could see the same ugly ignominy awaiting her. She would cough until her lungs tore to pieces, and die drowning in her own blood. How could he leave her to suffer so? No, worse—stand by and watch?

I could take her anyhow, came the thought. Gehanu would never know.

And on the heels of that thought came a chill of purest horror.

Swallowing against the dryness of his throat, Ehiru pulled his hands away from hers. “It is your right to refuse the tithe,” he whispered. The words came more by rote than conscious effort. “Your soul is healthy and your life does no harm. Remain in Hona-Karekh with Hananja’s blessing.”

He pushed himself up from the rugs and would have fled the tent then, but he stopped when she said, “Priest. I may accept the pain, but I’m not a goddess, whatever your people might think. My last days will be easier to bear if I am not alone. Che?”

He heard the plaintive hope in her voice and nearly wept. In a thick voice he replied, “Then I’ll visit again, old mother.”

She smiled. “So you love me after all. Rest well.”

“Rest well, old mother.”

He left the tent and kept walking forward, his strides brisk, his fists clenched at his sides. Almost immediately he heard the scuffle of feet behind him as Nijiri recovered from surprise and followed. The boy asked no questions, for which Ehiru was supremely grateful as he reached the wall of the oasis, dropped to his knees, and gripped the lip of smooth stone as if for life. Perhaps he could dance. Perhaps he should weep. Anything—so long as it took his mind away from the terrible sin he’d almost committed, and the sour taste of dreamblood-lust in his mouth.

He did nothing but tremble there in the dust until Nijiri took his hand. “Tatunep niweh Hananja,” the boy said—the opening phrase of a prayer. All at once Ehiru’s anguish began to fade. Again the boy had proven his worth.

There’s no more time. I must make him ready to serve Her now, for I can do so no longer.

Then he bowed over his hands and lost himself in prayer.