The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(66)

Two things kept them together: love of Hananja, and hatred of our enemies. In those days Gujaareh was threatened by the Shadoun, a proud tribe from the desert who beheld Gujaareh’s growing wealth and coveted it for themselves. They believed us soft because of our civilized ways, and our belief in a sleeping goddess. But time and again we drove them back when they sent their raiding parties to test our defenses. It was the great general Mahanasset who led our army in those days—a man born pure shunha, yet also learned in the ways of foreign lands. His victories were brilliant, his strength in battle legendary; all loved him, from soldiers to the most rigid elders.

Yet as time passed, his leadership began to falter. First he lost one battle, then another. Rumors drifted back from the battle lines of strange behavior. Mahanasset gave orders to soldiers long dead, charged screaming at phantoms no one else could see. The Protectors of the city, for we did things like Kisua in those days, began to worry that it would be necessary to replace him, which would be a terrible blow to the people. If Mahanasset fell in battle, the city would revere him and the armies fight harder to avenge his name. But if he were set aside, the city would be wounded by sorrow. With the Shadoun hovering near like scavengers, we dared not weaken ourselves.

Thus did Inunru, the founder of our faith and head of the Hetawa at that time, intervene with a possible solution. In the ancient knowledge of narcomancy brought out of Kisua, there existed a secret form of healing that had been forbidden in the motherland because it brought death as well as life. Yet applied properly, this secret art might have the power to do what the Hetawa’s healers otherwise could not—restore a broken soul to peace.

Yes, you understand now. It seems strange to think that something so valued in our society today was once feared and misunderstood then… but this was the beginning of the change. Mahanasset was brought to the Hetawa—raving, sick, unable to tell reality from phantasm. One of the Hetawa’s priests, a dying old man, offered himself as the donor of the dream. Inunru himself performed the transfer from one to the other—and in the process the city beheld not one but two miracles. The first was the restoration of Mahanasset’s sanity. He leaped up from his sickbed whole and healed in every way. The second, unexpected, miracle was the joy with which the old priest died. “Hananja, I come!” he is said to have cried in his sleep before the end. And there was no doubt that the old man had died happy, for Inunru shared his joy with everyone present. Many wept to know that he had experienced such peace.

The rest you can guess. Mahanasset resumed control of his army and led them in a devastating strike against the Shadoun, forcing them to pay tribute, barring them from the local trade, and assuring the world of Gujaareh’s strength. The dying began to come to the Hetawa in fours, then in hordes, choosing peace over misery and pain. The afflicted were brought to the Hetawa as well, and sent away sane or healed in body. When Mahanasset returned from his victorious campaigns, the people were so joyful that they made him their ruler in place of the Protectors, naming him ‘King’ as barbarians do their lords. But he refused this.

“This is Hananja’s city, as I am Hananja’s servant,” he said. “She can be the only true ruler here. I will rule in Her name as Prince, and claim ‘King’ only when I can take my place at Her side in Ina-Karekh. And I will rule with the guidance of the Hetawa, without whose wisdom Gujaareh might have fallen.”

And so it was. Under Mahanasset the Hetawa’s law became Gujaareh’s law, and Hananja’s peace became the Prince’s gift to the people. And thus did it begin that we honor Hananja above all others.





24





Members of the four paths to Hananja’s wisdom are permitted to put aside propriety and the order of command, so long as this is done in service of peace.

(Law)





The Superior of the Hetawa sat in his office, enjoying the sounds of early morning, and wondering again how long it would be before his Gatherers came for him.

A day and a night had passed since the meeting with the Prince, and its aftermath. Usually when he returned from such meetings in the small hours of the morning, few of the Hetawa’s denizens were about—only the two Sentinels who served as his bodyguards, the ones on guard duty, and the handful of Sharers on night duty. Sometimes a few sleepy acolytes accompanied the latter, in their contemplation of the Sentinels’ or Sharers’ paths, and a few apprentices assisted their older brethren. But as the Superior had passed through the Hall of Blessings that morning, Rabbaneh had been there, kneeling at Hananja’s feet—but not praying. The Gatherer instead faced the Hall’s entrance, and he had not donned his hooded robe; he was still on duty. Shocking to see him like that, the Superior reflected, with his back to the statue. A snub to Hananja, though a mild one since after all the statue was only a statue.

But Rabbaneh’s gaze had been fixed on the Superior, his face unsmiling, his gaze a condemnation. There is only one affront to Hananja here, those eyes had said. And with that, the Superior had known his Final Tithe had come due.

He had spent the time since confined to his rooms, ordering no visitors so he could pray and contemplate and prepare himself for Hananja’s peace. During the night he had inadvertently fallen asleep, and been astonished to wake up alive. There would be no time to brief Teacher Maatan, his chosen successor, in the secrets that came with the mantle of Superior. Those secrets had all gone wrong anyhow. Perhaps if they died with him, the Hetawa might survive the coming storm.